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A low, crooning sound emerges from beside the hearth—a low hum, more vibration than melody.
Kieran is staring anywhere but at me, fidgeting with the buttons of his sleeve.
“You okay?” I ask.
“So, you are not going to introduce us to the lady, Lazarus?” A mellifluous voice rings behind us, interrupting his response. The young woman I noticed a few minutes before, now approaches us. With silky straight hair and round eyes, her stride is so sure it makes me falter. She is striking, the kind of beauty trapped in daguerreotype photographs, perfect and eerily timeless.
“Cassandra,” Kieran acknowledges. She smiles, slow and deliberate, the deep red of her lips blooming in a feline smirk. The others drift in behind her.
“Marisa,” Dr. Marlowe says as he weaves through them and pulls me into a one-armed hug. He asks how I’m doing, but the truth is, words feel meaningless, slipping into my skin rather than leaving my mouth. I give him a nod instead.
My gaze darts to Kieran. If he is pleased to see his colleagues, the emotion barely cracks his expression. Instead, he begins introducing them in a methodical order.
“Cassandra Valentine. Known as The Collector.”
“I collect rare jewels,” Cassandra interjects, her gaze lingering on me longer than necessary.
“Arian Thomas, Professor of Occult Studies.” One of Arian’s eyes had been sliced across, the milky whiteness unsettling as it fixed itself upon me. He nods once. I nod in return.
“Irene Solomon. Lover of all things.” Irene slides in beside me, nudging Dr. Marlowe out of her way with a sweet smile that actually meets her eyes.
Another man steps forward. His hair is tied neatly, his suit perfectly tailored to his towering frame.
“Killian Bishop,” Kieran supplies.
Killian takes my hand and presses a gentle kiss to it before stepping back. The book is real. All of these names are mentioned. There is no refuting what is before my eyes.
We told you to open your eyes.
“And of course, you know Sheriff Valen.” My eyes flicker to Christian, my shadow, his presence sucking the light from the room. A shiver wracks my frame, remembering the peak of bliss he’d brought me to, and I lift my champagne to my mouth. They watch my movements. Measuring me the same way Tania had in my earliest days awake here.
Irene makes a small noise, her shoulders shrugging slightly. “I think we made the right decision, right team?”
“Shut up Irene. You didn’t do anything,” Christian quips.
With a blink, the room feels smaller—it’s listening. The air thickens with cold anticipation. Candles flicker in a rhythm that matches the hum of the mysterious music. Stepping backward, heart racing, my gaze snags Dr. Marlowe’s. How odd, this entire thing. But I remember what Christian asked of me. Downing my champagne I shove the glass into Kieran’s hands, taking his in replacement.
“Marisa, we want you to join us later.” Irene seems to coo, perusing me with a steady gaze. She lifts her champagne, empties it in one swallow, and hands the glass to Arian who takes it as if it were precious. “We have after dinner festivities. It will be very fun.” She winks before gliding away, her dress hissing across the floor. Arian follows, staring after her with the adoration of a lonely dog chasing a cruel moon.
This ballroom thrums with secrets, and I know what I have stepped into tonight can no longer be undone.
FORTY-EIGHT
“Speak their names and the monsters shall show
For that, be careful the seeds you sow,
For whatever is buried will grow…”
— EXCERPT FROM THE SHERIFF’S LOG
Outside, flashes of lightning linger just at the edge of the horizon.There were no rituals of securing thresholds and lighting every fire in the household tonight. Chandeliers tremble with the storm’s distant rumble. It is a lush, romantic scene, smelling of a crisp evening coupled with a hint of warm citrus. It is the most colorful scent the house has held in weeks. Kieran leads me into the center of it all—the man who’d relinquished himself to a quiet brooding nature, takes my hand and presses it to his chest, planting a gentle kiss on the cool skin of my fingers. We share a transfixed gaze, both unmoving—a dance of the wills.
I need him to know that I’m aware of his sins and I won’t be backing down. I need him to know that I’m standing in the Devil’s den and I am not afraid.
The music is low and serpentine, a melody that winds through the room, curling around us like a vise grip. Kieran moves my hands to his sides, then positions me like the times we’d danced. His palm fits along the curve of my waist. The touch sears through the thick beading of my dress, sending a sharp sting up my spine. Unfortunately the devil before me has needled his way into my desires.
“You look breathtaking.” His voice vibrates against my sternum more than it reaches my ears.
