NIGHT SIX OF PHANTASMA
This time when Ophelia went back to the secret room to revisit the carving of her father’s name, she made it a point not to get burned by acid. Crawling through the tight tunnel, she could hear the pitter-patter of the burning rain behind her, but she reached the small, paneled room without incident. She tried not to picture the last time she and Blackwell were in here together, scrubbing the intimate scene from her mind before she spiraled any further tonight.
Finally alone, the Shadow Voice hissed in her mind, startling her. She hadn’t realized it, but the voice had been bothering her less and less with every passing day she spent in Phantasma. A shocking pro amongst a massive list of cons.
She shoved the Shadow Voice from her mind and set down the lit chamberstick she’d brought with her. The soft, dancing firelight illuminated the planks of wood before her, revealing the carved words she’d come in search of.
She traced her fingers over the letters of Gabriel Forever, one by one, wishing she felt some sort of magical connection in them, but she didn’t. Her locket didn’t react either, just stayed silent and cold against her throat. Turning her attention to the scratched-out words at the top, she leaned in, trying to decipher what letters might have been there before they were gouged beyond recognition. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn the first letter was a “T”.
A sob racked through her chest.
“Momma,” she whispered as her tears hit the ground. “Why were you ever here?”
She curled up beside the words and let herself cry. Shedding tears for her mother’s untimely death. Too sudden, too soon. Tears for the relationship with her sister she wondered if she’d ever get the chance to mend. Tears for the father she never got to know.
But most of all she shed tears for herself. And the soft heart she would never have again.
Ophelia woke to the gray light of a nearly extinguished candle. The wax of the tapered column had melted down to the quick, and she wondered how many hours she had been asleep. Stretching out her limbs, she pushed herself up from the ground, chamberstick in her left hand, and padded toward the bookcase on the far wall of the room.
She set the brass candleholder down on one of the empty shelves and ran her fingers over the panels of each shelf’s alcove, looking for a button to trigger the turning mechanism like the one that had led her here. At first, she didn’t find anything, and she made a noise of annoyance low in her throat that she’d once again have to summon Blackwell to help her out of a sticky situation. Upon a second inspection, however, she found a small indention on the shelf just above her eye level. She rolled to the balls of her feet, hopping a bit to push it down.
The shelf began to turn, spinning a hundred and eighty degrees until she was returned to the library. No one seemed to be around, and she sighed in relief. But she didn’t make it two steps toward the exit before smoke began to crawl across the floor from beneath the shelves, billowing through the room like rolling storm clouds. She felt Sinclair’s presence before she saw him.
“Hello, Necromancer,” the Devil greeted her as all the light in the room snuffed out.
“‘Fuck off’ doesn’t seem to have the same potency here as it does in the French Quarter,” she muttered as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I come in peace,” he said as he began to circle her. “I’ve decided I didn’t make the best impression before.”
“What do you mean?” she said, tone dripping in sarcasm. “You were downright charming.”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “You have a decent sense of humor for a mortal.”
She didn’t respond. She had no desire to keep this conversation going. He cleared his throat at her silence, a phony gesture meant to feign an aura of humanity he did not possess. Devils loved to play at being human to lower mortals’ defenses.
“I thought perhaps I’d show you that I’m not so terrible as you might think,” he offered. “Give you a small reprieve from the sadness plaguing you here and offer you some fun.”
Ophelia’s walls immediately came up at the mention of fun. She was certain their definitions of that word varied drastically. “I’m not interested in fun. Now, if you don’t mind—or even if you do—I’d like to go back to my room.”
“Aren’t you a tad bit curious about what I have in mind?” he teased. “I swear it won’t cause you any physical harm and I won’t even ask for anything in return. I just want to show you what someone like me can give you. Have you ever truly seen what a Devil can do? A powerful one, I mean?”
She hesitated. She hadn’t had a single experience with a Devil before Phantasma because of her mother’s strict rules and even stricter curfew. She had only ever heard of their abilities second-hand—ranging from parlor tricks to omnipotence. It wouldn’t hurt to at least ask what he had in mind, right? To sate her curiosity?
Do it, the Shadow Voice urged. This ought to be good.
“What is it, exactly, that you want to show me?” she appealed.
Sinclair’s answering grin was dazzling. “Tell me your most frivolous fantasy.”
It took her a moment to think about that request. Truthfully, for most of her life her favorite daydream involved exploring the French or Italian countryside with Genevieve, somewhere completely uncharted to them both. The new scene forming in her mind, however, was much more alarming. It was of her and Blackwell, sitting in the drawing room of Grimm Manor. Him sitting upright with a book in his hand, her lying on her side with her head pillowed in his lap as she read her own novel.
Her breath hitched in surprise, and she shook away the image as quickly as she could.
“A ball,” she blurted out, picking the next random, frivolous thought that popped into her head. “I’ve never been to one. Which is practically blasphemous as a New Orleanian. I want to wear a ridiculously lavish gown and dance with handsome suitors.”
