Page 112 of Bloodgrove

You are mine, my pearl.

Salt crystals crunched beneath his soles as Will turned and ran back toward the grand townhouse.

Chapter 56

Will knew something was wrong with the grand townhouse the moment he ran through the open gate. Elodie had ordered the carpet on the staircase rolled up for the celebration, yet it looked as though it had never been removed. A glittering red river dripped down the steps and pooled across the tiles.

“Oh,” Will breathed and stopped, panting.

Eric had been right. He should have run for the train. But at the same time, Eric had betrayed him in a last attempt to hurt Elodie. The threads she had tied around his heart were stronger than his own survival instinct. She needed him, and he would not abandon her. Perhaps the pact he had made with the god was far less dangerous than the promise he had given Elodie.

So he took a step toward the staircase.

It was quiet, far too quiet. From outside, he heard only the howling of vampires, and he possessed enough sense to bolt the gate behind him so the monsters would not follow the scent and storm the grand townhouse.

Then he noticed something else, something he had only ever seen in the Red Hand’s castle. Dark red moss, almost black, spread along the walls. It resembled wild-growing flesh or mold consuming the house.

With every ragged breath, he inhaled the coppery smell of blood, hanging so heavily in the air that he almost missed the sweet, rotten stench of the growths. He shuddered. He had hoped to banish those odors from the grand townhouse when he tore out the ballroom.

Elodie. Eric.

He drew one final breath, and the calm the Albatross’s magic had given him fell away completely. Shock crushed into him like a sledgehammer.

Elodie! Eric! The stairs flew beneath his feet. Blood splashed up to his knees, but the red fabric of his clothes absorbed it. His steps skidded across the slick floor, and the closer he came to the ballroom, the more intense the stench became. The growths climbed the doorframes and gathered like snowdrifts in the corners.

Before he even reached the ballroom, he stumbled over the first body. Its throat had burst open, its belly gutted. His boots tangled in the large intestine, and his dinner rose into his throat as he struggled to free himself. Everything was still so fresh that steam rose.

The chains Elodie had wound around his heart rattled and dragged him onward while the beast of horror sat upon his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Empty eyes stared at him as he stumbled farther. More men and women appeared, all torn apart, their faces twisted in pain. It was so silent, so terribly silent, broken only by the steady dripping of blood onto the stone tiles.

Will reached the ballroom. The double doors were closed; only a hand was trapped in the gap, its fingernails clawed into the wood. He stopped and stared down at the leather glove adorned with artificial nails and rings, but it was as though he could not truly see it. As though his mind could not process what had happened here. Then he pushed against the door.

At least, he tried. Something pressed against it from within, and he had to throw his full weight against the wood. The moment the gap grew wide enough, he slipped through.

Will was no hero and had never considered himself particularly brave—not when he climbed into the Albatross’s cave as a child, nor when he accepted the position in Bloodgrove. He had done those things because forward was the only path available, and as he forced himself into the ballroom now, he knew he was acting from cowardice once again. Fleeing and leaving Elodie and Eric behind without knowing their fate was more terrible than surrendering to whatever waited for him here.

Behind him, the door fell shut again, crushing the arm once more until the bones crunched.

There was so much blood. In their dark red clothes, the guests formed a crimson landscape of hills, stretching across the marble floors to the edges of the ballroom. They had died quickly, but not quickly enough. Many still clutched their own entrails or pressed blood-smeared hands against their open throats. The smell of burned flesh and stomach acid corroded the air.

His lips moved as though he meant to speak, but no words emerged. He wanted to call Elodie’s and Eric’s names, but the air caught in his throat. It was so silent here. His eyes burned, but he was too deeply shocked to cry.

Desperate, Will seized the nearest body and turned it over to see the face. It was Elodie’s friend Lady Katelyn. In panic, he grabbed the next—the cruel Blato, who had filled a vampire with pig’s blood. Now he lay there, himself exploded like a doll. Beside him was a duchess who had invited Will to tour her mansion. Stories attached themselves to face after face, invitations to tea or dinner, quick exchanges and fleeting touches. He remembered their houses, which would now stand empty forever—or until scavengers claimed them and stepped into their bloody footprints.

But he searched for a scrap of white fabric. Elodie would stand out among all these bodies, he told himself. He would find her quickly if she were here. How fortunate that Elodie had worn a wedding dress. How fortunate that Eric had worn his senatorial robes over a black suit.

Only after he had walked several meters into the hall did he stop.

Even if he found them, they would be dead. No one here was alive.

He vomited over an elderly couple. They had been among the curious guests at the opera, and death had made their distorted features worse. Even if Will had tried to respect the dead, there was scarcely any space where he would not strike someone. His stomach almost turned itself inside out, and he retched even after nothing remained but acid burning on his tongue. His half-digested dinner dripped from their wrinkled faces.

With difficulty, he forced himself onward. The candles in the chandeliers still burned and cast their light across the bodies beneath. When he looked toward the ceiling, he could almost convince himself this was merely another terrible dream. Even now, he marveled at his own work: the seamless transition from the bone-like ribs of the vault into the stylized branches and foliage of the central column. Perhaps this was only one of those nightmares that plagued every architect before an unveiling. The ceiling collapsing. Forgetting to lay a floor. Everyone laughing at his idea. The guests finding it ugly; preferring to live inside their grotesque, dark mausoleums. Every single guest butchered, bleeding across his perfect white marble.

Will laughed. Enough bodies filled the hall that his voice had no echo.

Then he continued, without direction, only deeper and deeper into the disaster.