"Are you enjoying my party?" he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
"It is a spectacle," she replied, her voice colder than she felt. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Marian loved spectacles. She believed life was terribly dull without them." He spun her out, then pulled her back in, closer this time. She could feel the hard planes of his chest against her, smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. It was a dizzying, suffocating proximity.
She hated him. She feared him. But her body, treacherous and alive, responded to the rhythm of the dance, to the strength of his lead. A strange, forbidden heat curled in her stomach. It was the thrill of dancing with the devil, of looking into the abyss and feeling it look back.
"You are quiet tonight," he observed, his blue eyes boring into hers from behind his mask. "I had hoped you would be more… festive."
"Grief doesn't lend itself well to festivity," she said, the words sharp.
His smile was a slash of white in the dim light. "Doesn't it? I find it is the most powerful emotion of all. It changes people. It remakes them." His hand tightened on her back. "It has certainly remade you."
He spun them around, his movements becoming more fluid, more confident. The other dancers gave them a wide berth, a silent audience to their private drama.
"You look more like her every night," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. The words were exactly what she had expected, yet they landed like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs.
He saw the flicker of horror in her eyes and his smile widened. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was for her alone.
"Don't fight it, Julia. It's your destiny. This house remembers. This house demands. You are its new heart."
It was then that she heard it. A sound from above, lost beneath the swell of the music. A low, groaning creak, like the sigh of a dying beast.
Her eyes shot upward.
High above them, the great crystal chandelier, a galaxy of glass and light, was swaying. Not with the gentle motion of a draft, but with a violent, unnatural shudder. A fine dust of plaster rained down, glittering like malevolent snow in the candlelight.
A collective gasp went through the room as others began to notice. The music faltered, a violin screeching out a single, discordant note.
Alistair's grip on her became iron. He did not look up. His piercing blue eyes were locked on hers, and in their depths, she saw not surprise, not fear, but a flicker of dark, ecstatic triumph.
Then came the sound of a final, deafening snap of tortured metal.
The world seemed to hang suspended for a heartbeat.
And then the galaxy fell from the heavens.
Time shattered.
The explosion of crystal and metal was absolute, a sound so immense it became a physical force, a wave of pressure that slammed into Julia and stole the breath from her lungs. She was vaguely aware of Alistair moving, a blur of black and white, his body a shield as he threw them both backwards, away from the epicenter of the destruction.
They hit the polished floor hard. The impact jolted through her bones, but the pain was a distant thing, drowned out by the ringing in her ears.
Then, silence.
A profound, deafening silence filled the void where the music had been. The air was thick with the dust of pulverized plaster, a choking, ghostly fog that swirled in the dim light of the wall sconces. The great ballroom, moments before a scene of decadent beauty, was now a crater of darkness and ruin.
Julia lay tangled in Alistair's arms, her face pressed against the starched fabric of his shirt. His grip was like iron, a cage of protection. He held her pinned to the floor, his body covering hers completely. She could feel the steady, unnervingly calm beat of his heart against her cheek.
"Are you harmed?" His voice was a low murmur in her ear, a thread of reason in the unravelling chaos.
She could only shake her head, her mind struggling to catch up with the violence that had just unfolded.
He shifted, allowing her to breathe. "You see?" he whispered, his tone one of chilling intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world. "The house protects its own."
His words, meant to soothe, were a fresh wave of terror. This wasn't an accident. It was a demonstration.
The silence broke. It was not a single sound, but an eruption. A woman's high, piercing shriek tore through the dust-filled air, followed by another, and then a chorus of panicked shouts and cries. The spell was broken. The dream had become a nightmare.
Figures scrambled in the dim light, their elegant costumes and masks now looking like the garb of frantic, terrified ghouls. The absinthe had curdled their fear into hysteria.
Julia pushed herself up, her hands flat on the cool, grimy floor. A few feet away, a large, jagged shard of crystal glittered like a fallen star. A thick, crimson smear ran down its sharp edge. Blood. Someone had been hurt.
Then, a new sound cut through the cacophony. It was a sound so alien, so utterly mad, that it silenced the nearest screams.
Laughter.
Julia's head snapped toward the source. It was Cordelia. She stood near the ruined absinthe fountain, her jeweled cat mask askew, revealing one wild, ecstatic eye. She was not screaming. She was weeping with laughter, her shoulders shaking, her hands clasped to her mouth as if trying to hold in the sheer, unhinged joy of it all.
"Oh, it's magnificent!" she gasped between peals of laughter that sounded like breaking glass. "Truly, Alistair, what a finale!"
Lucien, his devil mask looking absurdly placid, grabbed her arm. "Cordelia, for God's sake, be quiet! People are hurt!"