Sinclair stepped closer. “Close your eyes.”
She hesitated.
Do it, the Shadow Voice commanded now. Do it!
Her eyes fluttered closed. A cold gust went through the room, making her skin pebble as she shivered. Then a bright light flashed behind her lids and the silky sound of violins began to play somewhere in the distance, the romantic notes caressing her mind.
“Open your eyes,” Sinclair murmured.
Ophelia nearly fainted with shock at the room before her.
Gone was the library, replaced with a dazzling, gilded baroque ballroom. A phantasmagoria of splendor and grandiosity. The checkered floor was made of gold and cream marble and the scrolling filigree molding that climbed up the walls and over the fifty-foot ceiling was brushed with gold foil. Between the molding were various painted scenes of Angels and Demons in pastel oranges and pinks amongst clouds of swirling blue. In the center of the room hung a massive chandelier made of what had to be at least a thousand individual hanging tear-drop crystals. The entire back wall was made of glass, the band set up before it to the left, and Ophelia sucked in a breath when she saw the twinkling stars.
If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn they were real. She said as much aloud.
“They’re as real as you believe they are,” Sinclair responded. “Now, would you like to dance?”
He held out a hand, and she narrowed her eyes as she took it. He immediately swung her into his arms, the movement smooth, flowing, and soon they were engaged in an easy waltz across the dance floor. The music began to play louder, and soon other dancers emerged from the shadows beyond the pillars that lined the side of the ballroom. As other couples swirled and danced around them, Sinclair spun her out by one hand before expertly reeling her back in, and as she turned and turned, she felt the fabric of her nightgown grow heavier until it transformed completely into a dress even her wildest fantasies could not have come up with.
The dress was made of ruby silk and shimmering gold embroidery. The bodice looked as if it had been painted onto her skin. The sweetheart neckline of the red corset plunged scandalously low, and gold brocade appliqué was layered atop in an intricate, swirling pattern, accentuating her bosom. The appliqué climbed all the way up the straps and draped over her shoulders, sweeping down her back in a deep “U” shape. The gown’s full skirt was made of the same scarlet silk as the bodice, pleated in a most flattering way, lending hourglass curves to her usually shapeless figure. Golden opera gloves stretched from her fingertips to her elbows and a ruby pendant the size of a quarter hung around her throat just below her beloved locket.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Sinclair jutted his chin at the dress. “You look positively exquisite.”
“Yes,” she breathed as he spun her again and she watched her skirt twirl as if it were lighter than air.
“All of this took less than an ounce of my energy,” he revealed. “Imagine the things I could give you if I really took my time.”
“I’m not making any deals with you,” she informed him once again, her tone absolute. “I don’t care how many pretty dresses you give me.”
“But you made a deal with him?” he implored, the slits of his pupils tightening ever so slightly with frustration. “Why? What was his secret to convincing you to agree?”
“For starters, he isn’t a Devil.”
“Ah.” Sinclair rolled his eyes. “It’s Devils you hate. Original.”
“Self-preservation,” she countered. “No deal with you would lead to anything good. But Blackwell is helping me just as much as I am him—more, actually.”
“Until he steals away a decade of your life,” Sinclair reminded her. “Is that truly something you’re prepared to lose?”
She swallowed. No, it wasn’t. But she would never admit that to him of all people.
“I’m not going to lose,” she stated.
Sinclair laughed now, his maroon eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart, but you will. You have no idea what you’re up against.”
“Then tell me,” she pressed. “What am I up against? And why do you hate Blackwell so much? What could he have possibly done to you?”
The hand on her waist tightened as his face soured with her last question. “He had my freedom stolen. I am tied to this fucking Hellhole for the next few centuries because of that bastard.”
“What do you mean? I thought the Devils that ran this place were here of their own volition?”
“The rest are. It is only me and Phantasma’s creator—Salemaestrus—who are not here by choice,” Sinclair told her.
Salemaestrus. She filed that name away for later.
“The manor’s creator is forced to be here, too?” she questioned.
Sinclair sighed deeply and pulled them from the dance floor, pushing past the faceless crowd of dancers toward one of the massive pillars on the edge of the room. He leaned back against the marble column, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he began his story.
“No one in Phantasma can speak of the creator to anyone.” He gave her a loaded look. “Except for me.”
She propped a hand on her hip and tapped her foot impatiently. “Why?”
“It’s part of their contract. I, however, am not bound by the same sort of contract—I am indebted, not employed. And the boundaries of my debt do not include any sort of clause that keeps me from speaking about Salemaestrus himself,” he explained. “Only certain details of his situation.”
“How did you become indebted?” she wondered.
“I was foolish enough to once consider Salemaestrus a friend.” He seethed at the memory, shaking his head as he spoke the word friend. “When his father chained him to this place as punishment for treason, I was given a sentence for conspiring with him.”
