Chapter 52 Jules
Jules
The carriage rolls on, the rhythm of the wheels steady and soothing as we leave the orchard behind and travel deeper into Lucian’s territory.
The vineyards spread out before us in long, graceful rows, draping the land like ribbons.
The earth here is dark and rich, almost black-red, turned and tended with care.
Vines twist along low trellises, heavy with clusters of grapes that glow in shades of garnet, dusky gold, and deep violet.
Leaves rustle overhead, their edges kissed with autumn—burnt orange, copper, and crimson.
The air smells like sun-warmed fruit and soil and something faintly metallic underneath it all, like rain on iron.
The red sun hangs low in the sky, softer than the human sun but warmer than the moonlight I remember from my escape.
Its reddish-gold light bathes everything in perpetual Fall.
This, I think, this is what autumn is supposed to feel like.
Not Florida’s sad brown leaves dropping overnight, but a slow, glowing transformation.
For a moment, I almost forget everything else but then the carriage comes to a stop and our bodyguard slash driver opens the door. Almost at once, the sommelier arrives.
He’s tall and thin—his posture rigid and his dark clothing immaculate to the point of severity. His hair is slicked back, his expression cool and appraising. When he bows, it’s shallow and perfunctory.
“My Lady. And… guest,” he says, his accent clipped and faintly French, every syllable precise. “I am Etienne. I oversee the vineyards and cellars of the Bleeding Court.”
Something about him makes my skin prickle.
Maybe it’s just because he’s a bit colder than Marilla and Albert were.
I get the feeling that Hanna and I are a chore—a distraction from his usual routine.
But there’s nothing I can do about that and anyway, don’t people tour vineyards all the time?
I don’t know why it would be such an imposition.
“We’ll try not to take up much of your time,” I say.
“That’s exceedingly kind of you, as we dislike wasting time around here,” he snaps. “Come with me, if you please. Our tour commences now.”
“Did he just say we’re wasting his time by being here?” Hanna hisses indignantly to me.
“Sure sounded like it,” I murmur back.
“Rude,” is Hanna’s assessment—and I agree.
Etienne, the sommelier doesn’t appear to notice our whispered conversation. He leads us along the rows, gesturing briskly as he speaks.
“Here we cultivate the Nocturne grape—high tannins, grown in soil with elevated iron content. Over there, the Emberleaf varietal—notice the thinner skin. And beyond that—”
He launches into acidity levels and mineral content and fermentation techniques, his voice droning, his tone clearly implying that we should be impressed.
I try to pay attention. I really do, but I notice Hanna lagging behind.
She’s wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched, her face pale beneath her freckles. Her eyes keep flicking around, as if she expects something to step out from between the vines.
“Hanna?” I murmur, falling back to walk beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, auburn curls bouncing.
“I don’t know. I just feel… strange. Cold.”
Concern spikes through me.
“Do you think you’re coming down with something?”
“No,” she says slowly. “It’s… it’s a feeling I get sometimes at work. Almost like someone is watching me.”
I glance around. The vineyard stretches empty in every direction.
“But there’s no one here but Etienne the snooty sommelier,” I murmur under my breath.
“I know,” she whispers back. “I can’t explain it. I just feel weird.”
We reach the tasting area—a long, rustic wooden table set beneath a canopy of vines. Wheels of cheese rest on slate boards. Bottles stand uncorked, glasses already poured.
Hanna seems to relax a little once we sit. The food helps. The wine helps even more and soon both of us begin to feel looser.
The sommelier remains distant, refilling glasses without asking, his gaze sharp and assessing. The pours are heavy—generous to the point of excess. I tell myself to slow down, that I’m a lightweight, but when I lift my hand to refuse the next glass, he ignores me completely.
“Nonsense,” he says sharply. “You must try this one. It is a regional favorite—the Passion Wine.”
“Passion Wine?” I echo, feeling pleasantly fuzzy.
“Yes,” he says, his sharp eyes glinting. “For it makes much passion within. Now taste and see what I mean.”
He pours nearly a full glass and fixes me with a look so intense I feel oddly compelled to drink.
The wine slides down smooth and warm, blooming through me like firelight. Heat pools in my nipples and curls low in my belly. It’s not unpleasant—far from it—but it’s strong.
A little while later, Hanna shifts in her seat.
“Is there a bathroom here? I’m about to burst,” she confides. I know she’s probably trying to whisper, but it comes out much louder than she intends.
“I know, me too,” I whisper-shout back, giggling despite myself. I look at the sommelier. “’Scuse me but do you have a ladies room around here?”
