Chapter Eight
Eight
The castle’s outer walls ripple with intricate designs of waves frozen mid-motion.
Silver pipes twist and curve through the stonework, catching the light and reflecting the shimmering water below in a way that makes the entire castle seem to move, to breathe.
It’s beautiful in a haunted ghost story sort of way, and I am not big a fan of the horror genre.
The guards disembark first, their boots striking the stone dock with sharp thuds. They fall into formation and march ahead, leading us toward the towering entrance. But just before we reach the doors, they part—wordlessly, seamlessly—leaving us to continue alone.
My steps slow, the knot in my stomach tightening as my gaze lifts to the massive doors ahead.
They loom over us, carved from the same dark, polished wood as the ferry and inlaid with silver gears and cogs.
The instant we approach, a low groan vibrates through the metalwork.
The gears engage, clicking and spinning, and the doors swing open to reveal a grand hallway that stretches deep into the castle.
Figures line the interior, draped in the same midnight blue cloaks as the one who guided the ferry, their smooth metallic masks glinting like moonlight on water.
Alder looks like he’s arriving at a five-star resort, while I stand there, gaze darting between the endless corridor and the masked figures flanking the walls like a very niche horror movie ensemble.
“Ladies first.” Alder gestures for me to go ahead.
I don’t move. “What if it’s booby-trapped and giant axes come swinging out of the walls? Or—” I point at one of the smooth, unlit sconces lining the entrance. “Or poisonous poo-covered darts fly out, and I end up looking like a toxic pin cushion?”
His lips twitch. “Poisonous, poo-covered darts?”
I fold my arms. “It’s called self-preservation.”
Alder tilts his head, considering. “How about this? You walk in first, and if you die, I’ll have a wing added to the Library of Congress in your honor.”
I pause. That actually sounds…incredible. A whole wing dedicated to me. Floor-to-ceiling books, a plaque, maybe even a reading room.
Damn him.
“If I die, I’m haunting you,” I mutter, and a chill skates through me as I step over the threshold.
Alder follows close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back. “Sweetheart, you’re already haunting me.”
My skin prickles as the thud of Alder’s stolen boots echoes in the silence.
Behind us, the doors groan shut, and a sharp click locks them in place.
I yelp involuntarily. Fear frosts my veins and curls cold around my ribs. I want to puke. I didn’t like the guards, but at least I knew they were human. These cloaked figures? I don’t know what’s behind their masks.
One of them steps forward as though pulled by invisible strings.
They motion for us to follow, and without hesitation, Alder starts walking.
It takes me being left behind in the giant hall with these silent figures to decide to cling to his confidence rather than resent it.
Holding a grudge won’t get me out of here.
And right now, I need his certainty more than I need my pride.
As we move deeper into the castle, the silent figures surge to life like a wave. One by one, they step forward, their cloaks billowing softly, silently guiding us like a living, breathing map.
Silks cascade along the walls in shades of blue, shimmering with silver accents that shift like ripples across still water.
The walls are interrupted by tall, narrow windows pressed into the stone, their frames etched with cresting waves.
Sunlight streams in, painting the hall in muted blues and greys.
Above us, chandeliers spiral downward from the soaring ceiling, their arms curling like frozen whirlpools. Each fixture cradles dark, unlit globes that glint faintly, waiting for a spark that doesn’t come.
Pipes coil along the walls, their sleek, serpentine patterns gleaming in the sunlight.
They twist and curve, utterly silent. There’s no hiss of steam, no hum of machinery.
Shouldn’t they make some kind of noise like the machines outside the castle?
Only the constant distorted murmur of the waterfalls beyond the walls and my shallow breathing break the silence.
The deeper we go, the more the air vibrates with an unspoken tension. I swear I’m the only one who feels it because neither Alder nor these…people…show even the slightest hint that anything is out of place. But the closer we get to the heart of the castle, the more I want to run away.
We’re guided down another hallway, this one narrower, darker. The flicker of light from distant windows barely illuminates the space, leaving shadows to slither across the walls. My gaze is drawn to the unlit chandeliers, the empty, cold sconces lining the walls.
“This is basically a horror novel,” I mutter. “And I know damn well we’re walking straight into the climax.”