“His father?”
Sinclair’s smile was all teeth, a fiendish sight. “The King of the Devils.”
She gaped in horror, rocking back a step. “What? Phantasma is run by—”
“The Prince of the Devils himself,” Sinclair finished, nodding in confirmation. “Salemaestrus fell irrevocably in love—and chose his lover over his father. As punishment, his father had his lover killed, and Salemaestrus is now forced to run the Devil’s Manor for eternity as a lesson. Or until his father gets bored and ends his sentence early. Whichever comes first.”
“And how do you fit into that?”
His upper lip curled. “I tried to help him hide his lover.”
She frowned. She hadn’t expected anything so noble from a Devil.
“And Blackwell?” she questioned. “Where does he fit into the story?”
Sinclair straightened up, fury flitting across his expression at the mention of Blackwell’s named. “That Phantom bastard has sabotaged me time and time again.”
She almost laughed. “How?”
“The details don’t matter. What does is that I had an opportunity to get the fuck out of here, and that damned Ghost ruined it. I’m going to make sure he never sees the light at the end of the tunnel as long as I’m stuck here.”
“That’s why you want me to forfeit,” she realized, the puzzle pieces falling into place. “You don’t want him to be released—as revenge.”
Sinclair’s smile turned tight. “It’s nothing personal, sweetheart.”
“See, I was about to say the same thing to you.” She made to turn away from him. “Sorry about your vendetta, but I’ve got one of my own and I don’t plan to fail. I will be finding Blackwell’s key whether you like it or not.”
His laugh made her pause. She twisted back just in time to see him begin to fade away.
“We’ll see,” he whispered.
Uneasiness sank in her stomach as she spun around, searching for him. The Devil was nowhere in sight, but the ballroom was still perfectly intact. Another song began to play, another round of dancing rippled through the crowd. She turned toward the shadows just past the columns and tried to step into them, but an invisible force slammed her back. That asshole had trapped her here.
She gathered her skirt up in her hands and ran. Slicing through the dance floor, shoving bodies out of her way, she tried every corner of the room for another exit, but her search was fruitless.
“Damn it,” she seethed before chanting Blackwell’s name. She loathed that she needed him to get her out of here. Except that he didn’t come.
She tried summoning him again.
No response.
Again.
No response.
No, this can’t be happening. Why isn’t he coming? Where is he?
The Shadow Voice cackled. This is what you deserve, foolish girl. Why don’t you try smashing the windows? Jump to your doom.
She twisted to face the glass wall. The night sky beyond it was still so clear. The stars smiled at her, twinkling in greeting as she padded closer, her silk skirt skimming the ground. Oh, how she had missed the stars. When she reached the glass, she placed a palm flat against its cool surface. Would breaking the glass shatter the illusion?
Here goes nothing, she thought as she wound her fist back, bracing herself for the pain that was about to come.
A split second before she could throw her punch, however, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She whipped around to find the most handsome man she had ever seen. With eyes of crystal blue and dark hair that curled onto his forehead.
He reached out a hand in offering. “Would you care to dance?”
She stared at his hand for a long moment. For some reason, she did want to dance. Even though she was pretty sure she shouldn’t.
“I promise I don’t bite.” The man smiled kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably.
She slowly lifted her hand and placed it in his. “Sure…”
He swept her into his arms and turned her around the dance floor. Song after song she waltzed, passing from partner to partner. Soon she felt herself grow tired, exhaustion settling deeper into her bones with each spin, each beat of the music. The faces of every suitor began to blend together, and there was an ache of emptiness deep in her core.
How long had she been dancing? Her feet were so sore…
Another spin, another—
Suddenly, she was being ripped out of her dance partner’s arms and into someone else’s embrace. She stumbled, eyes widening as she looked up and found a very pissed-off Blackwell.
“Are you out of your damned mind?” he reprimanded. “What the Hell are you doing?”
“I…” she started, but her mind was still fuzzy and she didn’t know how to explain. Then a name came jolting back to her. “Sinclair.”
Blackwell let out a string of curses that would have made the King of the Devils himself blush. Then, “What is it that you’re seeing right now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Around you, what exactly are you seeing?”
She glanced around them. “A ballroom. There’s a band, and dancers, and—”
“Fucking Hell,” he interrupted. “Alright, prepare yourself. This next bit isn’t going to be fun for you.”
Before she could ask him what the Hell he meant, he bent down and lifted her up, throwing her over his right shoulder like a sack of flour. He walked toward the opposite end of the ballroom, and the closer they got to the wall, the more she thrashed in his arms to let her go. His grip never wavered.
“You don’t understand!” she screamed at him as she beat her fists against his back. “There’s no way out. There’s a forcefield—”
Blackwell reached the wall and stepped through it, cutting off her words as the illusion around her shattered and a piercing pain exploded through her body.
