Eleven
Campbell barks an order, and chaos erupts. Hands grab at me, shoving me forward, dragging me toward the door.
I can’t think, can’t move. I’m caught in a whirlwind, spun out of control.
But then I catch a dark, familiar shadow in my periphery. I dig in my heels and twist around.
The grandfather clock.
Its madcap sun still spins on the dial, stalking the painted sky. But now, the clockface gleams—pristine, untouched. New.
Hands wrench me around and fling me out the door.
Sunlight slashes across my vision. The air reeks of animals, dung, and something fouler. A human stench. Sweat and piss sting my nostrils, make my eyes water.
I blink hard. Try to make sense of where they’re taking me.
Men on horseback fill the parking lot.
No, not a parking lot. The gravel is gone. In its place is mud and torn-up grass, trampled under restless hooves.
A sharpwhoofescapes me as arms cinch tight around my waist. I’m lifted and thrown. I hit the horse’s back belly-first, hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
I twist and shove my elbow back, aiming for my captor’s groin.
I miss.
He laughs. Smacks my ass. More laughter erupts around us.
Then, “Ho!”
He digs his heels in and the horse bolts.
I barely register the jeers behind us before my entire world shrinks to one singular task: surviving the ride.
Time loses meaning.
I don’t know how long we ride before the gallop slows, shifting into something steadier. My body is barely starting to adjust when I’m flung from the horse.
I hit the ground hard with a grunt, but then I see it.
The castle.
A chill slithers down my spine, mind fixating on one thing.
The pit.
The way the manacles gleamed in the darkness.
Footsteps thud all around me as men dismount. A hand grips my arm and yanks me up. Drags me forward. Stone walls rise in my vision.
And roses.
The outer walls are thickly covered with them. They climb, heavy with thorns. Their leaves have begun to thin with the season, revealing skeletal buds and the ghosts of flowers long dead.
“What is this place?” My voice sounds distant, an echo in my own ears.
“Castle Dunrose,” someone answers. My gut twists at the name. “For the wild Alba roses.”
