Page 113 of Bloodgrove

Until his feet no longer waded through a film of blood but sank into a thick, spongy layer. He had nearly reached the center of the room when his gaze fell upon the platform where the Red Hand had sat.

Again, he thought of the exploded vampire. The Red Hand leaned against the central column as though resting beneath a tree in a red-and-white grove. His head remained intact apart from a bullet hole in his forehead. But his body lay open, as though someone had slit apart a sack and spilled everything he had been across the people surrounding him.

Will retched again, but nothing came up. Sunk ankle-deep, he waded through pinkish pulp, and although he could not prove it, he suspected it was the Red Hand’s insides.

“Oh gods,” he breathed and pulled his cravat over his mouth. It did little against the smell.

The red growths flourished wildly here, climbing the column like ivy and covering the bodies.

Will searched the corpses surrounding the Red Hand, but none of them belonged to Wilkinson, Elodie, or Eric.

Cursing, he turned in a circle and suddenly stopped.

Something was wrong here—apart from the absolute nightmare of this slaughterhouse. The wall adjoining the small parlor he had intended to finish during the celebration appeared distorted. Long folds ran across the tracery he had shaped less than twenty-four hours ago, as though it were only fabric, a vast curtain someone had drawn aside.

And where the door should have been, what should have been a stone wall parted. The stage curtain of reality had been pushed aside, folded open at one corner, revealing a dark maw. Red growths crawled out from within.

“Damnation.” Will knew he would not find Elodie or Eric in the ballroom.

His foot struck a revolver like the one Elodie used while hunting vampires. He laughed without humor and picked it up. Five rounds remained. Although the weapon was smeared with the unidentifiable red pulp, he shoved the heavy thing into his belt and headed toward the tear in the world.

The laughter followed him; he could not stop until he stood at the edge of the portal.

Of course Elodie had succeeded. Whatever course the battle had taken, whoever among them had sacrificed all these people, Elodie had ended it with a bullet to the head. As though putting down a rabid animal.

He imagined her white dress soaking through with blood, her looking down at the Red Hand one final time, granting him the mercy of a bullet, then turning toward the portal.

Or had it opened afterward?

It did not matter. Will took a candle from a wall sconce and ducked through the opening. He avoided touching the fabric of reality, afraid of what might happen.

The passage was dark. In the distance, he could make out a faint red glow and headed toward it. He did not look back.

The flame danced in the draft, which passed hot through the throat like some ancient breath and tugged at the sweat-damp strands of his hair. He cupped a hand protectively around the candle, and his shadow moved across the crudely formed tunnel walls. The floor was even and flowed into a low vault, but only now did he realize it wasn’t gleaming stone that covered everything.

In the Red Hand’s castle, the walls had felt alive. Here, they truly were. Muscles, tendons, and veins stretched across every surface, leaving not a single inch bare. Even the floor yielded softly beneath his steps.

Will cursed every god. How had he ended up here? How had this become his life?

An eye opened above him.

“Gods!” Will stumbled back. When nothing else happened, he frowned and watched it blink sluggishly. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, and the eyeball followed him until it nearly protruded from between the red lids.

Will held his breath and looked down the passage, waiting for something to happen. But the eye merely watched him and blinked slowly. Defiant, he raised the candle until it almost touched the eye, and the lids snapped shut at once. It did not scream in pain, but Will saw it retreat from the heat, the eyeball twitching beneath the lid. The thin skin scorched, and a blister formed.

With grim satisfaction, he lowered the candle. He might be in hell, but hell could feel pain. Though five bullets would accomplish little, he drew the revolver and marched on.

A second eye opened several meters farther on. A brown iris framed by bloodshot white watched him. Will’s steps slowed once more.

A third followed farther down the passage, then two more close to the floor, then ten across the ceiling, then hundreds.

Lids opened everywhere, covering the low vault like a grotesque sky of stars.

And every one of them looked at him.

Chapter 57

Will did not know how long he had been walking when he reached the first fork in the passage, both leading deeper into this strange hell. Thousands of eyes watched him patiently. The dim light seeping through the tissue made his candle unnecessary, but he kept it as a small weapon against his observers.