Chapter 5
Chapter five
The Banquet of Shadows
Annabel
The castle’s silence is suffocating. It is as if it were holding its breath for something to come. The uneasiness is unbearable.
I can’t take it any longer. Maybe it might be better if I did go to dinner.
I’m not hungry, but at least I won’t be alone.
Oddly enough, I am not convinced if this is my decision alone or some supernatural force summoning me to his will.
But whatever the case, I rise from the bed and walk to the wardrobe.
Without even touching a handle, the doors open.
I search the many beautiful dresses and land on the simplest one I find.
Holding the dress up, I pause and glance down at my humble clothes.
Putting the dress back into the wardrobe, I decide I will be more comfortable with what I have on.
He wants to see me in clothes he has provided.
That is why they are here. However, I refuse to acquiesce to the whims I can control.
It’s a bit comforting to know I do have some of my own free will left.
As I approach the large doors sealing me in this chamber, they open for me, allowing me to exit my bedchamber.
I wander the windowless corridors unable to mark my way with memory, as the house is somehow rearranging itself when I am not looking. It is curious and frightening at the same time. I know the castle is directing me to exactly where it wants me, and I have no say in the matter.
I can hear a faint echo of bells. They toll in the distance, but from where, I do not know.
They rattle through the castle, only adding to my confusion.
The sound grows louder the farther I walk and vibrates up my spine.
I continue through the corridors with purpose, a summons I can’t refuse.
The mark on my wrist sears, urging me forward even as dread drags at my steps.
Suddenly the corridors are lit with candles, and the darkness washes away.
For the first time, I see the walls, and from what the light allows me to see, this castle is beautiful.
Something is definitely different, something that I can’t put my finger on to say exactly what, but the silence breaks. Music and laughter float down the hall. It sounds like a party, but I can’t imagine such a thing in a place like this. And then, a voice pours from down the corridor.
“Come.” It’s his voice, and now I know who has been summoning me.
My body stiffens, but the command was more than just a word.
The mark on my wrist flares, and my steps carry me forward, despite myself.
It is in this moment that I see an even clearer image of my situation.
I look down at my wrist and know I am not only bound to him, but I am bound to his will, his desires, and, what frightens me the most, his wrath.
I continue down the corridor, which bleeds into a great hall. Faceless servants glide beside me, carrying trays that steam and drip. Their silence is a presence on its own, heavy as chains as they robotically move about the room.
The hall itself is vast, its roof lost to the shadows above.
A table stretches the length of the room, adorned with more food than I could ever have imagined: fresh fruit splitting open under its own weight, meat leaking juices that glisten like fresh wounds, and goblets overflowing with wine as dark as ink.
All around the table, the courtiers gather, but they are not corporeal men and women.
They are spirits draped in lavish silks and brocades, their jewels glinting like embers in the candlelight.
Their faces, though striking, bear an unnatural pallor.
Their cheekbones are sharp, eyes ringed with shadows from too many sleepless nights.
Some lean in, eyes narrowed with curiosity or veiled contempt.
Their whispers ripple across the polished silver as they watch me, and their scrutiny feels like a chill wind.
Each gaze measures my vulnerability, hungry for a crack in my composure.
A woman in emerald lace taps crimson-tipped nails against her wine goblet.
Her lips, blood red, curl into a knowing smirk, while sitting next to her, a gentleman with a silver monocle and a scar bisecting his brow regards me as though I am an exotic specimen.
Is this real? I close my eyes. This has got to be a hallucination. The question echoes in my mind, the spectacle so vivid, it blurs the line between nightmare and waking terror. Opening them again, I realize the sight before me is as real as the searing pain on my wrist.
At the head of the table, Lucien presides like a sovereign king, his silhouette sharp against the flickering candlelight.
The chair he occupies is no simple seat.
Twisted branches and thorns entwine its back and arms. He sits ramrod straight, regal and imposing.
Eyes around the table dart from the glint of jewels on his velvet sleeves to the chilling precision of his gaze.
His horns crown him in shadow, curling like black crescents against the firelight.
Claws rest on the arm of his throne, flexing idly.
His eyes burn, molten and unblinking, locking me in place before I can look away.
When his eyes meet mine, the room contracts.
His stare slices through every layer of bravery I possess, leaving me exposed and trembling, as powerless as silk beneath a blade.
“I thought I would give you a party,” he says smoothly, “to welcome you.” His words are laced with sarcasm. He gestures toward the table. “Now serve my guests,” he commands, his voice low and relentless, his words reverberating through the great chamber like the peal of a bell at midnight.
The order does not merely reach my ears.
It pierces me like an electric current and races through my veins.
I force my feet to move, fighting the urge to shrink beneath their hungry stares.
At the serving table, I brush my trembling fingers along the polished wood and wrap them around the handle of a heavy silver pitcher.
Its weight is unforgiving in my grip, and for a moment, I steady myself with a deep, silent breath.
The chilled wine inside glimmers, rich and dark, promising comfort yet carrying the threat of spectacle.
Gathering every shred of composure, I turn back toward the awaiting guests, the pitcher held firmly as both shield and offering.
My hand, usually steady, shakes with a traitorous tremor, the porcelain jug of wine threatening to slip from my grasp.
All eyes follow my movements as I step forward, my feet sinking into the thick carpets, every inch of me aware of the scrutiny.
I advance down the length of the table, pouring wine into the goblets that are eagerly thrust out with expectation and veiled malice.
The courtiers are no longer distant shapes; they appear to be flesh and blood, but I know what I see is merely a deception. I watch them more closely.
A woman in ivory lace watches me with predatory delight, and a gentleman in a slate tailcoat murmurs a jest to the man next to him as I refill his cup.
They laugh coldly at me as if they know something I do not.
Do they know my fate? Are all the guests at this table past victims of the Beast?
Are they here to show me that their fate is my own?
Whispers snake through the air, hungry for me to misstep, falter, spill.
They are here to unnerve me, and I refuse to submit to their pleasure. I refuse to submit to his pleasure.
When I reach Lucien at the head of the table, the temperature drops, as if his presence alone summons the cold.
He extends his goblet, its silver rim catching the candlelight.
His clawed hand hovers inches from mine, and the tension is palpable.
If I move even a hair’s breadth, he will brush his skin with mine.
The room suddenly feels poised on the edge of disaster.
The courtiers lean in, breaths held in collective suspense.
Anticipation sharpens their features. The silence becomes a living thing, pressing in from all sides, demanding a resolution.
All around us, the spirits watch. Some curious, some cruel.
Others are fearful, their inhumanity amplifying the dread that pulses between us.
They feel it. I feel it, and worse, he feels it.
Lucien leans in, his presence closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth of his breath, smoke and spice edged with an intensity that is purely human.
My body betrays me as desire pulsates at my core.
His words are meant for my ears alone, spoken low, his voice a gentle pressure against the sensitive hollow of my neck.
“Show them how much you fear me and submit to me. Kneel before me like a good little girl,” he demands.
My stomach tightens, anxiety rising, my fingers growing slick around the goblet’s stem.
Every fiber of my being wants to do exactly as he commands, but I know what I must do if I am ever going to have a chance of surviving him.
All the eyes of the courtiers whose mouths hunger for drama bore into me, anxiously awaiting my submission.
I can’t let myself yield to him, not if I ever want to be free of him.
Swallowing hard, I steady my hand and set the goblet on the table, careful not to let his fingers brush mine.
He smiles, a look of triumph across his face.
Little does he know I am about to disappoint him. The room holds its breath alongside me.