By the time Ophelia changed out of her bloody ensemble and into something fresh, there were about two hours left before dinner was served and the next level began. While she stripped off her ruined garments in the bathroom, Blackwell had made her list out all the places she’d already been in the manor and she’d made the mistake of mentioning the terrifying passageway. Now, she was reluctantly watching him move the chair she had used to barricade the bookcase so they could access the secret door behind it.
“Are you going to need me to hold your hand while we walk through?” he taunted over his shoulder with a smirk.
“Oh, bite me,” she deadpanned.
His smirk grew wider. “Is that an invitation?”
She ignored his teasing and asked, “Why don’t you just do your little disappearing act and transport us where we need to go? Or do you only pop into places that you’re uninvited?”
He gave her a pointed look now, a tad incensed. “I can only transport myself into places I’ve already physically been. Plus, traveling in and out of this corporeal plane is not as easy as I make it look. And it’s certainly harder with a person in tow. I’m trying to conserve my energy for your next trial… unless you’ve decided you’d rather take a stab at it solo?”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I cannot believe I’m stuck here dealing with a sarcastic Ghost while my sister might be getting maimed.”
“Is she that incapable of taking care of herself?”
“No,” Ophelia admitted. “In a lot of ways Genevieve is much more capable than I am. I was alone with our mother a lot growing up while she was… out. But it seems like she became infatuated with this place for some reason, collecting newspaper clippings from all the cities the competition has traveled to over the last few years. I worry she was too enchanted with the prospect of the prize being able to fix all of our problems and didn’t think through the consequences of coming here.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “And it wouldn’t? Fix all of your problems, I mean.”
“Paying off the debt we have, sure. Fixing everything else in our lives… doubtful. It wouldn’t make our mother’s death any easier. Or fix our fighting.” She knew she was probably oversharing, but aside from Genevieve she’d never had anyone to open up to. And though Blackwell wasn’t exactly her first choice, he was her only option at the moment. Besides, she was going to milk this blood bargain for all it was worth.
“When did your mother pass?”
She stared at him for a lingering moment, trying to gauge if his curiosity was genuine.
“About five days ago now,” she shared.
He didn’t pry any further and, a moment later, he’d opened the secret passageway. “So, the disappearing room was through here?”
“Yes.” She swallowed as she peered into the darkness, half expecting the demonic creature from before to come flying out. “It should still be there, right?”
Blackwell shrugged. “The manor moves its rooms around for its haunts and traps all the time. If you found it and nothing happened to you inside, it was definitely by accident.”
“So, explain the haunt system.” She crossed her arms. “Is there a custom plan for each contestant? Do you have a Ghost secretary in the back keeping track of the schedule?”
“No secretary,” he told her as Poe suddenly reappeared, rubbing his furry head against Blackwell’s leg. “Just Devils, Ghosts, and Phantasma itself. The manor has a mind of its own, if you haven’t noticed. It chooses when to manifest its guests’ greatest fears, and enlists the Apparitions and Ghouls for help, but the Devils coordinate other haunts as they get bored. And if none of that drives people out—the levels and other contestants take care of the rest.”
“Right,” she muttered as Blackwell shooed the cat into the dark with his foot. “Who is in charge, then?”
“Only the Devils know—and they’ve been sworn to secrecy. The only other beings to meet the creator are the contestants who complete level eight and win the bid to enter level nine.”
“What bid?” she asks.
“If there is more than one contestant that completes level eight and survives the night to get to level nine, they must either eliminate each other until only one person remains or offer the highest bid to enter the level.”
She shuddered at the thought of the death matches that must ensue when too many people make it that far. She couldn’t imagine killing someone else just to have a shot at meeting the monster who created this place.
Blackwell walked over to the wooden dresser in her room and grabbed two unlit candles from one of the drawers, snapping his fingers and igniting the wicks as he handed one to her. “Ready?”
She gave a tense nod, blood running cold as her body begged her not to go back through the demonic passage, but she refused to let that fear take over. She stepped through the doorway and raised her candle to the shadows, making extra sure the creature from the other night was nowhere to be seen. A shiver ran down her spine at the memory.