Alder snorts, because of course he does. “Drama, sweetheart.”
I glare up at him. “Why don’t they turn on the lights?”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Maybe they’re environmentally conscious.”
“Yeah, that’s the first thing I thought when we took a ferry through a waterfall and ended up in The Infernal Devices meets Versailles castle. I’m sure conservation is their top priority.”
“You should try a little optimism, Gemma.”
“I’ll try optimism when we stop walking directly toward our gruesome deaths.”
“You always assume the worst,” he muses, unaffected by my impending nervous breakdown.
I cross my arms, irritation simmering beneath my panic. “Tell me, Alder, do you always know what you’re doing, or are you just really good at faking it?”
His lips curve, wicked and knowing. “Tell me, Gemma, what’s the difference?”
“One of them means you’ll get us killed, and the other means you’ll definitely get us killed.”
He chuckles. “Sweetheart, if we were going to die, it would’ve happened already.”
We take another turn, and the hall widens abruptly, spilling us into a vast chamber with towering double doors at its end.
The figures in cloaks fan out, taking their places along the walls in synchronized silence, their metallic masks gleaming faintly in the dim light.
I swallow. Hard.
The doors ahead are massive, inlaid with silver gears and sigils. As soon as we stop, they begin to move—clicking, grinding, unlocking.
“This is it,” I whisper, pulse thrumming in my ears. “This is where they murder us, sacrifice us to some eldritch god, or feed us to whatever fantastical nightmare they’re hiding in the heart of the castle.”
Alder scoffs. “You’ve read too many books.”
“I don’t think I’ve read enough books to prepare for this.”
The gears embedded deep into the polished wood whirl and groan. The vibrations hum through the stone floor and up through my feet.
I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating.
Alder takes my hand, and his thumb sweeps over my knuckles.
The tension in my shoulders eases just a little. My pulse doesn’t stop racing, but it shifts, no longer sharp-edged panic, but something else. Something warmer.
I exhale, and the massive doors groan open.
The air inside hits me like a wave—warm, heady, and thick with the mingling scents of spiced wine, salt, and musk. It clings to my skin, sinking into my senses before I even step forward.
Quiet bubbles of laughter and the clinking of glasses mingle with music that pulses like a heartbeat, too slow to dance to but too seductive to resist.
My gaze locks onto the massive machine dominating the center of the grand hall, a monolith of gleaming silver and steel.
A steampunk style Trojan horse. It looms silent and imposing, its intricate gears frozen in place.
The hiss of steam and the clatter of metal we heard from the devices outside are absent.
It’s silent. Dormant. Everything that thrummed with life before—the humming contraptions, the pulsing energy—has been smothered by the castle.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. What has to happen to awaken it? And what happens when it does?
The thoughts linger, floating like steam in my mind, but I tear my eyes away, drawn instead to the tide of movement that flows through the room.
Dozens of bodies sway and mingle. Sheer skirts ripple like water, teasing glimpses of sculpted thighs and bare skin as the women move.
Shimmering silver corsets wrap around waists, the boning inlaid with glittering blue gemstones that catch the flickering glow of countless candles.
The honey-colored tapers have been lit and replaced so many times their melted wax forms stalagmites throughout the room and thick, frozen waterfalls across the buffet tables lining the walls.
The men are equally decked out, their waistcoats embroidered with threads of silver and midnight blue, their collars open and shirts unbuttoned to reveal chiseled chests and the hint of muscled torsos beneath.
Female attendants glide through the crowd, their naked bodies painted entirely in gleaming silver. Their faces are hidden behind smooth metal masks that reflect the flickering candlelight like living mirrors.
One attendant holds a tray with deep garnet-colored wine. Another displays delicate crystal goblets filled with a golden, fizzy liquid that sends trails of vapor curling into the air. There are flutes of blue cocktails, the rim of each glass dusted with silver sugar that shines like stardust.
Tiny pastries shaped like cresting waves are filled with glistening creams in shades of navy and aqua, their petals dusted with edible glitter. Miniature towers of glazed fruit rise in stacks and are covered with threads of spun sugar as delicate as spider silk.
An attendant walks past, her silver-painted skin gleaming like polished metal.
She stops beside a man dressed in an unbuttoned blue waistcoat embroidered with delicate silver chalices.
