“I transformed him, Wendy,” I say, kneeling beside her and pulling her head into the crook of my blood-stained neck. “I made him a permanent part of the house. Just like you. Now, stop crying. You’re getting salt in your eyes.”
I pick her up, her body limp and unresponsive in my arms, and walk past my silent, horrified lieutenants.
“Vane,” I call out over my shoulder. “Clean up the mess. But leave the laundry. I want to see it in the morning light.”
The dining room doors creak on their hinges, and for a heartbeat, the only sound is the wet drip, drip, drip of Mikhail’s essence hitting the floor. Then, a sharp, jagged intake of breath cuts through the silence.
Clara is standing in the threshold. Her hair is a bird’s nest, her expensive silk blouse torn at the shoulder from her escape, and her face is a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. Her eyes travel from the raw, quivering heap on the obsidian table to the gold curtain rod where Mikhail’s face is currently drying.
Then, she lets out a scream that makes the remaining crystal glasses on the table vibrate. It’s a manic, lung-bursting sound, a siren of sanity breaking in real-time.
“PETER! OH MY GOD! PETER!” she shrieks, her hands flying to her mouth, her knees buckling until she’s clutching the doorframe for dear life. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT IS THAT? WHY IS HIS… WHY IS HE HANGING THERE?”
I don’t look up from Wendy’s hair. I just close my eyes for a second, a weary, bored sigh escaping my lips.
“Oh, for the love of God,” I drawl, my voice dripping with an almost comedic exhaustion. “Another one? Is it a requirement in this family that every woman must have the lung capacity of an opera singer during a crisis?”
“HE’S INSIDE OUT!” Clara bellows, her voice cracking into a frantic, sobbing laugh. She points a shaking finger at the curtain rod. “HIS FACE IS NEXT TO THE DRAPES, PETER! YOU HUNG HIM UP LIKE A FUCKING TOWEL!”
“He was damp, Clara. I didn’t want him to mildew,” I snap, finally looking at her with a look of profound annoyance. I adjust my grip on Wendy, who is still a dead weight in my arms, her eyes fixed on the ‘laundry’ with a terrifying, blank intensity. “And do stop pointing. It’s incredibly gauche to gesture at the guest of honour.”
Clara stumbles into the room, her eyes darting to Vane and Julian, who are standing like statues in the shadows. “Help her! Someone help Wendy! He’s a monster! He’s a fucking butcher!”
She lunges toward us, her movements jerky and manic, but I move Wendy just out of her reach.
“Clara, darling, if you don’t lower your volume, I’m going to have Silas put you back in the library with a very large roll of duct tape,” I say, my voice regaining that sharp, witty edge. “I’ve had a very long evening. I’ve hosted a dinner, I’ve fended off a kidnapping, and I’ve done a significant amount of upholstery work. I am not in the mood for your theatrical debut.”
“You’re sick!” Clara screams, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of the cheap wine she musthave found in the library. “You’re actually, genuinely insane! Look at her! Look at Wendy! You’ve broken her!”
I look down at Wendy. She isn’t crying anymore. She isn’t even blinking. She’s just staring at Mikhail’s empty eye sockets, a tiny, haunting smile tugging at the corner of her bitten lips.
“She isn’t broken, Clara,” I murmur, my voice turning soft, almost tender. “She’s just adjusting to the new decor. It takes a moment to appreciate the finer details of the Hale lifestyle.”
I stand up fully, Wendy cradled against my blood-soaked chest like a precious, shattered doll. I step over a pool of brine and blood, heading for the door.
“Vane,” I call out, not looking back. “If my sister doesn’t stop screaming within the next thirty seconds, throw a bucket of ice water on her. She’s becoming a distraction.”
“PETER! YOU CAN’T LEAVE HER WITH HIM!” Clara’s voice follows me out into the hall, a frantic, echoing wail that fades as I climb the stairs. “WENDY! WENDY, PLEASE!”
I reach the top of the stairs and kiss the top of Wendy’s head.
“Don’t mind her, Darling,” I whisper. “She’s always been a bit of a drama queen. Tomorrow, we’ll pick out some new furniture. Something to match the red.”
Wendy
The first thing I notice isn’t the light. It’s the smell.
It’s the cloying, metallic scent of a butcher shop mixed with the expensive, woodsy aroma of Peter’s cologne. It’s a scent that shouldn’t exist in a bedroom, yet it’s woven into the very silk of the pillows beneath my head.
I don’t open my eyes. I can’t. If I open them, the ceiling will become the dining room. The shadows in the corner will become the “laundry” hanging from the gold rod. My mind is a fractured map of red lines and white salt, and if I move, I’m afraid the pieces will slide out of my skull and shatter on the floor.
I feel the bed dip. A heavy, warm weight settles beside me.
“I know you’re awake, Wendy,” his voice rumbles. It’s low, melodic, and terrifyingly calm. “Your heart is thumping against the mattress like a trapped bird. It’s very distracting.”
I open my eyes.
The master suite is bathed in the soft, deceptive glow of a Chicago dawn. It looks like a sanctuary—velvet curtains, marble fireplace, antique books. But then I see his hands.