He looks scandalized by my request, as though it’s shocking that Hanna and I both have to pee after drinking so much wine.
“I shall get someone who can assist you, my Lady,” he says stiffly.
A vineyard worker is summoned and leads us to a small, rickety hut set apart from the vines. It’s rustic to the point of absurdity—more an outhouse than bathroom, but I suppose it will have to do.
“I’ll go first,” Hanna says, ducking inside. “I’m sorry, but I really will burst if I don’t get in there soon.”
“Go ahead,” I nod at her and she slips into the rickety hut, and I hear the door latching from inside.
I’m just turning away to look at some flowers that appear to be blood-red daisies that are growing in a patch near the door when I hear her screaming.
My blood turns to ice water in my veins and I rush back to the door.
“Hanna?” I rush forward, pounding on the rickety wooden panel. “Hanna, are you okay? Answer me!”
She does answer me but not with words—all I hear are more horrified screams and even worse, the damn door won’t budge an inch! It looks rickety but I can’t get it open, no matter how hard I try.
Suddenly, our bodyguard is there, shoving me firmly aside.
“Stand back,” he growls and kicks the door in with one powerful blow.
Inside, Hanna stands frozen, eyes wide with terror and facing her is something wrong.
I see a ghostly figure, half-formed, its shape wreathed in shadow. One skeletal hand stretches toward her, a single finger extended.
“Get the fuck away from her,” the bodyguard growls. He lunges at the thing—but the specter moves faster.
It presses its finger to Hanna’s forehead, and I think I hear a faint hissing-sizzling sound—almost like it branded her somehow.
Then it’s gone. One minute it’s touching her and the next it has completely disappeared.
“Oh God!” Hanna gasps and collapses to her knees.
“Oh my God,” I cry, rushing to her. “Are you all right? What was that thing?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers and begins to cry as she covers her forehead.
The bodyguard searches the hut and the vines beyond, but there’s nothing. I barely notice him—all my attention is fixed on my friend.
“What did that thing do to you?” I demand, pulling Hanna’s hand away from her head.
For just a second, I see it—a symbol burned into her skin—a black sigil shaped like a skull half-hidden in shadow.
Then it fades and there’s nothing there at all—or at least, I can’t see it. I have an idea it’s still there, right between her eyes—I just can’t see it anymore.
“Did it hurt you?” I ask.
Hanna shakes, still sobbing.
“I don’t know. I think so. I don’t know. Please, I just want to go home!”
“Of course you do,” I say, trying to soothe her. “We’ll go right away.”
The day is utterly ruined, of course. We just need to get someplace safe, I tell myself—someplace Hanna can feel calm, and we can find out what happened to her.
We’re ushered back to the carriage. The sommelier, who was so cold to us earlier, is now frantically apologetic.
“My Lady, I have no idea how this could have happened! Please accept my personal apology,” he babbles, packing bottles of wine—including the Passion Wine—into the carriage with us. “To settle your nerves,” he says, when I tell him that’s enough, we need to go.
This much wine could settle anyone’s nerves—even a raging alcoholic, I think, but don’t say. At last our bodyguard slash carriage driver manages to push him away and leans into the carriage.
“If I had to guess, my Lady,” he says grimly to me, “I’d think that was some kind of spy from the Hollow Necropolis.”
Hanna goes pale.
“You mean…the place ruled by the skeleton Don?”
The bodyguard looks sorry that he spoke.
“I don’t know for certain, my Lady,” he says formally. “I’ll have to speak to Lord Lucian about it. For now, let’s get you home.”
He shuts the carriage door firmly and I wrap my arm around Hanna’s shoulders. She’s still shaking and pale with fear so that her freckles stand out like ink spots on her parchment-pale skin.
“Do you think…think he’s following me?” she whispers. “Do you think he marked me, somehow?”
“I’m sure he’s didn’t,” I lie. “You’re okay now—it’s safe in here.”
I hope.
Hanna nods shakily, clearly willing to be soothed.
“Thanks, Jules. Can I have some more wine?” she asks.
“Sure.”
Without checking the label, I open a bottle and start to pour it into one of the glass tumblers that Etienne packed with the bottles. Then I stop myself—this isn’t exactly the time for propriety.
“Fuck it,” I mutter and hand her the bottle.
“Thanks.” Hanna takes a swig and hands it back to me with a sign.
“That helps.”
“Good—I’m glad.” I take a swig as well—it does make me feel calmer even though the wine makes my head feel swimmy and my body tingles strangely. I pass the bottle back to Hanna.
She drinks…I drink again…we just keep going.
The wine calms me…warms me.
I have no idea what it’s about to cost me.