Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Miss Bransby?” the driver says as he holds the rear door open for me. He’s a small man in a pressed suit, with dark skin and kind eyes. “Abel Phittim. I’m your driver for this evening.”
“Nice to meet you, Abel,” I reply, wondering if all Raven Hands receive this chauffeur service or whether Valdemar has made an exception for me.
Half expecting Valdemar to be in the back seat, I peer into the car, but I’m met with only sleek leather upholstery that smells of furniture polish and mulled wine.
The driver returns to the front seat, then glances in his rear-view mirror. He looks smaller now, swallowed up by the grandeur of the car, a starched collar encasing his bronzed neck, and I imagine a shock of black hair under his driver’s cap.
“Are we good to go?” he asks.
“Yes.” The wobble in my voice surprises me, the straps of my makeshift knife holder pinching at my skin as I settle into the seat. “How long is the journey?”
“Traffic is slow, but if I take some shortcuts, we should arrive at the house in around twenty minutes.”
“The house?”
“Corvus House.” He says this with a note of surprise, like I should have heard of it.
“Corvus House,” I repeat.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He nods and then checks his mirror before setting off.
We weave down the side streets of Amontillado, the old stonework blackened with centuries of dirt, hidden doorways leading to underground bars and clubs, the nightlife spreading under the pavements like roots of the city.
Within minutes, the buildings disperse, and we follow the long road that runs beside the Maelstrom, the prison sitting like a decorative centrepiece.
Lights glow from the many barred windows, giving the false impression of warmth within, the lake shimmering with the reflection. It’s hard to believe that only yesterday, Valdemar Montresor was imprisoned behind its walls.
And now he’s free.
Though I wonder how free he actually is.
The car takes a sharp left, and I lose sight of the prison. Trees frame the dirt track, and the car bumps its way up the uneven surface.
My mind wanders to gingerbread houses, a girl in a red cloak, and big bad wolves as the trees thicken into a dense forest, the car cutting through them like a scythe. And even though I’ve never been in these woods, have never driven up this track, the sense of familiarity simmers under my skin.
The darkness before us swallows the car as if we’re being devoured until the branches cease and we pull onto a smoother road.
Sitting up, I crane my neck to see through the front window.
Just like the prison, a large building looms in the distance, lit up like it’s ablaze.
“Is that the house?” I ask.
“Yes. Have you never been here before?”
“No.” But the word feels like a lie.
I have been here. I know this place.
The road leads straight up to the house, the grandeur of the gothic Victorian mansion binding me the closer we get. Abel swings the car around the circular driveway as I drink in the gabled roofs and the impressive tower.
Slowly, he brings the car to a stop right outside the entrance.
Nerves swim in my stomach as he makes his way to the back and opens the door for me.
Now is the chance to turn back, slam the door closed, and tell Abel to take me straight back to my apartment, but the steep steps leading to the large front door are calling me like the stonework is laced with magic.
Heeding its call, I slide out of the car, pulling the hem of my dress down and preparing myself for what’s beyond that door.
“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Bransby.” Abel touches the brim of his hat. “Enjoy your evening.” He glances up the steps as if showing me the way.
“Thank you.”
Following his gaze, I climb the steps, silently counting them to ease my nerves while taking in the gargoyles perched on the low stone walls and the urnlike planters that have sprawling ivy creeping out of them. Before reaching the door, I inhale deeply as if this might be the last breath I take, the evening air smelling of fresh rain and damp earth.
As I reach the top, the door opens, light from inside spewing out.
“Good evening, and welcome to Corvus House,” a man dressed in formal attire says as he holds the door, ushering me inside with his arm.
“Thank you.”
“If you head through the foyer and to the door on your left, you’ll reach the Great Hall.”
I nod, knowing full well where the Great Hall is because I’ve been here before.
This is the house from my dreams.
This is where I’ve spent my evenings with Valdemar. This is where he touched me on the balcony, spread me beneath the fountain, and laid me bare on the stage.
The foyer opens up, revealing a large staircase before me, a table in the centre sitting beneath the domed roof—all of it so familiar, it feels like I’m returning to some forgotten childhood home.
