Page 42 of Bloodgrove

But this house was both too empty and too alive, even on its better nights. Wind whistled through the cracks like weary breath. The pale spaces where paintings had once hung were louder than the portraits that watched him with contempt. And sometimes, when he slipped into the kitchen wrapped in his dressing gown, he thought he heard chains rattling as tormented souls threw themselves against their restraints.

If he had not awakened each morning to tear down every trace of cruelty and brutally claim the house as his own, he would never have been able to sleep at night. Each evening, he threatened the spirit of the place with demolition down to its foundations, promising to rebuild it in clean white lines, stripped of every lingering soul.

But in this strained silence, he knew something was missing. The spirit of the house had given way to something new.

At the rear of the townhouse, a square stairwell connected every level, from the first floor to the fourth-floor guest rooms where Will slept. Paintings had once covered every inch of the green wallpaper, but now the walls stood bare, and only a heavy wooden railing surrounded the yawning shaft at its center.

Will held the candelabra over the balustrade and peered down. The drop was dizzying, but he paused. Were the black-and-white tiles at the bottom not usually visible? Now there was only a churning pool of darkness.

Will recoiled, but he was not fast enough. Snakes shot upward, reaching for him, trying to drag him down into the abyss. Tentacles wrapped around his arm and struck his chest. Terror lodged his scream in his throat. Their touch was icy cold, and the power with which they closed around him was immense. They pulled, and he braced himself against the balustrade with all his strength. His bare feet could find no purchase. His knees struck the posts, and his hips crashed against the railing. They coiled around his throat, cutting off his air and threatening to wrench him over the edge.

Their grip around his left arm tightened until his fingers spasmed and he could no longer hold the candelabra. The black band around his wrist drew tighter. With a gasping cry, Will let go.

For one long, terrible moment, the candelabra plunged into the depths, its flames flickering in the rushing air. Then the darkness below swallowed it. The impact was barely audible, reaching Will only as a strange, muffled sound.

But at the same instant, the snakes recoiled. Their grip loosened around Will’s arms and chest, releasing his throat. Twitching but silent, they shot back into the abyss from which they had come.

The candelabra remained behind, its flames still burning.

Panting, Will stumbled backward. The wood bore the marks of his fingernails, but otherwise everything was silent again, as though nothing had happened. He touched his throat and flinched when his fingers met the tender, cold skin.

But this was not the moment to consider how narrowly he had escaped death. One glance over the railing showed him that the dark mass had not vanished entirely, and the snakes were still dancing beyond the circle of light. He was certain Elodie was one floor below him, and soon the monster would recover.

He hesitated only briefly before heading for the nearest servants’ passage and descending the narrow staircase. It was so dark inside that he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He felt his way forward with his fingers against the wall, his wrist still tender and his nails close to falling off. Then his foot caught on a floorboard. He pitched forward and tumbled down the rest of the stairs.

Cursing, he came to a stop at the bottom. Every bone ached, and his forehead throbbed where it had struck a stone edge.

“Goddamn it!” His hand came away bloody. Panic simmered beneath the surface of his composure, but he clenched his teeth. Elodie would know what was happening.

Desperation burned inside him, stronger even than the pain, and he raised the bloody finger to his lips and licked it.

“Light. Please.”

He wanted nothing more than a little light. Light the shadows could not steal from him, light that would keep him from breaking his neck.

Suddenly, as though a fold in the fabric of reality had parted, a small sphere of moonlight slipped through. Silver-white, it floated above Will’s hand and illuminated his astonished face. Copper and salt still lingered on his tongue, and a hum vibrated through his bones.

It was so beautiful—cool but not cold, white yet haloed by the colors of a rainbow. Grateful tears burned in his eyes, but he gathered himself again, forced his thoughts under control, and squared his shoulders.

Soon, he reached one of the two remaining corridors still lined with ancestral portraits. Elodie’s rooms had to be here, within this last remnant of grandeur, beneath the gaze of her dreadful ancestors.

Gods, he wished to return to civilization.

A stone tile clicked behind him.

Will spun around. His moonlight tried to illuminate the length of the corridor, but it was not enough. The far end remained a black mass, a gateway into hell. Will stared hard into it but could make out nothing. His heart beat against his throat, every hair on his arms stood on end, and his breath caught.

Seconds stretched into minutes as he stared into the darkness, not daring to turn his back on it. But he was alone. The shadows were only that—shadows.

When he finally exhaled and began to turn toward the nearest door, something changed. He looked into the darkness, and the darkness looked back.

A figure emerged.

No, it did not emerge. It formed. It was created and born from the blackness, from the loneliness of space. It had no face, no recognizable features, no chest rising and falling with breath.

For one or two heartbeats, they stared at each other.

Then everything happened at once. Will turned and sprinted away as the creature raised one arm and sent black snakes racing after him.