NIGHT FOUR OF PHANTASMA
Blackwell was leaning against the dresser watching as Ophelia paced back and forth through her room. She had already explained the entire ordeal of her sister’s diaries in excruciating detail—more detail than he probably wanted, but he was patient enough not to complain—and now she was trying to connect those pieces with what they had just found.
“Gabriel is a common name,” Blackwell reasoned.
“My sister was secretly harboring an obsession with Phantasma for years and wrote that she needed to find someone named Gabriel, and then we find the name Gabriel carved into a floorboard within Phantasma, and you think I should write it off as a common name?” she said in disbelief.
“Point taken,” he allowed. “But there’s nothing more you can figure out tonight. Why don’t you get some rest and I’ll see if I can track down one of the Devils and find out where the contestant logs are kept?”
She perked up. “Contestant logs?”
Blackwell nodded. “Yes. The Devils are vigilant about keeping track of every soul that comes through here, but they don’t share that sort of information with just anyone. I’ll have to see what I can do. If anything.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please try.”
He pushed away from the dresser to place his hands on her shoulder, turning her around and ushering her to the bed. “I will. Now, get some sleep. You’re going to need it for the next level.”
She pulled back her comforter and tucked herself beneath, still wearing his shirt from earlier. The material was luxurious and soft against her skin and, best of all, it smelled like him. Vanilla and tobacco. It was becoming oddly comforting.
He stretched the blankets up around her shoulders and made to turn away, but she reached out and snagged his hand. “Are you leaving? What if there’s a haunt in the middle of the night?”
“I can stay until you fall asleep,” he told her, gently tugging his hand out of hers to take up residence in the armchair a few feet away.
Closing her eyes, she tried to force herself to go to sleep. But it was no use. Her mind was racing. Thinking about Genevieve and the mysterious Gabriel and what it could all possibly mean. Thinking about Blackwell’s lips on hers. Which turned to thinking about what led them to that moment in the first place. Acid burning through her clothing, the next trial of torture she would soon have to endure. It was all enough to keep her awake for the rest of her life.
And then, right on schedule, the Shadow Voice made its nightly appearance.
You need to knock on the headboard, it told her. Three sets of threes. Then name the people you want to keep safe through the night. Or they’ll all die. Every last one.
As discreetly as she could, she reached over her head to tap her knuckles against the headboard. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
“Genevieve,” she whispered to herself.
“What are you doing?” Blackwell wondered softly.
Damn it. Not subtle enough.
Her mother and Genevieve were the only two people who had ever known about the extensive list that was the Shadow Voice’s nighttime ritual. And not because she had told them—more that they had spent every single night witnessing it for themselves. Something about it had always deeply embarrassed her. To be at the mercy of knocking on her headboard or wall or doing whatever other ridiculous tasks the voice demanded of her just so it would shut up and she could sleep without the ominous blanket of existential dread.
“I was pleasing my inner demons,” she finally said, only half joking.
“Anything I can do to vanquish them, so you can go to sleep?” he offered.
The genuineness in his tone made her chest tighten with an emotion she had never felt before and couldn’t quite name.
“If only,” she whispered. “Besides, if all of my inner demons were destroyed, there wouldn’t be much left of me.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, “Nothing is going to hurt you while I’m here, Ophelia. Rest.”
She took a deep breath and sank further into the mattress, counting the heartbeats pulsing from her locket—which had not let up since their kiss. Soon enough the necklace and the steady buzz of Blackwell’s energy lulled her deeper and deeper into subconsciousness, and she finally let go.
The next morning, Blackwell was nowhere to be found, but Poe was curled up beside her, purring in contentment. Ophelia patted the cat’s ghostly head before stretching out her limbs and getting ready for the day. She decided on a simple white chiffon gown and strapless front-lacing corset. Both relatively easy to move in.
The clock on the wall told her there were still hours before dinner, and that meant she had plenty of time to sneak back to the secret room before she and Blackwell crossed paths again. She wanted to go inspect it by herself and take a moment to grieve the fallacy she had been living: her belief that she knew Genevieve better than anyone in the world. Genevieve certainly knew her better than anyone else. At least, before Phantasma. Now, Ophelia felt they were strangers to one another. Maybe that was a bit dramatic, but the hurt that had been hiding beneath the adrenaline of the past few days was finally working its way to the surface, and it heightened every hue of betrayal in her mind.
Ophelia was running around making blood bargains with Ghosts, getting bitten by venomous serpents, and risking her life every night, and it probably never even crossed Genevieve’s mind that Ophelia would dare come after her.
Which perhaps wasn’t giving Genevieve enough credit, but at this point Ophelia had no idea what her sister could be thinking. The worst part was that right now, Ophelia wanted nothing more than to just speak to Vivi. Despite the secrets, their fight, or the ire Ophelia had for Genevieve’s impulsive nature, she desperately wanted to know that her sister was safe. And to tell her everything. What she had been through inside Phantasma, how strange her new magic felt, the weird pulsing of the locket, and—most of all—Blackwell.
