Chapter 15
Arianette
The door slams across the room–Damon’s gone.
The absence feels loud, like pressure suddenly released and leaving me unbalanced in its wake.
“Arianette,” Sy’s voice is calm, steady. Anchoring. “Do you want to stop?”
I shake my head. My hands come up automatically, wiping at my cheeks, fingers damp. “No.”
“All right,” he says gently. “Take a deep breath for me. Slow it down.”
I inhale, shakily at first, then again. The air feels thick, heavy, like I’m pushing through it instead of breathing it.
“That’s good,” Sy murmurs. “Let’s get back to the street. You’re outside again. You just left dance class and you feel good about it and yourself. You can feel the pavement under your feet. The noise. The late afternoon air.”
The street comes back in pieces.
Sunlight too bright. Heat bouncing off concrete.
Music leaking from a passing car–muffled bass.
Students pass me heading to and from campus, talking and laughing.
My chest aches. I want that kind of friendship too, but I’m on the route I take back to the Manor.
I’m expected home. Two blocks. Five minutes.
Someone walks up to me.
“What do they say?” Sy asks, voice so far away, I almost miss it.
I swallow. The words feel buried, tangled in cotton.
In my mind, it plays out like a dream. Like a memory wrapped in fog.
“Arianette, there you are.”
I look up.
The face is wrong. Blurred. Like someone smeared charcoal over it and never filled it back in. The voice garbled, like they’re speaking underwater.
“Do I know you?” I ask him.
“I’m friends with your uncle,” he says. “Remember? We met at the Manor.”
The Manor. The word echoes, familiar and distant all at once.
“I… I don’t know,” I say, even inside the memory. “He has a lot of friends. I’m not really allowed to talk to them.”
Sy’s voice cuts through gently. “What else did he say?”
My chest tightens.
“He said my uncle needed me to come to his office on campus,” I whisper. “It was an emergency and he was sent to take me to him.”
The emotions crash into me all at once, chaotic and overwhelming–fear so big it steals my breath. Confusion at my uncle wanting to see me in his office–somewhere I’d never been. Curiosity of who this man is, why he was sent, why I don’t remember him.
“Is he okay?” I remember asking.
“Yes,” the man says. “But you need to come with me.”
I see myself hesitating. Feel it. That flicker of doubt.
And then I follow him, because that’s what good girls do–they follow directions.
We turn the corner, away from the dance studio, away from the noise and the light. We’re on the brick path that leads deeper into campus. Anxiety prickles across my skin. I’m not allowed here.
“Arianette,” Sy’s voice cuts through the memory. “What do you see? Smell?”
My brow furrows. The image stutters, then dissolves. The sunlight fades. “It’s cooler. Darker. Musty.”
The sense of movement shifts. More like passing through something narrow, close. My shoulders tense as if walls are near, though I can’t see them.
“It smells… sweet,” I whisper. “Like cotton candy melting on my tongue.”
“Good, Arianette. That’s really good. Anything else?”
The sweetness melts at the back of my throat. My pulse kicks hard, sudden and fast. I duck, not wanting to hit my head.
“Are you inside a building?” he asks carefully.
“I… I don’t know.” The space shifts again, folding in on itself. “It’s narrow. Hidden. Like it’s not meant to be there.”
My skin prickles.
“There’s someone close,” I whisper. “Right here.” I draw my arms in, instinctively guarding my sides. “I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. I can feel—”
“Who is it?” Sy asks.
The question hits a wall.
Everything shuts down at once.
The walkway collapses. The sweetness vanishes. The sense of space snaps closed like a door slamming in my mind.
There’s nothing.
No movement.
No people.
No car.
Just darkness, thick and smooth, where the memory should be.
Just an endless, vast void.
“That’s it,” I say weakly. “There’s nothing else.”
Sy tries once more, soft and careful–but there’s nowhere else to go. Just emptiness where the rest should be.
He brings me back, slowly.
The room comes into focus. The chair beneath me. The quiet hum of the space. Hunter is standing nearby, quiet and watchful–calculating–while Sy is still in front of me, solid and real.
I feel shaky. Hollow. Like I’ve left pieces of myself somewhere I can’t reach.
I look up at Hunter, needing something–approval, reassurance, proof I didn’t fail.
“Did I do good?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Very good.”
My chest warms at the compliment, a small, fragile glow spreading outward. Even Sy looks pleased, like we uncovered something important instead of running headfirst into a wall.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more,” I say, my voice still thin around the edges.
