NIGHT FIVE OF PHANTASMA
By the time Ophelia woke again—sobered but with a pounding headache—Blackwell had gone through another hundred pages of the book. He’d fixed her a glass of ice-cold water while she gritted through the pulsing in her temples to sit up on the couch, and he took her barrage of insults for pouring her that third and fourth glass of bourbon without complaint.
“The water will help. Or so I’ve heard,” he said.
“Have you never been hungover?” she asked.
“Not that I can remember,” he answered with a smirk. “The dead don’t get hangovers.”
She gulped down half the glass. Then, “What’s it like to have no recollection of anything beyond this place? I feel like that would drive me mad.”
He shrugged, lifting her outstretched legs so he could sit on the cushion beside her before lowering them back over his lap. “I don’t know any different, so it’s hard to say.”
“What’s your earliest memory here?” she asked, scooting herself closer to him until her thighs were resting perpendicular atop his.
“I’m not sure,” he murmured. “If I think about it hard enough, I can remember plenty of competitions and specific contestants—especially the most recent ones—but when I try to search too far back, it all just… fades. It’s as if I’m being haunted by my own memories, but I don’t know what’s eating them away other than time.”
A pang of sadness ached inside her at his words.
“What’s it like being a Phantom?” she whispered. “Is it terribly lonely?”
He shifted his eyes to her, a loaded emotion in them. “Most of the time.” He reached over to cup her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over her pouted lips. “But not always.”
Her chest tightened. “Did the past contestants you made bargains with try and get to know you?”
“No.”
She swallowed, trying to work up the nerve to ask her next question. “Not even the others that you kissed?”
“Not even them,” he answered. “But there weren’t many contestants that I kissed anyway. And there were none that I…”
The jealousy that had been swelling in her gut dissipated ever so slightly as she boldly suggested, “Fucked?”
He gave a single, surprised laugh, eyes lighting back up with his usual mischief now. “That isn’t exactly what I was going to say.”
She wanted to ask what he was going to say, but before she got the chance, something ghostly popped into view on the opposite end of the couch.
“Poe.” She smiled. “I haven’t seen you in a bit.”
Poe meowed and trotted over to where they were draped over each other, padding his way onto her lap and rubbing his head beneath Blackwell’s chin.
“Hello, you miscreant,” Blackwell said with affection, scratching behind the cat’s ears.
Ophelia sighed. She wished they could stay like this for the rest of the day, but with less than a week left of Phantasma, she knew they couldn’t waste any more of their time. She said as much aloud.
“We should start another magic lesson if you’re feeling up for it,” he agreed. “Our time is dwindling. I probably shouldn’t have poured you that fourth drink. Or the second or third.”
She shooed Poe off her lap so she could stand. “You know, my mother taught me the basics of her practice. How to call upon a soul, how to communicate with them on the Other Side, all the different types of Ghosts and other paranormal beings. But your lesson was a lot more tactile. I never realized I was capable of using my magic like that.”
“Does this mean I have your permission to throw the knives this time?” he drawled.
She rolled her eyes. “Within reason.”
The grin that began to stretch across Blackwell’s face as he got to his own feet made her instantly regret her request.
Hours later and Ophelia was a sore, disheveled mess. Over and over, they had practiced summoning her raw energy and aiming it accurately at various objects around the room. A few broken glasses later and she found that she was getting pretty good at it. Her reflexes still weren’t as quick as Blackwell was hoping for when it came to expelling her magic—taking a moment for it to warm up each time she used it, and the lower her reservoir got, the longer that delay grew—but he was patient, and every time she made a particularly good shot, he rewarded her with a dazzling smile.
Then the knives came into play. Whatever muscle she used to turn parts of her body invisible was growing stronger, and if it weren’t for the fact that she thought Blackwell was having a little too much fun launching blades at her, she might have thanked him for discovering how to help her develop this new ability.
Just then, a particularly large cleaver passed through her sternum and embedded itself into the picture-frame molding of the wall behind her. Blackwell made a sound of satisfaction.
“I think you’re ready for level four,” he commended.
“What’s the theme of level four?” she questioned.
