Page 20

It was an intimacy I had never known—a raw, unapologetic hunger from a woman who had felt like a sweet, terrifying surrender. I had not stopped it. I had not wanted to.

That night, I had wanted to be someone else. Someone free. And for a little while, lost in her embrace, I had been.

That memory, sharp and bittersweet, faded as Leta adjusted my ruby necklace, unaware that her cool fingers now rested on the very place where that long-ago kiss had landed.

“You’ll break more than just hearts tonight, Mistress,” she said, her voice low.

“I always do,” I replied, the words a weary truth. “It seems to be my only consistent talent.”

The mirror—that cold, impartial judge—did not lie. The woman staring back at me wore the face of vengeance, of lethal beauty. My eyes held a chilling resolve, but it was the profound, echoing absence behind those eyes that struck me.

The mask was cool and smooth against my palm. Outside, a sleek black beast of polished steel and a low growl of an engine already waited for me. But before I stepped into its shadowed depths, I looked once more toward the line of ancient silent trees at the edge of the estate.

No figure. There was no telltale shimmering of celestial wings. No Remiel. The hollow ache in my chest remained.

The rich leather interior embraced me like a lover made of ghosts and regret as the car’s door shut with a soft, final thud. The driver did not speak, and I sank into the profound silence.

As the familiar village lights fell away behind us, my fingers, on their own accord, crept to the edge of the mask resting in my lap. I ran my thumb along the sharp curve, where the dark metal met black velvet.

What would Remiel say if he saw me like this? Cloaked in crimson and shadows, a mask hiding whatever truth remained in my eyes? Would he even recognize me?

I pressed the mask to my face, the cool metal a shock against my skin. But as I fastened the clasp, the shock turned into a dull throbbing heat. It settled too easily, molding to my features with an intimacy that made my stomach turn. It felt less like wearing a disguise and more like a second skin whispering against my own.

In the car’s dark glass window, my reflection stared back—half woman, half myth. And for a heartbeat, my reflection didn’t blink when I did. I saw a flash of violet—Lysanthe’s eye color—staring back at me from my face, wide with panic. I blinked hard, and it was gone—just my own brown eye.

Outside, the familiar countryside slowly shifted. Cobblestone roads, worn smooth by centuries of passage, gave way to cracked asphalt lined with fences that leaned at drunken angles. Trees had faded leaves, more somber hues, that curled inward. Brutal browns replaced the cheerful yellows and hopeful reds, and the forest’s dark greens of ancient pine trees then swallowed the light.

The villages vanished. The air grew colder and damp. The kind of insidious cold that sank through layers of silk and wool. I drew my heavy cloak tighter around my shoulders, the velvet a fragile defense, and told myself, with a defiance I did not feel, that I was not shivering.

Beyond the encroaching tree line, a strange, unnatural haze gathered—a mist hanging too low, too thick, and too still. The familiar, comforting scent of woodsmoke faded, replaced by something metallic, and I saw the broken silhouette of a chapel’s spire piercing the bruised twilight sky somewhere in the far shadowed distance.

The road narrowed, becoming a little more than a forgotten track. Branches reached out from the darkness like grasping hands of the dead, clawing at the windows with a dry scratching sound. Somewhere deep within the forest, a raven croaked once—a harsh guttural sound. A ghostly eye in the darkening sky, the full and pale moon started its slow ascent.

The car continued to move, and the woods, ancient and watchful, swallowed us whole.

Once again, the road narrowed, and it appeared to dissolve, vanishing into the mist embellished with moonlight. Skeletal trees leaned inward as if to listen, and somewhere in the distance, a mournful horn sounded.

This last stretch felt unreal. I couldn’t remember when the road became stones, slick with moss and time. As I peered through the tinted window, I caught glimpses of strange runes etched into the bark of trees.

Through the curling mist, a tall claw-tipped iron gate appeared. It groaned open with a reluctant wail, parting like the jaws of a frightened beast. Black vines wound through their metal bones, blooming with flowers that shimmered violet and bruised gold beneath the moonlight.

A pair of masked jesters waited for me at the entrance, their faces painted with leering smiles and their costumes a vibrant and disconcerting patchwork of mismatched fabrics. Their bells jingled with every movement, the sound grating. One jester held a flickering lantern that had an eerie blue flame while another wielded a staff crowned with a tiny chattering skull.

The third bowed low, his fingers brushing the ground, and beneath his hood, a gloved hand emerged and extended toward me. “Welcome, Lady Flame.” His rasping whisper sliced through the evening air. “You’ve been expected.”

Of course, I had.

I opened the door myself, and one jester moved to help me. The moment I stepped out from the car, the cold air embraced me like an old lover—familiar, sharp, and impossible to ignore. The hem of my crimson gown brushed the stones, and behind me, the door clicked shut with mechanical finality.

The jesters turned in unison, choreographed like dancers. Without hesitation, they moved ahead, their footsteps as silent as shadows, as they beckoned me forward with sweeping bows and dramatic winks. Their steps barely kissed the stones.

I stepped across the threshold.

Laughter, or the memory of it, echoed off the walls like something once human. Velvet curtains parted on their own as we passed, and candlelight flared with each step I took.

The cathedral suffered damage but remained standing. Its bones whispered. Columns flanked me like sentinels, each wrapped in thin iron bands that were etched with long worn sigils. Above, the vaulted ceiling had fractured in places, allowing silver moonlight to pour through and strike the dust in luminous shafts. It was dust that didn’t settle, reluctant to touch the floor again.

The air was palpably wet, but it felt alive. The stones beneath my heels faintly pulsed like a second heartbeat. When I trailed my fingers along the nearest wall, it gave and flexed like flesh, like a breath.