The Wolf's Daughter (The Tala Chronicles 1) by Patricia La Barbera Page A

long time in the guesthouse of our family’s residence.
My daughter and her husband need more room than I do, and I don’t want to be in
the midst of their unpleasantness. My brief trip to the hospital was the rare
exception to the seclusion. I order my groceries and have them left on the
porch. Once a month, I pay the bill through the mail.
    The idea of
leaving the house for any length of time terrifies me, and his house is two
miles away. I don’t want anyone else to know about my journey, so I must walk
there. Two miles! But I must go. Of course, I don’t know if he’ll see me after
all these years. If I still have the courage, I’ll call him tomorrow and find
out.
     
    Good news!
The man I almost married twenty years ago has welcomed me to his house. I will
set out tomorrow. I have great hopes to finally find out so many things. My
daughter and the baby will be coming home in a few days. I must take care of
this before they return.
     
    If there are
tear stains on this page, do not be surprised. Although my intention of
visiting Malcolm was fulfilled, the grief, sorrow, and fear it created make me
wonder if it were worth it.
    His butler
answered the door and escorted me to the library. Malcolm rose from the wing chair,
and said it was wonderful to see me after so many years.
    When I asked
him how he was, he told me he was fine, but he seemed a little frail to me. He
had aged, but he still had the handsome looks that had attracted me to him so
many years ago.
    After I sat
down, he asked me what brought me to him after so long.
    I explained
that when I held my grandchild, I realized I wanted answers about what had
happened with our relationship. I knew this had something to do with our
families, and I wanted to ensure that my grandchild would have a better life, a
life without confusion, fear, and guilt.
    He sighed and
said he had heard there was a method of reversing what he called the strain, but
that it was very dangerous, and it could lead to the death of many people. I
pleaded with him to tell me, but he said he’d have to consider it further. He
told me we had powerful ancestors, and no matter what the situation seemed, we
should honor them. He added something that puzzled me. Malcolm said strains can
take a long time to disappear, regardless of civilization, which was no match
for power. He said my nephew had realized that, and that was why he disappeared
after the Bolton murder. Malcolm felt certain Gregory knew the method but did
not have the courage or confidence to try it. He also said rumors had
circulated that someone saw him running into the woods. A family cottage sat
deep in the forest, but a search party never found him.
    He then told
me my eyes were changing, getting lighter and glowing. And he should never have
consented to my visiting him. He reached into his pocket and handed me an
amulet he said I should have. When his hand touched mine, he pulled me against
him. I screamed, and the butler came in. He restrained Malcolm, and I ran from
the house.
    When I
reached our home, I ran in the door and locked it. I vowed to never leave
again. It seemed as though Malcolm and I were playing out an old theme. 
    Later when I
looked carefully at the amulet, I saw that it had the same picture as the lock
on a small cage-like box I had seen as long as I could remember when I played
in the attic. A key hung on a black ribbon, but the box was empty. It seemed
the perfect place to put the diary, so it would be away from prying eyes. I hid
the key.
     
    My shock and
devastation are crippling me. It seems that after I left Malcolm’s house, the
butler was killed. The murderer used a knife, and there were bite marks on his
body. Am I as much to blame for the death as Malcolm, if he is indeed to blame
at all? But of course, all the indications point to him. Why did I think
anything would be different between us? It was selfish of me to put anyone at
risk, but I just wanted to stop this very thing from ever happening