“Gluttony.” He enunciated the word with flair. “There’s this whole bit with collars and chains… you wouldn’t happen to enjoy being choked, would you?”
She spluttered a bit. “I—”
“I’m kidding, angel,” he snorted. “But if you ever get curious, I’m always game to try anything.”
Her cheeks heated profusely. He had a knack for making everything sound sensually appealing. It drove her mad with want. Something he must have sensed because a blink later and he was right in front of her, reaching around to pull the cleaver from where it was wedged into the molding and discarding it so he could press her against the wall.
“That’s enough training for now,” he murmured, tapping beneath her chin with his index finger until she tilted her mouth up toward his. “I think you deserve a reward for how well you did today.”
She felt the corners of her lips curl up. “If I get to choose the reward, may I suggest you get on your knees again?”
“Hmm,” he hummed as he slid his hands around to cup her ass. “First, I want to—”
The lights in the room suddenly flickered, cutting off the rest of Blackwell’s words and making him freeze before her.
“Whatever you do,” Blackwell told her beneath his breath, an eerie calmness to his voice, “do not show him an ounce of vulnerability.”
Ophelia didn’t bother to ask who he meant by him—she didn’t need to when a second later a Devil appeared in the center of the room in a cloud of black smoke. The man was only an inch or two taller than Blackwell, with combed-back, raven hair and a porcelain complexion even more fair than her own. Though most would probably describe him as dangerously handsome, his maroon eyes were unsettling, and as he began to prowl closer to them, she saw that his pupils were vertical slits—reminding her of a feline’s. Something about the heaviness of his gaze felt eerily familiar.
“Well, what do we have here?” the Devil purred as his shrewd eyes shifted between Ophelia and Blackwell’s compromising position. “A pretty little plaything you’ve chosen, Blackwell.”
Blackwell dropped his hands from her body and fixed his expression into one of boredom. “Sinclair. We were just leaving.”
Sinclair’s eyes lit up with the sort of deviousness that promised pain. “It didn’t look like you were just leaving. What’s the matter, Blackwell? Don’t like to share your toys?”
Ophelia remained utterly frozen, her eyes tracking every movement the Devil made. She wasn’t particularly keen on being in the presence of any Devils, but there was something very different about this one. Something vengeful beneath the surface. A stark difference between the uncomfortable presence of Jasper and the palpable darkness Sinclair seemed to emanate.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Sinclair’s eyes slid to her face, the slits of his pupils dilating as they took her in. She kept her face unmoving, Blackwell’s warning not to show any hints of vulnerability on loop in the back of her mind.
Sinclair’s scarlet eyes narrowed while his grin widened. “Have we met somewhere before?”
That seemed to push Blackwell over the edge. “We’re leaving.”
Blackwell wrapped his arm around her and gently, but firmly, began to usher her away. But it was the wrong move. Sinclair noted the familiarity between them in an instant, and Ophelia had a sinking feeling that something very bad was about to happen.
Sinclair gave a menacing laugh. “Tell me, Blackwell, is this one a good fuck?”
Ophelia hardly felt the insult, more focused on the barely contained rage rolling off of Blackwell.
“If she gave me a ride, do you think—”
Blackwell snapped. Tucking her behind his back, he lunged forward and slammed his fist into the Devil’s face. Sinclair’s head whipped to the side, but his feet stayed planted in place. The Devil was now grinning, his pupils expanding so wide they swallowed the vermilion of his irises whole.
“That was a mistake.” Sinclair laughed.
In a split second, Blackwell disappeared from between them, the warm energy of his presence snuffed out completely. Then thick black smoke began to seep in across the floor, billowing in the air around her, until Sinclair was the only thing she could see clearly.
“Blackwell,” she whispered beneath her breath as quietly as possible. “Blackwell—”
“Don’t bother summoning him, girl,” Sinclair threatened. “It will only cause him harm when he is unable to come to you.”
To his point, there was a loud pounding on the door to the room. She could hear Blackwell shouting her name, but his voice was muffled, like he was yelling underwater.
“What the Hell do you want from me?” she spat, lifting her chin with bravado.
