Page 29 of Hellbound

The shadows crawled up the room, the fire coiling and licking higher in the furnace. Her pulse beat in her ears as she cast her eyes toward the growing flame.

Her curiosity led her to lean closer and closer until beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

She rubbed her eyes, once, twice.

Yet there she was: Danika. Her visage, formed out of rolling flame, turned over the crackling logs in a grotesque scream that leaped from the hearth and almost singed Ksenia’s cheek.

The worktable skidded back across the dusty flagstone as she slammed against it before rushing for a bucket of water, dousing the fire once and for all.

Darkness consumed the room, and she clutched her head.

Vornaya’s voice cut into Ksenia’s mind. Fulfill the terms of our pact lest you wish to succumb to madness.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it.” Ksenia crouched and rocked on her heels, face buried in her knees. The hallucinations were preying on her anxieties.

The fire ebbed to a weak ember nestled in the ash. Ksenia’s breath quaked, her sweaty hand clutching the still-warm key. Minutes passed before she slowly rose and peeked out the window, but found only darkness amongst the sheets of rain.

In the manor, the warm flicker of candlelit chandeliers illuminated her way to the kitchen, where foot traffic had slowed considerably. However, she could still see shadows passing beneath the doorway.

She let herself into the servant’s closet once more and pulled on a clean uniform. Reaching back into the bin of clothing, she found the blackberry jam–stained apron and carefully tucked the nicked key into the pocket before letting herself out into the empty hallway.

The kitchen sprawled across most of the first floor’s west wing, next to the dining room. Dark wood beams crisscrossed the high ceilings, from which gleaming copper pots and cast-iron pans hung in neat rows, catching the light of a fire subsiding in a great stone hearth. There were three total, each big enough to roast a whole boar.

Ksenia’s stomach protested again as the scent of rosemary, woodsmoke, and fresh bread wafted around her. A scant few kitchen staff remained, scrubbing dinner plates and sweeping the floors. Ksenia’s heart beat in her ears at the prospect of being caught, and she busied herself with the spice rack along the wall nearest to her, clinking the glass spice jars in her hands and placing them back onto the shelf in somewhat alphabetical order.

Between sorting, she stole more glances around the room. At the far corner stood a pantry and cold storage, its door reinforced with iron bands and a lock. The kitchen hands began returning perishable goods to the pantry before locking it with a key. Ksenia found a damp rag and wiped the countertops and butcher blocks clean until she heard the last cook call out a “good night” to her over his shoulder, which she returned with a half-hearted wave.

The double doors swung back and forth, and she couldn’t wait any longer; she stuffed a stale crust of grainy bread into her mouth. She didn’t want to risk suspicion if large quantities of food suddenly went missing, so she refrained from taking a bite out of a cake that was cooling on the shelf, instead sticking to leftovers that’d been stored away.

She slotted the forged key into the pantry door, and the lock mechanism ground open in response. A veritable treasure trove of goods awaited her, stacked on shelves and spilling over on a butcher block island in the middle of the room. Cured sausages and ham hocks hung from the ceiling, but she beelined toward the fruit, bread, cheese, and hard-cured meats, piling a cheesecloth full then knotted it into a neat package. This would have to do for tonight.

She crept back through the manor into the tentative privacy of her room, the candles having melted low in their holders and the bathwater long cold. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than stow away her stolen provisions before tucking into bed, where she fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of her sister within the flames and that slender, lingering chime in the distance.

9

The morning came too soon, as did her next combat lesson. Ksenia walked into the sparring hall hollow-eyed and found it had transformed overnight. The mirrored panels on the wall had been swung out on oiled hinges, creating a labyrinth of reflective surfaces that multiplied the space into infinite corridors.

Ksenia stood in the center of the hall with a death grip on Caromir. Everywhere she looked, her likeness stared back. Not just one reflection, but dozens—hundreds—the edges blurring together until she couldn’t tell where one pane ended and the other began.

It harkened her back to the nightmare—watching herself fragmented into dozens of versions—except this was real. Ksenia blinked hard, trying to anchor herself.

This was the sparring hall. Real mirrors, not dream mirrors.

A reflection shifted.

Varka’s blade came in high and fast. Ksenia caught it crosswise—

KLANG!

The clash of steel on steel rang out and echoed back, bouncing off the hard, mirrored surfaces.

She stumbled, and suddenly a dozen Varkas were advancing, a dozen Ksenias retreating.

Varka’s blade came from the left—no, the right—and Ksenia twisted, parrying on instinct. The blow of their weapons radiated painfully up Ksenia’s elbow and into her shoulders.

“Use your other senses if one is lying,” Varka said, her voice bouncing between the mirrors as she disappeared. Ksenia had become unsure of what to trust. Vornaya’s intrusive hallucinations were becoming commonplace. Her body was battered and worn from restless sleep, and she found herself preferring to stay awake rather than be stuck in dream paralysis with Vornaya reminding her of the pact.

Behind her, another strike.