DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER TWENTY: A NEW FRIEND

Mia pushed open the doors of Dagon Mansion.

A long moan of wind followed her, as if the house itself exhaled. In the threshold stood Theolinda — pale, composed, the light from the marble vestibule falling upon her face like a benediction. Mia could neither bear nor resist. For a heartbeat, jealousy devoured her. That woman now bore the name she had once dreamt of carrying. She could almost see Ryan's hands upon Theolinda's skin, hear his breath tangled with hers — and the thought filled her with a sickness that was part fury, part yearning.

"Welcome," Mia said at last, her voice taut as glass. "Please, come inside."

Theolinda inclined her head gently

"Thank you, Mia."

The moment hung between them like a blade. Then, from the stairwell, a small voice broke it apart.

"Hello. My name is Scarlett. Are you the woman who married my father?"

Theolinda turned. A little girl stood in the dimness, her eyes wide with innocence and fury alike.

"Yes," said Theo softly. "I'm Theolinda."

"Why did you marry my Dad?" the child asked, her tone trembling with the weight of something far older than herself. "He should have married my mother. I hate you!"

Before anyone could speak, Scarlett fled up the staircase, her sobs echoing faintly through the marble hall.

Mia pressed her lips together. "Forgive her," she murmured, though there was little warmth in the apology. "She's only a child."

Theolinda nodded. "Yes. I understand."

Behind them, two women entered quietly — Xena and Brisa. They had come to lend Mia support, though Xena's sharp gaze betrayed her fear of what jealousy could do in such a house.

"Welcome, Theolinda," Xena said with courtesy. "This is Brisa, my girlfriend."

"A pleasure," said Brisa, smiling with that open calm of someone who still believed in kindness. "I have heard you are a detective. That must be fascinating."

Theolinda returned the smile, faintly. "Not quite as in the stories."

Xena drew Mia aside. "How are you managing?" she asked, her tone low.

Mia's hands trembled. "I'm struggling to breathe. Her presence feels like a wound that will not close."

Xena laid a hand on her arm. "You are strong. He chose, and choice is a chain we must sometimes bear. Hold your composure. The house watches us."

And indeed, it seemed so. Every portrait in the hall appeared to follow Theolinda with spectral eyes as she passed — the ancestors of Dagon, stern and unsmiling, their oil-dark visages flickering under the chandeliers. The mansion, vast and cold, seemed to resist her step, as though it, too, resented her intrusion.

Days later, Mia opened her new office — a modest space in the town's quieter quarter. The walls were painted in pale tones that might have soothed another woman, but to Mia they felt hollow. On the desk stood a photograph of Scarlett, framed in silver, and beside it a small vase of lilies already beginning to fade.

She was arranging papers when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," she called.

A tall young man entered — dark hair, fine features, and eyes like polished obsidian. He smiled with practiced ease.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said. "My name is Randolf Wildberry. I've opened a physical therapy practice next door. I thought I should greet my new neighbour."

Mia's expression softened. "I'm pleased to meet you. I'm Mia Richardson — psychologist, though very new to the trade."

"We all begin somewhere," he replied, stepping closer. "The first months are always quiet, but patience brings fruit. People find their way to those who can listen."

His gaze wandered briefly to the silver frame. "Is she your sister?"

Mia smiled, though the gesture felt brittle. "No — my daughter."

He blinked, surprised. "Forgive me. You seem so young."

"I was," she said, "when I brought her into the world. And yet, I regret nothing."

He checked his watch, murmuring something polite, and as he left, the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air. For the first time in weeks, Mia smiled without effort. A small, dangerous warmth stirred in her — a desire not yet defined.

That night, in the private visitation room of the prison, Theolinda lay beside Ryan.
The room was veiled in shadows, only a single candle burning on the bedside table, its flame wavering in the faint breath of autumn wind that crept through the shutters. The darkness wrapped them like a secret.

Ryan's hand moved to her face, tracing her cheek with reverence. Their lips met — not with haste, but with a reverent slowness that trembled with restraint. When they parted, Theolinda whispered, "Do you love me?"

Ryan's eyes were solemn, his voice low. "I do. But I will not lie to you, Theo. My heart is... divided. Mia still haunts me — not as a lover, but as a ghost of what I once was."

Theolinda's fingers tightened on his hand. "Then let us both be haunted," she said. "For ghosts cannot harm those who share their sorrow."

He kissed her again — deeper this time, as if sealing a vow. The candlelight threw their shadows upon the wall: two figures merging and separating in the dance of passion and devotion, the eternal human struggle between body and spirit. When at last silence reclaimed the room, Ryan lay beside her, his breath even, his thoughts restless.

In the dimness, Theolinda whispered, "We will have a child, Ryan. I feel it."

He smiled faintly, though a shadow crossed his eyes — the memory of curses and prophecies not yet spoken.

Far away, in her bedroom, Alisha could not sleep.

The air was heavy with whispers — voices that were neither dreams nor thoughts. They slithered through her mind like threads of cold smoke. Jeff slept beside her, unaware that his lover's soul was no longer her own. The voices had begun to dictate her movements, to command her desires. They murmured to her even as she gave herself to him — urging her to do, to try, to transgress.

But tonight, their tone had changed. It was no longer seduction; it was a threat.

"Alisha," they hissed. "You must kill Xena Blackwood."

She pressed her palms against her ears. "No... no, I won't..."

"Do it," they breathed, in voices that seemed to emerge from the walls. "You are ours, and she must die."

Alisha wept, shaking. "Leave me alone. Please."

The whispers laughed — a sound like the cracking of thin ice.

"Obey, and you shall have peace."

And so, in the long hours before dawn, Alisha rose. The candlelight trembled. Her reflection in the mirror did not move as she did. Something else watched from within it — smiling, patient, waiting.