“It’s not you I want something from,” Sinclair avowed. “I apologize for my crudeness; I couldn’t help getting a rise out of him. And unfortunately for you, you seem to be something he cares about. Which means you’re the key to his undoing.”
“Undoing?” She gave a mocking laugh. “Could you be any more cliché with the villainous theatrics?”
Sinclair slinked closer to her until she was cowed against the wall. He reached out to grip her face in one hand as he brushed the hair away from her face with the other. Her blood ran as cold as ice.
“I could,” he assured. “Would you like a demonstration?”
Ophelia didn’t say anything or dare to move—she hardly dared to breathe.
Sinclair grinned, satisfied. “I have a proposition for you.”
“No—” she began, but her words were quickly choked off by a painful squeeze of the Devil’s hand.
“Do not interrupt me,” he snapped. “My proposition is simple. You forfeit this competition, and I will grant you a single favor.”
She recoiled in disbelief.
“Rumor has it you’re looking for your sister,” Sinclair continued. “I’ll tell you exactly where she is. Or maybe you’d prefer money? Fame? Name it and it’s yours.”
“Why do you want me to forfeit so badly?” she questioned, eyes narrowing. “We’ve never met before now. What concern is it to you if I stay in this competition?”
Sinclair’s expression soured. “Just take the deal.”
Her lips curled in disdain as she ripped her chin from his hand. “Fuck. Off.”
“Do you really think if you win this competition there’s a happy ending for the two of you?” he crooned, but his velvety smooth tone was laced with malice. “Blackwell cannot leave. Forfeit now, and I will not only grant you a favor—I’ll also break your oath to him.”
She swallowed, ignoring the way his words sliced through her heart. She and Blackwell were using each other as frivolous distractions. Nothing more. “Where is this coming from? Why are you suddenly in this equation?”
“Because there have been rumblings about the pretty little Necromancer who’s helping Blackwell and finding things in this manor she shouldn’t be.” He glowered at her. “It’s only a matter of time before you uncover something you have no business poking around in. And I’m willing to do what the other Devils aren’t.”
A realization hit her. “You know where the key is… don’t you? You know things about him, and why he’s here, and you don’t want me around long enough to figure them out.”
“And they say mortals are fools,” he mocked.
She gave him a taunting smirk. “I’m a threat to you. Is that why you’ve been watching me all this time? It has been you, hasn’t it?”
The darkness in his eyes deepened and his expression turned hostile. “I am the last person you want to make an enemy of.”
“Right, because a Devil threatened by the presence of a mortal is the epitome of terrifying,” she retorted. “As I said before—fuck off.”
To that, he did something surprising. He took a step back and gave her a smile. “You think you know him so well? Page eight hundred and eighty-two. Ask him why he didn’t show it to you.”
Ophelia’s stomach dropped, but she was careful not to show any reaction to his words. “Asking him a question would require you to let him back in here.”
Sinclair leaned in. “We’ll meet again soon.”
With that lingering threat, he disappeared, along with the smoke, and there was barely time for her to take in a relieved breath before Blackwell blasted open the door to the room, sending shards of wood flying in every direction. In a blink he was back in front of her, concern visible as he frantically traced his eyes over every inch of her, his hands coming up to wipe the disheveled strands of her hair from her face.
“Are you alright?” he demanded. “Did he touch you?”
“I’m fine.” She pulled away a bit, and there was a flicker of hurt in his eyes as he dropped his hands. “Show me page eight hundred and eighty-two.”
He swallowed and looked away. “Ophelia.”
She sucked in a surprised breath. It was true. There was something he was intentionally hiding from her.
“Show me,” she ordered again. “Now.”
His jaw clenched before he blinked away for a moment, to grab the book from the floor beside the couch, and when he returned with it, he handed it over in silence.
She held her breath as she flipped through the pages until she landed on the one she was looking for. She scanned carefully over each name, and when she reached one of them, adrenaline sliced through her veins.
Gabriel White.
Her breath hitched as she continued through the rest of the list. And the name she spotted just a few lines below buckled her knees.
Tessie Grimm.
