Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The carriage jostled violently as it trundled over the uneven country road, its wheels rattling with a cacophony that seemed to echo Lady Sidney Whitmore’s nerves.
A single thought raced through her mind: she was finally going to meet him. The man who—until a year ago—had been presumed dead.
“Are you certain about this, my lady?” Mrs. Hawthorne, her companion and stalwart chaperone, cast a dubious glance in her direction.
Sidney hesitated before replying. “No. But I cannot let my doubts deter me. If Lord Everleigh truly is alive, I must see for myself. It is my duty to the family.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s lips pursed, her expression softening into one of reluctant approval. “You are braver than I, child. Many would not tread the path you now walk.”
Brave. The word felt ill-fitting, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
Sidney’s heart had not stopped its erratic pounding since the letter had arrived, bearing the curious seal of one “William Everleigh, Earl of Aylesford.” The letter’s contents had been maddeningly vague—an invitation to Aylesford Manor to discuss matters of family import.
No explanation for his supposed resurrection, no apology for the shock it had caused.
Only an imperious command, written in an unfamiliar hand that claimed to be his.
The Everleighs had been close to ruin since his presumed death. The estate had faltered, tenants had grown restless, and Sidney’s elder brother, the steward, had been overwhelmed with the responsibilities thrust upon him.
If William Everleigh truly lived, he owed them an explanation—and a great deal more.
The carriage slowed as they approached the gates of Aylesford Manor, its wrought-iron frame towering above them.
Time and neglect had left their mark; the once-pristine metal was tarnished, vines creeping insidiously through the gaps.
The sight gave Sidney pause, a flicker of unease rippling through her.
If the gates had fallen into such disrepair, what state would the manor itself be in?
As if in answer, the house came into view moments later. Aylesford Manor stood shrouded in the mist of the early morning, its stone facade weathered but still imposing. The windows glinted dully in the pale light, giving no hint of the man who awaited within.
The footman opened the carriage door, offering Sidney a steadying hand as she alighted. Her boots crunched on the gravel path, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. Mrs. Hawthorne followed closely, her gaze darting about as though expecting specters to emerge from the mist.
Before they could approach the door, it opened.
A man stepped out, his silhouette tall and commanding against the dim interior. He moved with deliberate grace, the kind that spoke of long-forgotten privilege.
Sidney’s breath hitched as he stepped fully into the light.
He was not the William Everleigh she remembered. The boyish charm, the easy smile that had once defined him, were gone. In their place stood a man with sharp features, his face marked by a faint scar along his jawline. His eyes, a deep gray, held no warmth as they met hers.
“Lady Sidney,” he said, his voice smooth yet devoid of emotion. “Welcome to Aylesford.”
Sidney’s practiced composure threatened to crumble. She inclined her head, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Lord Everleigh. It appears the rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it held no humor. “One might say the same of my inheritance.”
And with that, he turned and strode back into the house, leaving Sidney to follow. She squared her shoulders and stepped forward, knowing full well she was walking into a battle she could not yet comprehend.
Sasha had no idea who she was supposed to be playing in the romance her sister had thrown them into. She didn’t really even have time to process any of the information around her.
Not the decaying old estate with its flaking paint and water stains under the window jambs. Or the dress that she was wearing which was meant to be nice but was a bit frayed. She was the housekeeper, she assumed.
It was hard to tell, when one was being shoved forward before she could even get a second to figure out when, who, and where she was. Her hips impacted a counter top—a butcher block island that had been worn down in areas over a century or two of use. The kitchen.
A door slamming shut behind her made her jolt and whirl to face whoever had thrown her into the room.
Vile was briefly the steward of the house, judging by the clothing he was wearing. Clothes that pretended to a status that the older, grizzled man clearly didn’t truly have. But it didn’t matter, because the form melted away from him like so much wax as he stormed toward her.
“Here is the funny thing about series books, Sasha dear.” Vile sneered. “They must always end with a raising of the stakes. Each book must build meaningfully upon where it began, or else the story becomes trite, repetitive, and boring.”
“I—wh—” She stared at Vile, wide-eyed and terrified.
“We cannot end this book the way we began it—the score cannot remain tied. Do you understand?” He took a step closer to her, smiling in what could almost be excused as something friendly.
She was trembling. “What are you saying?”