The fabric clings to his broad shoulders, and the cut of his jaw is softened only by the devilish grin curling his lips.
Without a word, she extends the tray toward him.
Its surface is covered in tiny orbs, like liquid sunsets trapped in glass.
He inclines his head, and she plucks one from the tray with slender, silver-painted fingers.
Slowly, she lifts it. His smile widens as he opens his mouth, and she places the orb on his tongue.
As it dissolves, his eyelids flutter shut, and he tilts his head back.
A low, contented sigh escapes him, and the tension in his shoulders ebbs like the ocean receding with the tide.
Alder steps closer, his voice a soft tickle against my ear. “Told you no one’s getting sacrificed. Looks like we’ve been invited to a party.”
I watch as another woman throws her head back, moans spilling from her lips as two men practically devour her with their hands, their mouths, their touch. My stomach twists.
“A party…” I shake my head. “This doesn’t feel like a party. It feels like a trap.”
Alder laces his fingers through mine, anchoring me in place. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tease. Just squeezes, firm and steady. I’ve got you.
His attention drifts to the far corner of the room where a tangle of bodies lounges on a nest of deep blue velvet cushions all pressed against the dormant machine’s cold, gleaming surface.
A woman cranes her neck, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat.
The man behind her traces his mouth along her jawline, his hand disappearing beneath the shimmering fabric of her skirt.
Another woman sprawled across the cushions sighs as two men press in closer, their mouths teasing against her bare shoulders.
Bodies shift, lips meet, hands roam. It’s a tide of movement, a slow, rolling wave of pleasure.
I feel Alder tense beside me, and I’ve known him long enough to know what he’s thinking.
“Oh no,” I mutter, cutting him a look. “Absolutely not.”
“But, Gemma…” He pulls me closer, his lips sliding into a smirk as he licks them, already savoring the idea. “It looks like fun.”
“It looks like way too many balls.”
As if on cue, there’s a sloppy, slapping sound and one of the women lets out a moan, her head falling back against the shoulder of the man supporting her.
Alder chuckles, dragging his knuckles down my arm, a featherlight touch that makes my breath catch. “Lucky for you, sweetheart, I’m the only one allowed to touch this.”
The words hit like a spark against kindling. My body betrays me, heating instantly, and my stomach tightens at the sheer finality in his tone.
I should hate that. Hate how easily he stakes his claim. But instead, a treacherous little ember of satisfaction burns in my chest.
Along with a feeling a helluva lot worse—jealousy.
Not of the tangled limbs and whispered sighs and gasping mouths. But because I don’t want to share him.
Shit.
I cannot actually let myself fall for him again. Selling my soul for security is one thing. Getting swept up in his…Alder-ness is another.
He leans in, his breath teasing against the shell of my ear, his fingers stroking over the pulse at my wrist. “Doesn’t watching them turn you on? That’s all you’d have to do…just watch.”
I clench my jaw, heat rushing to my face. “This is not the time for whatever fantasy you’re working up in that morally questionable mind of yours.”
Alder hums thoughtfully. “Morally questionable, huh? I’ll remind you of that next time you’re begging me to—”
I slap a hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence, and I will personally sacrifice you to that pile of sex goblins. No mythical god or magickal beast needed.”
His laugh rumbles beneath my palm. And then, God help me, he presses a slow, lingering kiss against the inside of my wrist.
The spot burns.
His eyes glint as he pulls my hand away from his mouth. “We should at least be considerate guests and sample the cocktails.”
Alder starts to walk into the room, and I snatch his arm, halting him mid-step.
“They think you’re someone else,” I hiss, my fingers tightening around his sleeve. “What happens when they realize you’re not? What happens when—”
He tilts my chin so my gaze lifts to his. “Sweetheart, all these fears you have, they’ll come true if we don’t play along. Now, breathe.”
I inhale, dragging in a breath against the anxiety squeezing my chest.
His hand slides down my arm, finding my fingers, threading them through his own.
“I’ll take care of everything.” His voice wraps around me as he lifts my hand to his mouth, feathering a kiss across my knuckles. “Ready to admit that you trust me?” he asks against my skin.
“No.”
His smirk deepens. “There she is,” he purrs, leading me forward.