She wanted to tell Vivi about their ill-advised bargain and how infuriating she thought the Phantom was. She wanted to tell her about the annoying way he gave her half-answers to every single question and made her want to stab him, just for him to turn around and save her life or make her laugh. And she absolutely, desperately, wanted to tell her sister about the mind-blowing way he touched her, how intoxicating his kisses were and how one erotic encounter with the Ghost made her realize that maybe she wasn’t broken after all. The complete opposite of how Elliott had made her feel during their brief affair.
Part of her was devastated she couldn’t experience Blackwell that way ever again. Not unless she wanted to be a hypocrite.
What makes you think he’d ever want to experience you that way again? the Shadow Voice hissed. You’re pathetic, undesirable. You’re creepy. He probably thought the way you acted last night was embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing.
“Stop!” she cried aloud, slamming her hands against her forehead as if she could physically dislodge the voice from her mind. But it wouldn’t stop. The word looped on repeat until Ophelia was practically ripping the hair from her scalp.
Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrass—
“Ophelia,” a deep voice said.
The Shadow Voice slinked off into the depths of her mind and finally it was quiet.
Blackwell was suddenly there, gently prying her hands from her hair. “What’s going on?”
“It wouldn’t stop,” she groaned.
“What wouldn’t stop?” he pressed.
“The Shadow Voice,” she gritted out, squeezing her hands into fists to resist the urge to plunge them back into her disheveled tresses. “It kept telling me I was embarrassing last night—when we, you know—and it wouldn’t stop. Over and over and over and over and over—”
“Hey. Look at me.”
She hadn’t even realized her eyes were closed.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructed when she finally opened her eyes. “In. Out.”
She did as he said.
“Again.”
In. Out.
“One more time.”
In. Out.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he vowed. “Next time your mind tries to convince you otherwise, remember this: there is nothing about you that I find undesirable. Okay?”
She looked away. She never wanted to believe something more.
You can’t, though, can you? The Shadow Voice laughed. They are just pretty words from a pretty face. You can believe me, though, little Necromancer.
“Ophelia,” Blackwell called her back. “Every time your eyes glaze over like that… where do you go?”
“Nowhere,” she lied.
His eyes narrowed. “Who is the Shadow Voice?”
Her blood froze at the sound of someone else naming the insidious entity in her head. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she did, she didn’t want to explain something so intimate to him, afraid it would make her break down. The panic in her eyes must have been blatant because he decided to let it go, changing the subject.
“I made a deal with Jasper,” he informed her. “We’ll be able to see the contestant logs soon.”
She sucked in a surprised breath. “That easy?”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t say easy. But it’s done.”
“What did you promise him?”
He shook his head. “Nothing savory. Don’t worry about it.”
She heaved a sigh. “Well, when can we see them?”
“In about an hour, so we have some time to kill.”
She couldn’t mention that she had intended to sneak off to the secret corridor without him. She would just have to table that idea for another time.
She grabbed her brush and began smoothing out her tangled curls. “What would you suggest we do to bide our time?”
A wicked smirk. “Nothing that involves keeping our clothes on.”
“Please don’t make this hard.”
The smirk grew into a full-blown grin. “Well, technically you’re the one—”
“If you are about to make some ridiculous innuendo involving the word hard”—she pointed at him with the hairbrush—“swallow your tongue.”
He made a show of sighing heavily as if not getting to finish his joke was deeply inconvenient for him. “Fine. How about we use this time for something I’ve been wanting to address—your magic.”
She inclined her head. “What about my magic?”
“You need to learn how to wield it better, control it. It’s driving me mad watching you waste so much of it. Plus, I want you to learn how to control your little disappearing act before the next few levels.”
“I think I’ll pass. I’m not sure I could tolerate you as a teacher. And what exactly does the next level entail?”
“A lot of death if you don’t utilize every advantage,” he said.
“Helpful as ever,” she quipped.
“Well, I’m trying to be helpful, and you’re being difficult,” he countered. “The first two trials were child’s play compared to what’s coming next. I can only help so much within some of these levels. The rest will be on you. I want that to be a hopeful prospect—not a risky one.”
“Aw.” She pressed a mocking hand to her chest. “Are you saying you’d be sad if I were to get maimed or die?”
He gave her an odd, inscrutable look. “Tell me, angel, do you believe me to be heartless?”
The gravity of his tone made her squirm a bit, but she only pointed out, “Technically, you are heartless.”
“Until you successfully complete our bargain, of course,” he said. A clever joke considering the items they were searching for. “Right?”
She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Yes…”
“Then let me train you so you don’t end up perishing tragically,” he pressed.
“Fine. I suppose your tutoring cannot possibly be worse than whatever creative death the next level has planned.”
Blackwell laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