“One of you has to die. This story must end with the score one-zero. I do not care which of you it is. I am impatient. And I hate regency romance.” He looked around the room in disgust. “But I will tell you what. Since we are meant to be on the same side, I will let you choose who dies. You or her.”
Sasha’s heart was pounding in her ears. Adrenaline was rushing through her body. “Vile, don’t do this—please—let’s just play this story out fairly—”
He snorted at the word fair. “Choose, Sasha. Either you die here and now, or I march upstairs and drag Lady Sidney Whitmore down here instead. I would love nothing more than to show her a far more realistic interpretation of what happens when the house staff feel their way of life is threatened.”
Sasha had already been responsible for her sister’s death once.
She couldn’t do it again.
She couldn’t.
Vile rolled his eyes. “How utterly noble. And predictable. Well, let’s get on with it, then.” He moved toward her.
“Get—no—get away from me!” She scrambled to put the kitchen island between them. But he was too fast. Faster than she could predict. He could move in the blink of an eye when he needed to.
Images of those screaming faces, people reaching for her—a great and unknowable nothing that sent terror crawling up her spine.
From the void beyond comprehension, a chorus of disembodied wails pierced the silence, their timbre neither wholly human nor entirely of this earth. They reverberated through unseen dimensions, spiraling upward in an infernal crescendo that defied mortal sanity.
The souls were not content to merely howl into the abyss; they reached outward, their forms half-materializing as grasping, skeletal appendages.
Each clawed finger was insubstantial yet pulsating with a sickly, phosphorescent glow, as though lit from within by a light born of pure torment.
The tendrils of their agony curled and writhed, seeking flesh to ensnare, their movements imbued with a malevolent sentience.
Sasha froze, locked solid, staring at Vile with wide eyes as he held her by the upper arms.
“That is what I can do to you, pretty little Sasha Lancaster.” He pressed her back against the butcher block countertop.
“I can rip your mind to shreds and pull you to pieces over, and over, and over again. I am every unknowable horror—every violent, unspeakable death. Every torture that man has devised for each other and penned into writing lives within me.” His hands tightened on her arms. “So, do appreciate my restraint, when you see it.”
“I—I’m so sorry—please—” She was shivering. Terror was flooding her. And it wasn’t the fun kind of fear that she felt in a haunted house. This was the primal, instinctual kind that made her want to be sick. “I’m so sorry about the epilogue—”
“No. You aren’t sorry. You are only saying that because you’re facing repercussions. A woman after my own heart.” He laughed, a low and vicious sounding thing.
Something took hold of her that wasn’t him. Or it was, it just wasn’t at the same time. Tendrils of darkness, shadowy things that looked drawn onto the world, pulled her backward and up onto the countertop, flat onto her back.
When she went to scream, one of them wrapped around her mouth, silencing her. She struggled. But the tendrils had her by the wrists and ankles, quickly pulling her taut.
She was trapped.
Vile went to the counter by the wall and picked up a large and heavy meat cleaver.
No.
No, no, no, no!
“You have a choice ahead of you, sweetheart. And I don’t mean this one.
You made this one already.” Picking up a whetstone, he began to sharpen the blade with a slow srrriiiitch, srrriiiitch sound.
“But I want you to keep this in mind as we go forward—you can either be my ally or my victim. I don’t care which it is.
Because you have to realize one thing…this is phenomenal fun for me, either way. ”
Screaming into the gag, she thrashed her head. No, please, Vile—don’t do this, please, please!
“Oh, buck up. Sidney didn’t whine nearly as much.” He stood over her, pressing a hand down on her forearm and lining up the blade just at the joint of her wrist. “You’ll go into shock quickly. This won’t last long.”
Please—
He lifted the blade.
Thud.
The first blow hurt more than she could process. Stars danced across her eyes as she screamed uselessly against the tendril.
Please—
Thud.
The second blow she felt less than the first. The nerves were already too damaged.
Thud.
The third, she only felt as an impact that made her body lurch on the table.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. The repetitive noise of it became the only thing she could process. The white, flaking plaster ceiling had little tiny dots of red on it, now. Huh.
When Vile came into her field of view, tilting her head to look at him, he had blood smeared across his face. “You…are beautiful, Sasha.” Lifting his hand to his lips, she watched, numb and empty, as he licked the blood from them.
When he kissed her, she could taste the coppery substance.
The world was already fading back to nothingness.
The last thing she remembered was the sound of his voice close to her ear. “Now? Now, I forgive you…”
Fin.