Whatever light had flickered behind the door had vanished.
I edged along the wall, studying the ceiling of carved beams and lavish plaster scrollwork. The temperature plunged, my breath fogging the air. This was officially my least favorite room. One of the chandeliers moaned on its chain, swaying in the stillness.
I bumped a chair, the harsh scrape making me jolt backward, my shoulder catching the wall. A trickle of fear iced my veins as I turned and found myself face-to-face with amassive portrait. A man in a hunting outfit and cap glared down at me, one boot propped on an ottoman. His expression was pure disapproval.
Without thinking, I traced my finger across the painted boot. “Huh. That angry visage has Grant’s eyes,” I whispered.
The painting was cold. My skin tingled as though something beneath the oils had stirred.
And then the man’s eyes shifted.
My screech bounced off the beams; the mug slipping from my fingers. Before I could react, the portrait lurched forward, the air cracking with the twang of snapping wire.
A gust of dust and plaster exploded as it crashed down, the gilded corner grazing my cheek. I stumbled, but a pair of arms caught me from behind, hauling me backward. The heavy painting hit the floor where I’d been standing, the impact rattling a chandelier and splintering the wooden frame into sharp fragments.
“Never touch the creepy paintings.” Grant’s voice brushed my ear, his breath hot against the chill.
I gasped, still gripping his arm like a lifeline. “You were following me!”
“Technically, it’s called a walking tour,” he said lightly, though his hold tightened at my waist. “Lucky for you, the banquet hall was my next stop. Great architecture. I think it's Baroque.”
I twisted in his grasp, my heart still battering my ribs. “You scared me half to death.”
“Same, Spells.” He swept his thumb along my cheek. It came away red—his gaze went black. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch,” I said, though my cheek burned like fire.
“Not to me.” The words slipped out faster than he could stop them. His jaw flexed, the mask of restraint slamming backinto place before I could process what had been there. He was still holding me, his hands firm around my waist, and for a fleeting second, I felt the tremor he was trying to hide.
“You need to work on your reflexes.” A strange note burned in his voice. “Or you’re right, I’ll be writing paperwork about your untimely death.”
I swallowed around the strange lump in my throat, still breathing hard. “We won’t need the key then, will we?”
A muscle flickered beneath his cheekbone, just enough to make me regret the jab. He straightened, dropping his hands. The chill rushed in where his warmth had been. I opened my mouth to apologize, but the words tangled with the wild, confusing flutter in my chest.
“You won’t last another night in your room,” he said, boots crunching over glass as he headed for the door. “The offer still stands. I’ll leave my door unlocked.”
“Make sure to hold your breath.”
He looked back, and the corner of his mouth twitched before he disappeared down the hall.
I pressed my hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow. The painting lay face down on the floor beside my shattered mug. It had been my favorite. But something else lay among the debris: a sprig of mistletoe, still tied with a red ribbon.
It hadn’t been there before.
The chill in the room vanished the moment I touched it. I slipped it into my pocket before heading upstairs.
By the time night fell, Silverpine had gone silent again. No footsteps. No creaks. Just an uneasy stillness, as if the inn had listened when I told Grant to hold his breath.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, trying to read through the case file by the dim lamplight. I squinted atthe notes.
Avoid paintings. Don’t look in the mirrors.
I glanced up, catching my reflection in the vanity.Oops. Too late for that.My hair looked untamed, skin pale. I wore my snowflake sleepshirt, the neckline drooping off one shoulder like I was starring in an eighties aerobics video. All I needed were the leg warmers.
Which I had.
I rummaged through my bag and pulled out the soft, green pair, tugging them up to my knees. The cozy fabric calmed my nerves, along with a deep sip of herbal tea from the fresh mug I’d stolen from the kitchen.
