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We needed to leave the crypt at once or else we’d go from being the hunters to the hunted. When I reached the halfway point on the macabre tree, a strange shape caught my eye from the far side of the bone gate. At first I thought it was some peculiar, cave-dwelling animal.
Then it stood, stumbling forward a bit.
“Thomas…”
My breath caught. The heap had risen from the bones, revealing a robed figure who was no reanimated corpse or strigoi. I wagered he was human; there was absolutely nothing fantastical about him aside from his taste in theatrics.
A cloak covered his head, drawn over his features as if it were a hood, and a large cross hung from around his neck. The cloak vaguely reminded me of those worn by the men who’d vanished into the woods with that corpse a few nights before. The cross was larger than two fists and was made of gold. Very ornate and medieval, it appeared as if it would make a fine weapon itself.
“Thomas… run!”
Thomas cocked his head, unaware of the new threat. “I can’t hear you, Wadsworth.”
Clinging to the tree and unable to point, I watched as the figure staggered closer. He looked injured, but it could be an act to lure us into a false sense of security.
“Behind you!” I shouted, but it was too late. The figure fell against the gate, slamming it shut as he stumbled backward.
Three-quarters of the way down, the rib I’d been gripping snapped, and I dropped like a felled tree in this forest of corpses. Moving faster than I could blink, Thomas dove into my path, breaking my fall. It was not a glamorous rescue, but his effort was valiant.
He hissed as he smacked the ground, then issued another grunt when my forehead slammed into the back of his head. I hurried off him, spinning in place, searching for the figure who’d been stalking toward us, but saw nothing. We had moments to run. Thomas turned over, and blood gushed from his nose.
“Where are your plasters?”
He held his nose. “Lost them in the water chamber.”
I ripped off a piece of my thin chemise and offered it to my bleeding hero. He might be able to use it to staunch the flow of blood, or perhaps he could strangle our attacker with it while I distracted him.
“Hurry, Cresswell. We’ve got to move—”
Out of nowhere, the figure reappeared, falling toward us from behind the Tree of Death, the promise of violence clearly visible in his stance.
“Get. Out,” he said through gritted teeth, then clutched at his torso. His breathing was labored, accented voice strained. “Hurry.”
Fear released its grip on my logic. I leaned forward, squinting to see the face I knew matched the voice. “Prince Nicolae? You’re—are you—who did this to you?”
The prince shook the hood back from his face. It was splotchy with dark patches, and his cheeks were gaunt. “If you don’t hurry… she’ll—”
He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving with effort. The prince wasn’t pretending to be injured—he was near death. I dropped to my knees, lifting his head into my lap. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. I would’ve wagered anything he’d been given arsenic. We needed to get him out of these tunnels and to a doctor immediately. “Thomas… lift him by the…”
Then, as if a nightmare was given permission to be born of this world, a figure rose from the blood-filled bath. I blinked, barely understanding the absurdity of the ruined drinking straw that fell to the ground, so horrific was the sight before us. Blood so dark it was nearly black coated every inch of its face and body. Hair dripped crimson back into the tub, slender fingers covered in it. I could scarcely breathe. Thomas held his arm out, as if he might be able to keep this monster from seeing both Nicolae and me.
Its eyes opened wide, the whites a stark contrast to the crimson surrounding them. Everything came to a crashing halt within my mind. I could not tell who it was from here, but it was most certainly a woman. We’d been correct after all, but was it Ileana? Or could it possibly be… Daciana?
The blood-soaked nightmare kicked one leg from the tub, making a grand show of stepping out of the bath. Blood splashed onto the ground and splattered against the bones nearby.
Whoever she was, she wore a gossamer gown, its dripping red length trailing behind her like a sodden wedding-day curse as she moved toward us. As she bent down near a heap of bones, I considered running. I longed to grab Thomas and flee this crypt and never glance back. But there was no way out and we couldn’t leave the prince. The living nightmare stood and pointed a small ladies’ revolver at us.
She drifted forward, the countess of blood, a grisly smile exposing the white of her teeth.
“Extraordinar! I’m so glad you both made it. I was worried you’d not arrive on time. Or that you’d bring Uncle and that annoying guard.”
I stared at the girl before us, blinking disbelief away. It could not be, and yet… her voice was unmistakable, her Hungarian accent slightly different from the Romanian one.
“Anastasia? How… this cannot be real,” I said, unable to accept this truth. “You died. We saw you in that room—those bats.” I shook my head. “Percy inspected your body. We autopsied you!”
“Are you certain? I expected you to catch on, prietena mea.” Anastasia smiled again, those teeth shining too pleasantly against the blood. “When you mentioned the shutter in the village, I nearly fainted. I had to run back and stage the room before we investigated that night. Nervii mei! My nerves were a wreck.”
I could not fathom how this could be real. I forced my mind past the panic threatening to drop me to my knees. We needed to keep Anastasia talking. Perhaps we’d come up with a plan on how to maneuver out of this. “Why did you allow me to live?”
