Page 51 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

The delivery of the news triggered an eerie wave of energy from the house, which had been silent since Jack’s recovery.

Now it moaned anew, and the Inspector’s curses responded.

He winced in pain, leaning forward as if struck in the stomach.

I considered offering comfort, but knew the consequences of physical contact.

After a breath, he steadied himself, flexing his hand as if he had touched something charged with electricity.

I observed the amber of his eyes, the color filling in otherwise dark irises, and considered the possibility this was the result of Inspector Harrow clearing the blast zone before he lit the fuse.

“Do you have anything to do with this?” I asked, keeping my tone hushed.

He caught me in that chimeric gaze, which dipped briefly to my mouth, followed by a throaty noise that might have been a laugh or a scoff.

“Suspicion looks good on you, Ms. Blackwicket,” he said, raising his attention to the ceiling where the red stain of curses coiled like wood smoke from the cornices, towards the Inspector.

“Despite my blissful time here, I’m still not familiar with the way the house works. Is this a typical experience?”

“No,” I said, staring down the hall where the daylight had gone gloomy and blue as dusk, which was still hours away. “Something’s wrong. ”

A scream, frantic and piercing, shattered the air, already thick with dread.

“Jack,” I choked, sprinting with all the speed I could manage, realizing halfway up the stairs that the boy’s screams weren’t coming from his room on the second floor but from somewhere on the third.

Inspector Harrow followed closely as we scaled the second flight.

Upon reaching the landing, I noticed the attic door stood wide open, but the earsplitting howling wasn’t coming from there; it peeled from Fiona’s bedroom.

We found Jack huddled in a corner, something clutched tightly between his hands, pressed to his face to shield him from what perched vulture-like on the back of the demolished wardrobe. Auntie wrenched towards us, her mouth open, scarlet smog billowing forth alongside a high, grating wail.

On hands and feet, Auntie climbed down, prowling, her lower jaw popping as it shifted side to side, gnawing on air.

The house had become a reverse beacon, pulling in light until everything around appeared to be collapsing, growing smaller.

Finally, I recognized the creature for what it was, what it was capable of.

My mother had labeled it our protector, but as with the other twisted things in Blackwicket House, its only purpose was to relieve its own damnation.

I carefully approached Jack, who’d stopped screaming and was releasing shaky gasps in quick bursts.

The Drudge mirrored my movements, seeking an opening to attack, but Victor intervened, his broad frame shielding me.

The creature halted, snapping its maw in fury, yet didn’t advance.

Inspector Harrow was close enough to me that even in the unnatural gloom I saw the darkness pulse through him, poison spreading along his flesh, corrupt magic thick and noxious.

It snagged at me but didn’t take full hold, preferring the prize of more fetid power it would find in Auntie.

“Victor,” I whispered, the sound overtaken by the snapping of bone and cartilage as it rearranged itself under Inspector Harrows skin, stretching and pulling at his shape in gut-wrenching contractions.

“Get the boy,” he ordered, his words a chasmic wreckage of hemorrhaged vocal cords, guttural and inhuman.

Sure of his ability to protect me, I took the last hasty steps to Jack, tucking my hands beneath his arms, murmuring words of comfort all the way.

“Don’t look,” I encouraged him, as he stood shakily, clinging still to the item in his hands—the small toy dog, ears rubbed smooth. Air lurched from my lungs, further contorted by the scrap of fabric Auntie had dropped from her clawed hand when she’d turned her attention to us.

Despite being torn, the lettering was recognizable.

Roark.

“Keep your eyes on the floor,” I instructed, even as I was trying to get oxygen. “Walk quickly, we’re going to the hall, then to the stairs. Move.”

He followed my instructions, but as we took our first step, the dark angel of Blackwicket House sprang towards us.

“Run!” I yelled as she slammed into the solid barrier of Victor. The bellowing that rang out behind us reminded me of when two mountain lions had brawled for territory in the woods at the edge of Blackwicket property, the noise unholy and vicious.

We emerged into the hall, but didn’t get far.

Jack was yanked from my arms, his legs pulled from beneath him by the crushing grip of the Drudge.

He fell face-first onto the hard floor, his forehead cracking against the wood.

His screaming renewed as Auntie dragged him towards the open attic door.

He clawed at the floor, his nails scratching and catching, his head flung back, wild eyes on me as blood poured from his nose from the impact it had made with the ground .

Auntie mounted the broken stairs, Jack’s hands clasping the doorframe, and I bounded after, lunging not for the boy, but Auntie, throwing my arms around her as if to embrace.

She was solid and carried the scent of dust and peat, the toxic mist emanating from her filling my nose and mouth.

My body prepared for consumption, but that had never been my intention.

Instead, I unleashed my magic outwards, the powerful tide draining my energy and breaking the Drudge’s hold.

But this wasn’t a simple transfer. The blast had misplaced Auntie’s curses, and they sought a place in the emptiness my attack had left behind.

Even as I inhaled, breathing them deep, Auntie thrashed backward, pulling me with her as we crashed into the staircase, the rotten boards splitting, shards and splinters stabbing my skin.

The Drudge released me, scrambling aside, only to collide with another monster head-on, the largest I’d ever encountered.

Its humanoid form was as twisted as a vine-entangled oak, built of ashes, the soul of a fire-scorched forest made tangible.

They clashed ferociously on the narrow staircase, the walls trembling with their forceful blows, while I pulled Jack to his feet.

The attic door swung shut on its own, almost hitting us, the impact echoing.

The ceiling above trembled, the battle thundering for a few moments more before ceasing.

In the span of one of Jack’s sobs, it became eerily quiet, shadows retreating in favor of the afternoon light, which resumed shining through the latticed windows.

I spared a moment we didn’t have to assess Jack’s nose, already bruised, the bridge split, two rivulets of blood running down either side. My next words were meant to be a balm, to calm him with the safety of knowing he no longer had to lie, that he was with someone trustworthy.

“It’s over, Roark,” I whispered, taking his face in my hands, our eyes meeting. “I know everything, and it’s going to be alright. ”

“I’m not Roark!” He screamed, yanking at my hands, “I’m Jack! Roark is dead! He’s dead! I don’t want to be dead too, leave me alone!”

He struggled, then all at once, became still, calling, “Thea!”

I assumed this was hysterics, crying for someone familiar, but with a last shove he broke away, running into the outstretched arms of Thea James, who stood a step behind William Nightglass at the top of the stairs.

Horror rooted me to the spot. The house had let them in.

“That,” William said, with a manic gleam in his eye, his smile broad and satisfied, “was quite the display.”