Chapter 9
Penelope didn’t wait for Mingxi’s approval.
She turned on her heel and strode down the hall as though she were hosting a delegation, not stepping over the aftermath of a massacre. Her skirts brushed dried blood without hesitation. Her magic stayed locked down tight, compressed so sharply it was like a blade sheathed under her ribs.
The Guardian scrambled to catch up.
Mingxi followed with quieter steps, watching the rhythm of her shoulders.
She wasn’t steady. She was deciding to be steady. There was a vast difference.
The west wing corridor narrowed, the walls darkening where the sconces had burned out. Blood smeared one side in long, uneven streaks. Someone had slid or been dragged toward the far door.
The Guardian pointed ahead. “Storage room is at the end, Lady Penelope.”
“I am aware of that.”
Penelope did not slow. She walked straight toward it, keeping her chin high, her breathing measured. Mingxi noted how she kept to the left side of the hall, not stepping in the densest bloodstains, subconsciously avoiding the places where bodies had fallen.
It was clearly a survival instinct. Deep-rooted. Learned young.
They reached the storage room door. It hung slightly ajar, the frame cracked where something had hit it hard.
Penelope’s hand hovered above the knob.
The Guardian started, “Lady Penelope, allow me to—”
Penelope pushed the door open herself. The smell hit instantly. It was not fresh blood, nor rot, but something metallic and burned, like scorched magic.
Mingxi stepped up beside her; there was no point in trying to shield her from the view.
Inside, the storeroom looked like a battleground.
A shelf had collapsed inward, its contents scattered—linens, old holiday decorations, a box of tarnished silver.
Fingernail marks cut across the floor, deep enough to gouge the wood.
A dark streak led behind a toppled wardrobe.
Penelope didn’t stop; she walked right in.
The Guardian swore under her breath and moved after her. Mingxi followed last, senses sharpening. There was a different kind of residue here, not the silver of Penelope’s awakening and not the sickly gray of the revenant.
Something else.
Something colder.
Penelope reached the wardrobe and paused.
“Is this where you found the body?” she asked the Guardian.
“No,” the Guardian said. “The one we saw was two rooms back. We haven’t checked behind that yet.”
Penelope didn’t wait. She braced her hands on the wardrobe and shoved it aside with a controlled, efficient motion. The wardrobe scraped and then toppled against the opposite wall with a thud.
Behind it lay… a man. Or what was left of one.
His clothes were torn, his chest partially caved in, eyes open and glassy. But unlike Miller, the body wasn’t moving. No revenant twitching, no unnatural breathing.
Just dead.
Penelope stood over him with a terrifying stillness.
“This is Carson,” she said. “Father’s valet.”
Mingxi stepped closer, crouching to inspect the wounds. The Guardian averted her eyes. Penelope didn’t. With her arms folded, jaw tight enough to crack, she watched Mingxi work.
He traced two fingers along the man’s shirt, a burn mark, dark and circular, like a sigil scorched into the fabric. His brows lowered.
This was deliberate. Magical. And recent.
“Councilor Shen?” Penelope’s voice was sharp, controlled. “What are you seeing?”
Mingxi rose slowly. “This mark wasn’t made by a blade,” he said. “Or by the revenants.”
“Then who?” she pressed.
Mingxi met her eyes. “The same magic that created the revenant was used here. But this man wasn’t turned. He was drained.”
Penelope’s expression didn’t change. Her voice, however, sharpened to a lethal edge. “So the murderer can raise the dead,” she said, “and they can feed.”
Mingxi nodded once. “Yes.”
Penelope exhaled through her nose, short, controlled, aristocratic.
“Then we are no longer dealing with a killer,” she said. “Instead, it’s a monster.”