TREACHERY
Ophelia stepped from the portal and emerged back into the foyer. She tore through the space with purpose, making her way to find a place with blank wall as she waited for Blackwell to reappear.
“Where are you going?” Sinclair demanded from his post next to the portal.
She paused, turning to bare her teeth at the Devil. “To finish this.”
“What do you mean, finish this?” he said, seething.
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” She grinned.
A moment later, Blackwell blinked in at her side. “You’re going to summon the door again.” A statement.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I am.”
Sinclair balked in disbelief. “That isn’t possible. Only Salemaestrus can make it appear—when there’s one last contestant standing.”
Blackwell’s smile was knowing. “She’s done it before.”
Sinclair sputtered. “No.”
Ophelia closed her eyes and recalled the scene of the door. It was right before she had met Blackwell, well, officially met Blackwell. It was at the end of the hallway in her group’s wing, but she had a pretty good hunch that the location didn’t matter. Only access to a blank canvas. She pictured how the doorway stretched up out of thin air, the enormous wrought-iron frame fitted with scarlet mosaics, the gilded handle.
Her locket began to heat around her neck, and when she opened her eyes, there it was. Sinclair gaped in awe at her for a moment before his expression gave way to fury.
“You do not understand what you are walking into, girl,” he spat. “Listen to me—”
She laughed, cutting him off. “I suppose it’s a good thing that’s my problem and not yours, right?”
She strode to the door, Blackwell at her back, watching Sinclair to make sure the Devil didn’t decide to charge at her. She grasped the handle and tugged, but the door didn’t budge. She glanced back at Blackwell in question.
“You have to say the creator’s name for it to unlock. It’s why I couldn’t help you open it before—I couldn’t say his name unless you already knew it,” he told her. “Usually, the final contestant receives it on the tenth day, but… it should still work.”
“I’m warning you, girl,” Sinclair said. “You will be sorry if you do this.”
She paid the Devil no mind. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Blackwell and whispered, “Do you truly believe we can always find our ways back to each other? You’ve said before nothing would ever stop you from getting to me if I needed you. That you would tear the universe apart at its seams to keep that vow. Do you still mean that?”
He reached up to grasp her face in his hands. “With every ounce of my soul. When you go through that door, it will not be the last time I see you.”
“You promise?” she whispered.
“I swear, angel,” he vowed.
She nodded and called out, “Salemaestrus.”
The heavy metallic click of a lock came from the doorknob in front of her, and this time, when she pulled at the handle, the door swung open. There was nothing but darkness and the essence of power beyond the frame. Blackwell let her go, a pained expression on his face as he watched her step forward. A deep gust of wind sucked her inside and the door slammed shut behind her, severing her from Blackwell and the manor.
The gust of wind pulled and pulled at her body until she found herself approaching a single spot of light. When her feet hit the floor, she spun around in a circle, squinting to try and make out something in the shadowy abyss.
“Hello?” she called. “Salemaestrus! I’m here for my prize.”
There was no answer. Only silence. Minutes went by, possibly hours, as she waited in the dark. And she was growing impatient. She wanted to do this alone. For herself. But she wondered what would happen if she summoned Blackwell. If there was a detail she was missing since she hadn’t received a clue for this trial.
Just call him, she told herself. It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help. You’re still going to be the victor.
She called for Blackwell and waited. There was no response.
Maybe he can’t be summoned in this level, she thought to herself.
But suddenly the energy shifted around her, power like she’d never felt before filling the space around her. Somewhere beyond the small glowing circle she was standing in, footsteps approached.
“Hello, angel,” a deep velvet voice greeted her.
Blackwell stepped into the ring of light.
“Good, you heard me,” she said with relief. “Do you know what I should do next?”
He was unnervingly silent. She narrowed her eyes. Something was different.
“Blackwell?” she whispered.
“Firstly, let me reintroduce myself.” He dipped his head in a formal bow. “My name is Salemaestrus Erasmus Blackwell, Prince of the Devils. But you, angel, may call me Salem.”
