Chapter 24 #5
She tore a strip from the table linen and wiped the blood from her hand, smearing it into the pristine white fabric until it turned a dull, rusted brown. She pressed the cloth briefly to her mouth, cleaning the last trace of blood from her skin, then straightened.
Her shoulders squared. Her face smoothed.
She returned the bag along the way and reentered the ballroom.
“Here is your punch, my lord,” she said sweetly as she placed the glass into the baron’s waiting hand. “They added nuts. Such a luxurious touch.”
She felt Inno’s gaze before she looked at him. When their eyes met, mischief flickered across her expression. A knowing smile tugged at her mouth.
“Forgive me, Baron,” Inno said, his eyes never leaving Victoria. “But I must cut our conversation short. If I do not dance with this woman tonight, I may die.”
“Rather dramatic,” the adviser muttered.
“You will not die if we do not dance,” Victoria replied lightly with a smile.
After the briefest nod to the men, Inno leaned close. His mouth brushed her ear. “No, but if I do not, several others might.”
Before she could form a protest, his arm was around her waist and they were already moving away.
A dark smile lifted one side of his mouth.
“You are significantly less rigid than I had previously assumed.” Victoria’s mind strained to keep thoughts in order as his hand lingered at the small of her back, guiding her with subtle pressure through the pressing crowd.
His hand was warm and insistent, and he guided her to the wide double doors of the hall.
He stopped just short of the threshold, letting the distance make the sudden absence of his contact feel like a cold wind.
He stood tall, the chaos of the ballroom reflected in his cold, deliberate eyes.
Every inch of him seemed aware, every slight shift in the crowd observed.
Her pulse surged; the brush of his gaze across her skin made her stomach tighten.
She told herself it was the glasses, or the coat, or the smooth confidence in the curve of his shoulders—but it wasn’t.
It was him. He was not her creation here; he was not forbidden; he was just Inno.
And he was entirely hers in those quiet, measured glances.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked, brows knitting as his eyes searched hers.
“Nothing,” she said, linking her arm through his. “We should enjoy this dance.”
They moved to the center of the room, eyes locked. Just before they began to move came the sharp wave of panic. Gasps tore through the ballroom, the crowd recoiling as if a shadow had fallen across them.
Glass shattered. The baron’s tumbler fell, shards skittering across marble like tiny knives. He doubled over, clawing at his throat, his face blanching to a deathly pallor. Veins darkened, throat pulsing, eyes wide.
“He’s choking!” the adviser screamed, voice fraying. “Someone help him!”
Victoria instinctively stepped forward, hands raised, heart hammering. She knew exactly what to do—but the moment she moved, the men’s faces twisted into disdain and disbelief.
“Not you!” the baron croaked, violently shaking his head.
Victoria’s hands faltered midair. The irony stabbed her: she was the only one in the entire mansion who could actually save him. The only one trained and capable—but denied because she was a woman.
“I can help—” she started again.
Shaking his fists, face red and mottled, the adviser barked, “He doesn’t need a handkerchief, you fool! Where is the physician’s assistant?!”
Inno moved behind her, silent and predatory.
He did not step forward. He did not assist. She turned and met his eyes, sharp and unwavering, communicating without a word: he would not act without her command.
The subtle power in that gaze was chilling, and Victoria’s chest swelled with a mixture of awe and fear.
The ballroom did not know that his restraint was total obedience to her, that he followed her will alone, but she did—and that knowledge made him an anchor amid the grotesque chaos.
The baron collapsed, gagging, convulsing on the marble.
Black flies crawled out of his mouth and nose, skittering over his wet, mottled face.
The smell hit Victoria, hot and suffocating: excrement, fear.
Guests screamed, some vomited, others fainted in pools of punch and shattered porcelain.
The flies crawled over spilled nuts, marzipan, and pastries, their movement almost predatory, deliberate.
The scene was a living nightmare, a tableau of decay and human frailty.
“Mr. Creatura! Help! Help him!” the adviser shouted.
Inno’s voice cut low, smooth, echoing like silk over steel, vibrating against Victoria’s skin even as he stayed perfectly still: “Without Dr. Frankenstein’s approval, I will be unable to assist.”
Victoria’s eyes flicked shut for a moment, letting his words settle, heavy and deliberate. He meant her. His restraint was a blade, slicing through the panic, reminding her that he would act only on her command.
“He can’t step in without the doctor’s approval, or he could lose his position!” another shrieked.
The baron convulsed again, his body twisting, spasming as the flies crawled over his pallid face, wings brushing against the wet sheen of blood and saliva.
A rivulet of red dripped from his mouth, the buzzing insects picking over the dark, crusted edges.
The guests’ screams blended into a terrifying chorus, some curling on the floor, others vomiting onto gilded rugs, eyes wide with horror.
The scent of copper, rot, and fear was thick enough to choke on, clinging to the skin and hair of anyone present.
Victoria stood calm, her hands at her sides, pulse steady despite the horror, every nerve tuned to observation, calculation, control. She could save him would they let her. She waited, watching.
She caught sight of Wilhelm now, his face slack with horror, a howl ripping from his throat as he stumbled forward.
His eyes locked on his father—no longer the elegant, commanding man from moments before, but a grotesque figure sprawled on the floor, gasping, purple, blood and foam flecking his face.
The insects crawled over him with maddening patience, over lips, into nostrils, across eyes half rolled and glazed in terror.
The scene burned itself into Victoria’s mind.
“Father…” Wilhelm’s voice cracked, a shrill wail that seemed to tear the room in two. His hands shook, useless, as he fell to his knees beside the fallen baron. Every guest recoiled from him now. Inno’s presence pressed against her side, grounding her.
Wilhelm’s wails broke into incoherent sobs.
“Father! Father!” His hands clawed at the marble, at the air, at the flies crawling like tiny sentinels across his father’s still-warm skin.
Victoria could see the life ebbing from the baron in uneven, violent spurts, the red-and-black theater of blood and insects and panic a grotesque mockery of the noble order the man had clung to.
Victoria’s mind went cold. The realization struck her like a hammer: the baron is gone. Not just dead—he was lost to the creeping rot, to the worms and flies. The air itself seemed to press down, heavy with the stink of decay, the chaos of screams, the metallic taste of inevitability.
Wilhelm’s wail twisted into something primal, a raw, human sound, unworthy of the son of a baron, a sound of pure helplessness. He was alone in the face of a terror he could not command.
Inno’s hand tightened on hers subtly. She drew in a long, shuddering breath.
She would never forget the weight of this night—the absolute horror of witnessing death and putrefaction in its purest, most grotesque form, while the world refused to recognize her authority, even as she alone could have stopped it.
The air around her thickened, pressing into her lungs, suffocating, suffused with grief and the metallic tang of blood.
Wilhelm would inherit nothing but ruin, chaos, and the horrible legacy of his father’s collapse.
He was baron now, and the crown sat on his head heavier than any jewel, heavier than any expectation.