Leaving the quiet of the foyer, I turn left and am swept through open double doors and into the bustle of the Great Hall, each step feeling surreal.
Lost in my memories, I see the stage to the right, where a band plays soulful music. My hands flex at the memory of the wood beneath my palms as Valdemar sat me on its edge. Goose bumps flutter over my skin at the thought of the dead hands upon me and how I had wished they were his.
I’m so lost in the dreams that I haven’t noticed the whole room has stopped.
Eyes glare at me. Eyes that are very much alive.
Women. Men. Suits. Ballgowns. The chatter has died, the band the only thing to be heard as I walk into the swathe of people.
Anxiety flares under my skin at the heat of their stares. I crane my neck to gaze over their heads.
Where is he?
The men are wearing black suits, and the women are wrapped in black dresses. My silver gown stands out like a red rag being waved at a bull, and I wonder if the simple fact that I didn’t get the note about the dress code is the reason for their stares. But I know that isn’t the case. They know who I am, and they’re wondering, as am I, what the fuck I’m doing here.
Ignoring the looks, I continue my search. He has to be here.
A tray arrives under my nose, brandishing tall glasses of fizzy amber liquid. I shake my head. I need my wits about me. Although, as the tray is withdrawn, I think maybe I was too hasty and that the alcohol might dull the barrage of nerves.
Like a ruffling of feathers, the crowd parts the deeper I wade into the twitter of beaks and plucking of plumage. I’m a cat amongst the pigeons. An imposter to the flock.
The music slows to a halt, as if the musicians have run out of batteries. And it’s in the stifling silence that I hear the unmistakable click of a gun.
I stop, the deadly charge reverberating in the air, the twittering ceased and the feathers fallen. The crowd stares over my shoulder, and I deduce that someone behind me has a gun aimed at the back of my head.
Fear paralyses me. I can’t run—there’s nowhere to go, and they would never let me out.
Is this how Ed felt? Am I about to join my brother in death?
Then we all hear him.
“Put the gun away. Now.”
Their heads turn in unison, and I’m flooded with relief as Valdemar emerges from a door in the far corner.
His black suit hugs his lean frame and emphasises his broad shoulders. His dark hair is sleek and shiny, secured in a neat bun at the back of his head. The command he has of the room is frightening. I would have expected Valdemar to have a gun raised at the person who must have one trained on the back of my head, but as I hear the shuffle behind me, I realise Valdemar doesn’t need a weapon to make people listen to him.
He is enough.
His presence.
His words.
His command.
They don’t take their eyes from him, some bowing slightly, some staring with open mouths.
He doesn’t appear to see any of them as he strides towards me like a lion to its prey, a feral glint in his eye.
He’s close now, as close as he was the day of the fight, and I can already feel the warmth from his body.
“Angel.” He snakes his hand around my waist and lightly kisses the side of my cheek. Aware of the knife between my shoulder blades, I pull his hand from my body and hold it.
Dark eyes greet me, and I’m done for.
“You came,” he says.
“You asked me to.”
“Come.” Securing his hand around mine, he leads me through the crowd that’s still parted for him as if he’s royalty. I want to look around, to get a glimpse of the person who held me at gunpoint, but I’m surrounded by stares, held close to Valdemar’s side and too relieved at his arrival to be concerned with where he might be taking me and what might await me when we get there.
We head for the door at the corner of the hall, and I think we’re going to make it—until Jupiter steps into our path.
“What is she doing here?” He flicks his head to indicate me as Valdemar pulls me into his back, shielding me with his body.
“She’s here because I want her to be here,” Valdemar replies with a slight curl of his upper lip, not unlike a dog warning another to back off.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Jupiter snorts.
“It’s my house, Jupiter. My party. I’ll do what the fuck I want.”
A woman arrives beside Jupiter. Jacinta.
“At least fucking search her,” Jupiter snarls, eyeing me with such hatred that you would think I was the one who killed one of their flock.
“Don’t worry, Jupiter, I intend to do just that,” Valdemar replies as he pulls me through the door and away from their stares.