His words only made her laugh harder. "Hurt? Don't be so dull, brother! They're alive! This is the first interesting thing that's happened all year!"
Her madness was a spectacle of its own, a chilling sideshow to the main event.
"Julia!"
Silas's voice. He was a whirlwind of fury, shoving his way through the panicked crowd, his black mask gone, his face a pale, stark beacon of desperation. He reached her side in an instant, his eyes scanning her for injury, his hands hovering over her as if he were afraid to touch her, to find her broken.
"Are you alright? Did he—?"
"I'm fine," she managed, her voice trembling.
Silas's gaze lifted to Alistair, who was now rising to his feet with an unhurried, infuriating grace. He extended a hand to Julia, but Silas was already there, pulling her up, putting his body between her and Alistair.
"Get away from her, Blackwood," Silas snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
Alistair simply brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve, his expression one of bored condescension. "The poet, rushing to the rescue. How very predictable." He looked past Silas, his eyes finding Julia's. "She is with her family, Corwin. Where she belongs."
"She belongs as far away from you and this cursed house as possible," Silas shot back.
"Silas, let's just go," Julia urged, pulling at his arm. The air was thick with malice, the tension between the two men a tangible, crackling thing.
Lucien, ever the opportunist, swaggered over, dragging the still-tittering Cordelia with him. "Having a tantrum, are we, poet?" he sneered, his voice slurring slightly from the absinthe. "You should be thanking my brother. He just saved your little stray's life."
"Your brother tried to take it," Silas bit out, his attention never leaving Alistair.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Lucien scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "It was a frayed rope, nothing more. An old house's complaint." He gave Julia a leering look. "Though I suppose a near-death experience can be quite… stimulating."
That was the final straw.
The control in Silas snapped. He moved so fast Julia barely saw it. One moment he was standing beside her, the next his fist connected with Lucien's jaw. The sound was a sickening, wet crack that cut through the noise of the room.
Lucien staggered backward, a look of comical surprise on his face, before crumpling to the floor. Cordelia stopped laughing and let out a startled shriek.
For a moment, the world froze. All eyes were on the tableau: Silas, panting, his fist still clenched; Lucien, groaning on the floor, blood trickling from his lip; Alistair, watching with a cold, analytical amusement.
In that frozen moment, Julia felt it. A low, deep tremor that seemed to run up from the stone flags, through the soles of her shoes, and into her bones. It was a vibration of pure, malevolent energy.
The house trembled.
The illusion of civility was shattered. The masquerade was over. Chaos erupted anew. Guests began to flee in earnest, pushing and shoving toward the doors.
Alistair didn't move. He simply watched the scene unfold, a faint, chilling smile on his lips. He had gotten what he wanted. A public display. A near-fatal accident. A violent outburst. All centered on her. The evidence was mounting.
"Now," Silas said, his voice a raw command. He grabbed Julia's hand, his grip like a vise, and pulled her toward the exit. He didn't look back. He carved a path through the fleeing crowd, his purpose absolute.
He pulled her from the ballroom, through the great hall where the green fountain still trickled its poison, and up the grand staircase. They didn't stop until they reached the sanctuary of her room, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind them, the bolt scraping home with a sound of finality.
The silence in the room was a roaring abyss.
They stood in the center of the floor, both trembling, their chests heaving, adrenaline and horror coursing through them. Silas still held her hand, his knuckles white. The midnight-blue silk of Marian's dress was streaked with dust, a tiny tear near the hem. Her silver mask was gone, lost somewhere in the wreckage.
She felt stripped bare, exposed.
He finally let go of her hand, his own shaking. He raked his fingers through his hair, pacing the small space before the hearth like a caged animal.
"He planned it," Silas said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "The whole thing. He planned it all."
"I know," she replied, her own voice hollow. She looked down at her hands and saw they were trembling, too.
He stopped pacing and turned to face her, his eyes dark with a pain so deep it stole her breath. He saw the dress, the ruined glamour, the haunted look on her face. He saw the ghost he was so terrified of.
But he didn't see a ghost. He saw her.
He crossed the space between them and gently took her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, wiping away tears she hadn't even realized were falling.
"I am getting you out of here," he said, and it was not an argument or a suggestion. It was a vow, sworn in the ruins of a nightmare. "I swear on my life, Julia. He will not have you."
She leaned into his touch, her body aching, her mind a shattered mess. She believed him. She had to.
But as she looked past him, at her own reflection in the dark glass of the window, she saw the woman in Marian's dress staring back. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and dark.
And for a terrifying, fleeting moment, she did not recognize herself at all.