13 Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    Inside, cold ash was all that remained in the grate of the fireplace. Jars and bottles cluttered the surfaces, their contents untouched, and around the edges of the cottage, cages stood empty, doors open. Animal skins of all kinds hung from the rafters, stiff and dried and no longer dripping. Below them the stone floor was dotted with old, dark stains, but the tangy scent of blood no longer filled the air.
    Rowan stepped into the center of the cottage, her heart drumming a familiar beat of fear. She kicked aside the animal pelt on the floor, revealing thetrapdoor beneath. Slowly, slowly, she descended the staircase into the cellar, not wanting to, but unable to fight the need to know what the cellar held.
    The stench hit her a few steps down, sending her reeling. It was the smell of dead, rotten things. Covering her nose with her hand she urged herself to the bottom. Blindly stumbling in the darkness, she felt her feet hit something solid on the floor. A body. Suppressing a scream, she recoiled, allowing herself a moment of composure. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and she was able to make out the dark shapes littering the cellar. Only one remained upright. As she edged toward it, her breathing quickened. It was slumped forward, one wrist encircled in an iron manacle. Greasy black hair fell over the face. There was no movement.
    She moved closer. Things crunched under her boots, glinting in the light filtering down. Fragments of mirror, eggshell, and a curse that had gone horribly wrong. She remembered it all. She stopped in front of the motionless figure, trembling. Only then did she realize she had something clenched in her sweating hand. She looked down and found a key there.
    Reaching forward, she jammed the key into the iron manacle and jiggled it around, trying to unlock it. Something was in there, some wedge of dirt perhaps, preventing it from turning.
    The hand in the manacle sprang to life, grabbing her wrist. Rowan screamed, dropping the key as thehead snapped up. Two black eyes burned in a waxen face, emanating hatred.
    “I’m sorry…” she babbled in terror. “I’m sorry—”
    The lips in the face parted, breaking a thin seal of crusted spittle. The face loomed as the hand pulled her nearer… nearer… and three words were spat into her face.
    “YOU… LEFT… ME…!”

     
    Rowan awoke, trembling and soaked in perspiration. The dream clung to her like a cobweb. It was the same dream she’d been having for months now. Everything about it felt so real: the memory of the hanging animal skins, the trapdoor, the cellar… the stench. She threw the covers back, sniffing at herself self-consciously. All she could smell was her own sweat. She shook herself, forcing it out of her mind. She would not think about it. Not now. She had other things to attend to, and drifting off to sleep hadn’t been part of the plan.
    She glanced worriedly at the clock but found that she had only dozed off for about ten minutes. It was late now, past eleven o’clock, and gradually the manor was going silent. Only Warwick was yet to go to bed, his heavy footsteps clumping through the house as he locked up for the night. Finally, she heard his boots on the stairs, then the sliver of light beneath her door vanished as Warwick turned off the light inthe hallway. She heard his door close, and then silence.
    She waited another twenty minutes to give him the chance to drop off to sleep. Silently, she drew back the covers and slid out of bed, fully clothed, and then padded silently to her bookshelf. From there she removed the slip of paper tucked into one of the books and cast her eyes over it again in the moonlight from the window. There was a map, roughly drawn in pencil, and a few lines of writing—a scrawled instruction. Committing both to memory, she crossed to the fireplace, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, and lit one. In the darkness of the room the yellow light glowed brilliantly, the hiss of the flame loud.