“Uh, Malachi,” I whisper, stricken. I’m too terrified to look away from the scene unfolding before me, too horrified to even blink.
He moves up behind me, his warmth a stark contrast to the ice spreading through my veins as he peers past the curtain into the ballroom. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone completely dry. I’m frozen in place, every muscle in my body rigid with a fear so profound it feels like I’m drowning. Some of the initial chaos from the smoke grenades has died down to a tense, waiting quiet, but there’s something far more sinister happening now.
A different kind of smoke, not the gray chemical fog from the grenades, but something that seems to absorb light itself, billows across the polished floor like liquid shadow. This black vapor moves with purpose, collecting in dark pools throughout the grand space, creeping around the scattered bodies and huddled survivors like it’s alive. It has to be Meadow’s work, wherever she’s lurking in the darkness, probably providing supernatural cover for whatever Marco has planned.
In one far corner, a large group of guests in torn eveningwear argues in frantic, hushed voices. They’re pressed against ornate double doors, pushing and shoving, but the doors won’t budge, clearly barricaded from the outside. Their diamond jewelry catches what little light remains, creating tiny sparkles of desperate beauty in the nightmare unfolding among us.
Around the magnificent carousel bar, another cluster of people has taken shelter, crouched low on the cold floor, clearly frightened out of their minds. Some are weeping silently, while others stare into the darkness with shell-shocked expressions. A few still clutch crystal glasses, as if holding onto the remnants of normalcy might save them.
But I can see something they can’t. The painted eyes of the tiger on the back of one of the barstools seem to shift and blink, tracking movement, growing more animated.
I quickly scan over each of the stools as they continue their steady rotation in the center of the room, and my heart nearly stops. The carved animals are coming to life, not the physical carvings but their spirits.
I have no idea what the hell is happening. Were these animals studied to create this elaborate contraption? Were they killed so their likenesses could be replicated?
The lion’s spirit suddenly leaps out from the back of its barstool and bounds across the room, where it begins to prowl and pace against the far wall with restless, ghostly energy. Its translucent mane flows as it moves, and I can hear the phantom sound of its heavy paws padding against the floor.
One of the carousel horses breaks free from its golden pillar, galloping straight through the air in a spectral form. It continues its eternal ride in a perfect circle, moving in eerie unison with the bar’s mechanical rotation, its ghostly hooves never touching the ground.
I blink several times, trying to process what I’m witnessing, then force myself to tear my gaze away from the supernatural menagerie and back to the human spirits scattered throughout the ballroom.
They all stand perfectly motionless throughout the room, scattered among the living. Each ghostly figure is positioned next to a breathing person, and they’re all waiting. Their translucent forms shimmer slightly in the dim light, some more solid than others, but all of them have the same expression of patient anticipation.
“I did something really, really bad,” I wheeze, each syllable scraping past my paralyzed vocal cords.
The apparition closest to us—a woman in an evening gown with a gaping hole where her heart should be—slowly turns her head toward me. Her lips stretch into a macabre smile. Her eyes are black voids that seem to see straight through to my soul, and when she grins, I can see her teeth are stained with something dark.
“I’ll say you done fucked up royally this time, Kitty Kat,” Damien says through the air around us like poisonous honey, though I can’t pinpoint where he’s hiding. “This is quite the show you’ve put on.”
“What is it? What do you see?” Malachi’s hand finds mine and squeezes so tightly I can feel his pulse hammering against my palm. He’s trying to anchor me to reality, but reality is quickly becoming something I don’t recognize.
“There are ghosts everywhere,” I breathe, my voice cracking with the weight of what I’ve unleashed. “Dozens of them. Maybe more.”
His head snaps toward me, but I can’t look at him. I physically cannot tear my gaze away from the supernatural army I’ve accidentally summoned. Every spirit in the room is nowlooking directly at me, their partially translucent faces turned in my direction like sunflowers following the sun.
As if responding to some silent command I didn’t give, they all begin to move.
It happens in slow motion, each second stretching into an eternity of horror. I watch, helpless and paralyzed, as every single spirit raises their translucent hands. They place their fingers on either side of their chosen victim’s head.
The living people don’t react. They can’t see what’s about to happen to them. Some are still arguing about escape routes, others comforting one another. They have no idea that death is literally standing right beside them, preparing to end their lives with surgical precision.
“No,” I whisper, finally finding my voice. “No, stop!”
But it’s too late.
Moving in perfect, terrifying synchronization, every spirit in the room twists their hands sharply to the right.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
The sound of necks snapping echoes through the ballroom. Twenty, maybe thirty sharp breaks happening simultaneously. The noise is grating and final, the kind of sound that will haunt my nightmares forever.
Bodies begin dropping to the hard floor with sickening thuds that seem to go on forever. A woman in emerald silk crumples next to the carousel bar. A man in a perfectly tailored tuxedo collapses near the stage, and I see it’s Hunter Miller, one of the leaders of the South.
For one impossible, deafening moment, absolute silence blankets the ballroom. Even the distant sounds of fighting from other parts of the hotel seem to pause, as if the entire building is holding its breath.
Blood-curdling screams tear through the air—sounds of pure,primal terror that seem to come from the very depths of human despair. The survivors scramble over each other in blind panic, stepping on the fallen bodies, slipping in pools of blood that are beginning to spread across the pristine floor. I see Belle Miller drop to her knees beside her husband’s dead body, her dress soaking up his blood as an ear-curdling scream escapes her throat.
