Chapter 2: Whiskey and Blood in the Magnolia Wing

On night patrol with another guard, Derek, we wandered the quiet hallways with flashlights. With nothing else to do, we gossiped to pass the time.

The old floorboards creaked beneath our boots. Derek flicked his flashlight back and forth, trying to chase away shadows. The house at night always felt a little haunted—a draft slipping through the cracks, the distant sound of a clock ticking somewhere out of sight.

Derek whispered, “I heard the governor was furious at city hall, so everyone in the mansion is on edge these days. Luckily, low-ranking guards like us rarely see the governor—less chance for reward, but also less danger.”

He nudged me with his elbow, the beam from his flashlight jittering across a portrait on the wall—one of those stern old men with too many medals. “Last week, one of the cooks left salt out of his soup. Whole kitchen staff got written up. That’s how jumpy people are right now.”

His sister is a maid in the main house and knows all kinds of secrets. Derek can’t keep anything to himself and often shares everything with me. I usually just let it go in one ear and out the other.

He’d gossip about a broken teacup like it was a national scandal. I’d learned to nod and tune him out, only half listening as we moved from room to room.

Seeing I didn’t respond, Derek leaned in and lowered his voice even more. “The governor’s in a foul mood, so the men in the Magnolia Wing are suffering. My sister said one of them was beaten bloody last night—probably won’t make it.”

The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. My stomach dropped. For a second, all I could do was stare—blood, whiskey, the kind of mess you don’t walk away from. I wanted to help, but my feet felt glued to the floor.

I thought of that summer storm from before, and my heart skipped a beat.

The image lingered, sharp and unwelcome. I bit my lip, focusing on the way my boots squeaked on the polished floor, trying not to show anything on my face.

Derek and I patrolled to the outer wall of the Magnolia Wing. He’d eaten something bad and ran off to the bathroom, leaving me alone at the gate.

He’d barely made it two steps before doubling over, muttering curses under his breath. “Never trust leftover casserole,” he groaned, disappearing around the corner. I was on my own.

I stared at the entrance, and as if possessed, I walked right in.

Something pulled at me—a tug I couldn’t ignore. The night was heavy, the kind of humid that made your shirt stick to your back. I slipped through the gate, heart thudding in my chest.

A dim lamp flickered in the gazebo, the scent of whiskey mixed with a faint trace of blood drifting on the wind.

The smell caught me off guard—sweet, sharp, metallic, clinging to the thick summer air. The gazebo’s light cast long shadows across the grass, making everything look softer, almost dreamlike.

I walked closer.

Each step felt heavier than the last. My shoes crunched on gravel, the sound swallowed by the humid night.

The summer storm was curled up on the floor, his back soaked with blood, whiskey bottles scattered around him. Who knows how much he’d drunk.

My stomach dropped. For a second, all I could do was stare—blood, whiskey, the kind of mess you don’t walk away from. I wanted to help, but my feet felt glued to the floor.

He looked smaller than before, fragile and spent, a far cry from the storm I remembered by the pond. A deep, ugly bruise was spreading across his ribs.

If he lay here all night, he’d surely get sick.

I hesitated, weighing my options. This wasn’t the kind of place where people looked out for each other—not really.

I stared for a moment, then turned to leave.

Coward, I thought. But self-preservation is a powerful instinct.

Behind me came his voice: “Aren’t you going to help me?”

The words sliced through the silence, raw and pleading. My hand froze on the doorframe.

Hearing that, I immediately turned and bolted out of the Magnolia Wing.

Panic took over. My feet barely touched the ground as I ran, every muscle tense with the need to escape.

My heart pounded wildly.

It hammered against my ribs, loud enough I thought Derek might hear it from the other side of the house.

When Derek returned and saw me, he looked confused. “Did you see a ghost?”

He squinted, then peered behind me as if expecting a specter to lurch out of the dark.

I shook my head and said nothing. Back in the security office, I washed my face.

The water was icy, shocking me out of my daze. I pressed my palms to my cheeks, trying to will away the flush.

Looking up at my reflection, I finally understood why Derek had asked—I was pale and couldn’t hide my panic.

My eyes were wide, haunted. The kind of look you get after a close call on the highway, when you realize just how fast things could go wrong.

God, I was actually lusting after the governor’s man. How could I not panic?

The thought made my stomach twist. Every warning I’d ever been given flashed through my mind in bright, angry letters: DO NOT GET INVOLVED.

After all, I’m the kind of person who fears both death and trouble.

Trouble and I weren’t on speaking terms, and I planned to keep it that way.

I lay down to calm myself. After a while, I took a bottle of wound spray from my duffel bag and slipped out quietly.

I wrapped my jacket tighter, checked that the coast was clear, and crept back out, the cheap plastic bottle rattling in my pocket. I was an idiot, but I couldn’t let him bleed out.

There was no moon that night—thick clouds covered the sky, threatening rain. I avoided the other guards and snuck into the Magnolia Wing.

Lightning flickered somewhere far away, the air thick with that electric, pre-storm tension. I moved like a shadow, careful not to let my keys jingle.

It was eerily quiet; my heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

Every creak sounded like a gunshot. I half-expected the governor himself to step out from behind a column and ask what the hell I was doing.

I reached the gazebo—inside were only overturned whiskey bottles. No one was there.

For a split second, I wondered if I’d imagined everything. The scent of whiskey lingered, sharp and accusing.

I let out a breath of relief, palms slick with sweat.

I leaned against a post, letting myself relax for just a second. Maybe he’d gotten up and gone to bed. Maybe I was off the hook.

But as I turned to leave, I heard a splash behind me.

I spun around, every muscle tense. The sound echoed off the stone path—a quick, sharp break in the silence.

The summer storm emerged from the water, lying on the bank, watching me with a faint smile in his eyes.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, his skin pale in the lamplight. He looked half wild, half mischievous—the kind of trouble that’s hard to resist.

“Little guard, sneaking into the governor’s inner quarters at night—if you’re caught, it’s a felony.”

His voice dripped with mockery, but there was something else there—something softer, almost grateful. Like he wanted to see what I’d do next.

He was like a ghost haunting me.

No matter how many times I tried to walk away, he always found a way back into my nights.

“You like me so much you’d risk your life just to see me again?”

He grinned, daring me to deny it. I felt my cheeks heat up, and for the first time, I wondered if maybe he was a little lost too.