“Something wrong?” Blackwell asked, a glint of amusement in his green eyes as he watched her pause.
“No,” she told him before he could tease her anymore. The look on his face said doubtful, but she ignored it, changing the subject. “If you are not one of the Ghosts who perform the haunts, how did you end up trapped here?”
“That,” he said, “is the burning question, isn’t it?”
Blackwell let her lead the way, staying close on her heels as they walked down the corridor, one of his hands lightly resting atop her shoulder to assure her of his presence. She must have been unconvincing in her nonchalance about re-entering the dark passage, and she found herself touched by the considerate gesture. As they moved, the flame of her candle danced higher, throwing her shadow onto the stone walls. His silhouette was notably missing.
“The only reality I can recall has been here, in Phantasma,” he divulged, the words smooth and even as if he had recited this many times before. “I have no memories of how I got here or why I can do as I please, but the other Ghosts can’t. The only routine I know is making my bargain with contestants, watching them fail, then waiting for Phantasma to move to another city so I can find someone new when the next competition begins. Over and over. Other Ghosts are tied here because they died within these walls or made poor bargains with a Devil in their past lives and have to stay until their debts are fulfilled and they can pass on. Some aren’t successful, and over time they’ve become the Ghouls Phantasma uses for haunts.”
“What happened to all the other contestants who failed your bargain?” she whispered.
“Very few died, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he assured. “A lot of them forfeited—but most of them have won Phantasma.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “They won their prize, but you won a decade of their life.”
His green eyes met hers with no hint of remorse. “Exactly.”
If they were smart, they would have just asked to dissolve their blood bargains, she thought. But now that such a prospect occurred to her, she wondered if that’s what she’d waste her own Devil’s Grant on if she won it. Ten years of her life back or anything she wanted in the world…
“Was it hard to watch the ones who died?” She paused her stride to face him, her head tilting with curiosity. “I don’t think I could stomach such a thing over and over again.”
“Being too compassionate in a place like this is a mistake,” he warned. “Soft hearts don’t survive here.”
“What kinds of hearts do?”
He leaned down until their eyes were level. “Hearts with teeth.” He reached out and gently gripped her chin in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her full, bottom lip.
She was frozen in place.
“C’mon, angel, show me your teeth.”
Her breath became shallow at his proximity, so close that she could see the firelight reflected in his emerald irises. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, and like her brief lapse of control in the bathtub the night before, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would he taste like the notes of vanilla and tobacco that lingered in the air around him? Would his ghostly nature make it feel cold?
Blackwell’s lips began to curl up at the ends, and she realized she had been staring at him, silent, for just a little too long. He huffed a deep laugh and reached for something behind her, his lips dipping even closer to hers as he leaned over. She turned her head to the side and swallowed. When she glanced behind her, she saw that they had made it to the end of the corridor. He pushed on the door’s lever and let it swing open.
“Look”—he waved a hand at what they’d found, a glint of satisfaction still shining in his eyes—“a regular broom closet.”
Poe meowed at their feet and Ophelia jumped in surprise, having forgotten about the feline. When she spun around to investigate the open doorway, she saw that Blackwell was right—it was just a broom closet.
“Maybe I have to be the one who opens it?” she said, voice a little too thick, as she pulled the door shut again. She didn’t wait more than a second before pushing it back open, and a noise of disappointment hummed in her throat when it still hadn’t changed.
“Take your time,” Blackwell asserted. “Imagine the place you want to go in your mind, first. Then open it.”
She gave him a skeptical look but shut the door a second time and closed her eyes in concentration. This time she pictured the plain hidden room, the long tables that had sat in its center, and the bare shelves that had lined the walls. She recalled Poe hopping up onto one of those tables to bathe himself and silently judge her.
A creak echoed in front of her and then, “Ophelia.”
She blinked her eyes open, and her jaw went slack as she took in the new room before them.
Blackwell gave her an appraising look. “Nice job, angel. Now let’s see what else you can find.”
