Chapter 9 Probing

My legs were burning by the time we reached the top. The adrenaline that had fueled my confrontation with the dungeon guards was beginning to curdle into a sick, shaky exhaustion. I clutched Vasilis’s heavy leather cloak around me like a shield, burying my nose in the collar. It was a dangerous scent, but right now, it was the only thing standing between me and the freezing draft of the castle.

"Up," Vasilis commanded.

He didn't shove me this time. He simply stepped aside, gesturing toward a pair of mahogany doors that looked tall enough to admit a giraffe. They were carved with scenes of wolves devouring stags, the wood stained a deep, varnished red.

"What is this place?" I whispered. My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the upper corridor.

"The War Room," Vasilis said. He placed a gloved hand on the brass handle. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not lie. And for the love of the Gods, Victoria, do not bleed."

He pushed the doors open.

Warmth hit me first. A dry, crackling heat radiating from a fireplace large enough to park a car in. Then came the smell.

I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into a rug that felt thicker than my mattress back in Ashwick.

The room was circular, lined with bookshelves that stretched up into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. In the center sat a massive table made of black stone, polished to a mirror sheen.

And around it sat the monsters.

There were three of them.

To the left sat a man who looked like a fallen angel carved from ice. He wore white ceremonial robes embroidered with crimson thread. His hair was platinum blonde, severe and straight, and his eyes were the color of mercury. He was staring at a map spread out on the table, tracing a line with a long, pale finger. Isidore.

To the right, lounging in a chair with one leg thrown over the armrest, was a younger man. He looked like a chaotic splash of gold in the dark room. Golden hair, golden skin that seemed to shimmer even in the firelight, and eyes that were a bright, manic amber. He was tossing a dagger into the air and catching it by the blade, over and over again. Orson.

And at the head of the table, sitting in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne, was the King.

Ignatius.

He had changed since the throne room. Gone was the military coat. He now wore a white silk shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal the hollow of his throat, and black trousers. He looked relaxed, almost human, if you ignored the sheer, suffocating pressure that radiated off him like heat off a furnace.

He was holding a crystal tumbler of red liquid. He wasn't drinking it. He was watching the light refract through it.

As I stepped into the room, the conversation died instantly.

Orson caught the dagger mid-air and froze. Isidore lifted his head, his lip curling in a sneer of distaste. Ignatius didn't move, but his eyes slid toward me.

"You brought it here," Isidore said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and dripping with venom. "Into the sanctum. It smells of the sewers, Vasilis."

"It smells of power," Vasilis corrected, stepping into the room behind me and closing the doors. "And it just survived a feral attack in Level Four without a scratch."

Orson sat up, dropping his legs to the floor. He leaned forward, sniffing the air loudly. "He's right. The rot is gone. Now she just smells like... spun sugar. And fear. Lots of fear."

"Step forward," Ignatius commanded.

The voice vibrated in my chest. It wasn't a shout, but my body obeyed before my brain could process the request. I took three stumbling steps toward the table.

"I didn't do anything," I blurted out. My hands shook where they gripped the cloak. "I don't know who you people are. I don't know what you want. I just want to go home."

Ignatius set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting stone echoed like a gunshot.

"Home," he repeated, testing the word as if it were a foreign concept. "Ashwick. The human city."

"Yes," I said, my voice gaining a desperate edge. "I work at a coffee shop. I have a cat. I pay taxes. If you hold me here, people will notice. The police will come."

Orson laughed. It was a bright, jagged sound. "The police? You mean the fat men in blue uniforms who patrol the surrounding? We own them, little stray. We own their captain, their mayor, and the bank that holds their pensions."

"Stop lying!" I screamed.

The snap of my voice shocked even me. The fear had boiled over into something hot and reckless.

"I am sick of the lies!" I yelled, stepping closer to the table. "I know what this is. You're a cult. A rich, sick, twisted cult. You kidnap girls, you drug them with hallucinogens so they see red eyes and fangs, and you play your little dungeon games."

I pointed a shaking finger at Ignatius.

"You filed your teeth," I accused. "You wear colored contacts. You think you're gods because you have money and a creepy castle? You're just psychopaths."

Isidore looked horrified, as if I had just vomited on the holy scripture. Vasilis, standing in the shadows by the door, let out a soft, low sound that might have been a chuckle.

But Ignatius...

Ignatius looked delighted.

A slow smile spread across his face. It transformed his harsh features, making him look devastatingly handsome and infinitely more terrifying.

"A cult," he mused. "You think we are... method actors?"

"I think you're sick," I spat. "And I think the drugs you gave me are wearing off, because I can see the wires now. I healed fast? No. You just didn't cut me as deep as you thought. It's a trick. Smoke and mirrors."

Ignatius stood up.

He moved with a grace that no human should possess. He flowed around the table, closing the distance between us in two strides.

He stopped a foot away from me. I had to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. He smelled of cedar, old blood, and fire smoke.