“It was fine, Arianette,” Sy assures me. “Now we know the memories are in there, and you can access them. Hopefully, they’ll start to emerge on their own. Or, if you want, we can do another session.”
I look over at Hunter. “How long was I under?”
He checks the time. “It’s been a few hours. Longer than you probably realize.”
My stomach flips. “A few hours?”
“Time loss is normal,” Sy explains calmly. “Really, you’re the one who sets the pace. It just depends on how long it takes for the details to come to the surface.”
Sy gives me a moment to steady myself, and when I’m ready, Hunter and I make our way out front into the tattoo parlor. The space feels louder now, brighter, like my senses are turned up too high. Remy’s at one of the stations, methodically cleaning instruments.
“Where’s DK?” Hunter asks, looking around.
“He left a while ago,” Remy replies without looking up.
A small knot tightens in my chest. “Is he still angry?”
“Nah.” Remy opens a small metal box, closes it with a soft click, and sets it aside. “He said to tell you he’ll meet you back at the house.”
That knot loosens, but doesn’t disappear.
Sy reminds me gently not to push myself for the next day or two. Not to chase memories or force anything loose.
“Thank you,” I say, “for helping me through the process.”
“Nope. Don’t thank me. We all have the same goal, Baroness.” His jaw tenses. “To find out who is really behind these kidnappings and stop them.”
It’s dark when we get outside, further proof of how long we’ve been here. The cool air feels grounding. In the truck Hunter says, “I’m sure you’re tired, so we can head–”
“I’m not,” I blurt, then clarify. “I’m not tired.”
A jolt of energy ripples along my nerves. Like whatever dam had been holding back the memories burst, and gave me a surge of adrenaline with it.
“I’m not ready to go back to the House of Night.” The words spill out before I can second-guess them. “I need… something else. A distraction.”
Hunter glances at me. “Where do you want to go?”
I stare out the window, studying the lines of the Royal Ink building. “I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere. Before the King took me to the House of Night, Strong Manor was all I knew.”
“The King said to take you to Perilini. He didn’t give permission for you to go anywhere else.” He cranks the engine and shifts the truck into gear, and that urge not to go back to the chapel hits me like a wave.
“You’re afraid I’ll run or do something crazy. I won’t. I promise.” Hunter flicks on the blinker and merges into the road, obviously unpersuaded, so I flip it. “Okay, what would you do right now if you weren’t babysitting me?”
“I don’t think it’s anything you’d want to do,“ he says without hesitation, which means there is definitely something.
“We’ll never know unless you show me.”
This time, he does hesitate—just a beat. Long enough for me to see him make a decision I don’t get a say in. Then he makes a sudden U-turn, the truck swinging in the opposite direction, tires humming louder against the road.
“Don’t forget,” he says quietly, eyes fixed ahead, “you asked for it.”
With nothing but the rumble of the truck and some kind of obscure rockabilly music playing on WXFU, Hunter drives us downtown. Soon, we’re close to campus, where the name on top of the building shines like a beacon: Maddox Hotel.
I’ve seen it, of course, the tall corner spires could be seen from Strong Manor, but I’ve never been inside. Hunter drives past the covered entrance and eases the truck to a stop in a parking lot behind the building.
A single unmarked door waits at the end, black paint chipped. He gives me no explanation, no warning about what we’re about to step into. I just watch as he knocks twice.
A slot scrapes open, and dark eyes on the other side flick over us.
“Velvet abyss,” Hunter says, voice low and rough, the words curling like smoke.
The slot snaps shut. Bolts slide. The door swings inward.
The bouncer doesn’t speak, just hands me a mask as we step inside.
It’s black and made of lace and covers my eyes and nose, but leaves my mouth bare.
The elastic slides into place behind my head, and suddenly half my face is gone–anonymous, unreadable.
Hunter already has his on, everything about his face obscured but that strong jaw.
We descend a narrow staircase lit only by sconces that bleed red light onto burgundy velvet walls. The air grows warmer, thicker, scented with jasmine and leather. My pulse kicks harder with every step.
At the bottom, the space opens, and I’m engulfed in a chamber.
The ceiling is painted black, swallowing what little light there is.
Three low chandeliers drip crystals and cast pools of molten gold across the floor, but the glow never reaches the corners–those stay shadowed, secretive.
Everything is plush and indulgent: deep couches, low tables, bodies moving like they have all the time in the world.