My uncle wasn’t rich, working as a chemistry teacher at the Paris Institute of Perfume. Before that, he was a renowned nose at one of the biggest perfume brands in France. He wasn’t crawling under debt, but I knew he was struggling financially. He’d already asked for my help a couple of times.
“But you shouldn’t have spent that amount of money on it.” A hundred and twenty euros forthiswas outrageous.
“But you love that perfume, no?”
Uncle Eugene, you’ve lost your touch.
“It’s the No. 27 of Carmin that I love,” I chuckled. The 27 was Carmin’s best-selling perfume. Released years ago, it remained a masterpiece. I had asked Adonis about it, but the noses were their company’s best-kept secret.
“Right, I—”
“Eugene, the dinner is getting cold,” a woman whispered to him through the phone.
Wait, had he lied to me? My heart thumped wildly at the thought. My gaze stopped in the void as I denied all the emotions begging to consume me.
“Well, Lily, I’ve got to go… Merry Christmas, darling.”
I faked a smile, keeping the pitch of my voice calm, not wanting him to be concerned about me. “To you too, Uncle.”
I hung up.
I took the rest of the log out of the freezer and grabbed a spoon mechanically. The carnival of laughter from the neighbors filled the void of the apartment, and I imagined the amber scent of tree sap, the vanilla-scented candles. The smell of their roast goose and turkey wafted up my nostrils.
A spoonful of the log iced my interior, driving me further away from the warmth of Christmastime. A peek at the happy posts on social media drove me closer to the realization I was once again alone.
At least on New Year’s Eve I wouldn’t be.
I had something to look forward to.
6 days later
“Ravencliff Manor, home of the wicked and the sinners,” exclaimed Adonis theatrically while driving along a narrow path under the moonlight.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going there,” I muttered, the mist of my breath taking the shape of my hand against the car window.
Everyone was fascinated with Ravencliff Manor, a two-hour drive from Paris, to the point many tales were told. The most haunting one was from a woman who’d ended her life at the cliff. People said she became a somber spirit, inviting other lost souls to end their suffering. They would be endlessly condemned to spin inside the cursed ocean until the end of time. The other tales were either dark legends to scare children or a wicked fantasy to animate the nights of the pleasure-seeking elite.
As we sank into the hostile forest, the lifeless trees seemed to shut in, choking out the gleam of the moonlight to let the fog roll around like a breath. The howling of the wind and the thunder of the crashing waves on the hard rocks down the cliff was a sinister symphony to accompany inky black nightmares. The briny air of the ocean filled my nostrils; it smelled of storm and loneliness.
Even the car’s heating couldn’t warm us from the view of the manor. From afar, it looked like the perfect depiction of a desolate house. A fortress of evil whose somber edges were as thin as blades attempting to bleed the sky. Overhanging the hill, it blocked any light from entering, hiding in the shadow matching the murkiness of its occupant.
“How is he?” By “he,” I was referring tohe who shall not be named—Radcliff, the owner of the manor, the host, and the biggest mystery of tonight’s New Year’s Masquerade Ball. Like everyone in France, I’d heard of him and his uncanny reputation, but like most everyone else, I’d never encountered him.
My uncle had come to the manor a couple of times. He’d never brought me, though I guessed he had met Radcliff—not that we ever discussed him. No sane person would want to be involved with him anyway.
“He goes by the name Devil. He gives his signature card to people he does business with,” Adonis replied while handing me his exclusive invitation. “The legend says that he can read your soul.”
A tarot card.
Number XV.
The Devil.
My gaze slithered closely to the card, my fingers lingering on the drawing. A bad feeling crept through my spine. A grotesque beast with horns was seated on a throne, unyielding, a pentacle above his head. His chained slaves were holding grapes and a fire torch. They were completely at his mercy.
My curiosity couldn’t be shut down, even though the message was clear—it was an upscale invitation to hell that people were willingly eager to savor.
“But if you ask me, he’s more of a phantom,” Adonis added with an angelic smirk that drew my attention to his dreamy dimples.
