Okay. Where would I put the joy meter or the king’s office in a castle? Either is likely to have proof that they’re stealing from us. Down, maybe? Basement. Dungeon levels. The most secure areas.
I head back down the stairs, shoes tapping on the stone steps. The library doors are still open, every bit of every hall I pass through drenched in darkness, and it hits me again how empty it is here, this massive place. And it’sfreezing—I hadn’t noticed, but in my T-shirt I feel the full brunt of March in Ireland in a stone castle.
I shiver as I try doors on the first level, looking for a route to the basement. A few sitting rooms, a closet. One finally reveals a set of dark stairs that twist downward, looking so much like something out of a slasher movie that I go rock solid.
I hiss at myself and descend.
But I leave the door open behind me. Just in case.
Each step down has the temperature plummeting until I swear I can see my breath in the flashlight beam, goosebumps listing in waves up my arms and down my neck.
The stairs end at a long, echoing stone hall. And I hear… something.
A pulse. A haunting, echoingthump-thump.
My brain, of course, goesIt’s a heart. They have a heart buried in thewalls. Loch went Edgar Allan Poe on this place and that’s sacrilege because Poe isn’t even one of his precious Irish authors.
But the beat congeals into music. Base heavy and pounding.
I follow it, keeping my steps quiet, and the farther I go up the hall, the louder the music grows until I don’t worry about making noise. Any sound is being swallowed in “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls blaring from an open door on the right. White light spills out, cutting in a single rectangle through this dungeon gloom.
I turn my flashlight off, pocket my phone, and, breath held, I peek around the doorframe.
High ceilings tower over paint-splattered tarps on the floor. There’s a canvas propped on the far side of the room, an absolutelyenormoussquare at least eight feet tall with folded ladders leaning in the corner next to it. Various shades of red, orange, and green paint are smeared across the canvas in the haphazard organization of abstract art. A space heater gently raises the temperature of the room and the warmth licks at my face.
Loch is in front of that canvas, paint palette in one hand, using his thumb to stroke a line of vivid orange against a swoosh of red near the middle. His head bobs to the music, muscles in his back flexing.
He’s shirtless.
And I glare daggers at the sculpted lines of his shoulders.
Of course he’s jacked. It isn’t enough that he’s a prick; he has to have the body to match his self-esteem. Though I’m one to talk, I suppose, what with how I intentionally buy these Christmas shirts too small because yeah, okay, I spend a lot of time in the gym pretending that lifting weights alleviates my stress and I might as well show that off. How have I not seen him working out at Cambridge? I’m there often enough to—
I lean too far forward and hit the edge of the open door so it bangs into the wall.
Loch whips around with a panicked “JESUS FUCKING SHITE.”
Any other time, I’d laugh at how I gotanotherone of those outof him, but I’m caught in the doorway of his studio with my arms splayed.
Loch flings the palette to the floor. “What is your problem? Jesus Christ, sneaking up on me like that.”
He’s defensive, voice shaky, and I’m shaky too, not having planned for any of this.
“I—” I clear my throat and take a single step into the room. “I was looking for Colm. You said to go to him if I needed anything but you didn’t tell me where he is.”
“Colm’s on the same floor as you.” Loch’s talking too fast, voice unsteady. “Two lefts from your door. Only room in that hall. What do you need him for this late? Gotta have someone telling you a bedtime story?”
Don’t take the bait. Don’t. Do. It. “Anticipatory hangover cures.”
Loch scrubs the back of his hand across his chin. It leaves a trail of red paint on the cliff of his jaw, streaked through his short beard. Matching smudges are all down his chest, his gray sweatpants as splattered as the tarp under his bare feet.
My gaze bounces up to his, cheeks heating. I wasn’t—lookingat him. I’m tipsy. And exhausted.
But he shakes his head, not paying that any mind. “And your first thought wasOh, they store their help in the basement?”
“I… heard the music.”
Loch’s head tips, like it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone outside this room could hear his music blasting.
