Page 27 of Fated In Forever (Nocturne Vampire Clan #4)

EVANGELINE

W ow. Just…wow.

The obsidian fortress rose like a jagged wound above us.

Volcanic glass walls were covered with more of those etched markings, hairline fractures spread across the gleaming surface like a web of ancient scars.

The shadow sky seemed to pause when we passed through those gates, watched by gargoyles carved from the same shiny glass, their features worn smooth by centuries of blowing sand, their hollow eyes tracking our every move.

The inner courtyard lay in ruins, like shards of a shattered mirror.

The obsidian flagstones were buckled and cracked, a fountain at the courtyard's center stood dry and broken, its grotesque main figure headless and missing limbs. The basin was filled with black sand, the same sand we’d been tracking through for hours.

Had there ever been water here, or had that black sand once spilled from basin to basin?

Something to think about as we approached the castle itself.

The main doors to the castle hung loose on broken hinges, and beyond the opening, a grand staircase of black stone curved upwards out of sight, the Great Hall stretched away into shadow, flanked by obsidian pillars rising like the ribs of some colossal beast, holding up a roof that no longer existed.

Massive chandeliers of black iron lay broken on the floor, like the skeletons of fallen giants.

“Holy shit. Look at that.” My hand found Malachi’s, my fingers wrapping around his as I stared down the long expanse.

At the far end, a throne of fused skulls and obsidian sat empty upon a raised dais, like it was waiting for its king, and I snuck a look at Malachi, his face expressionless.

Tattered banners flapped from the walls, whatever symbols they once displayed too faded to make out, and everything reeked of death.

The lost souls had followed us in, spinning up through the gaping hole in the roof, floating along on unseen breezes, but most of them stayed close, hovering around me and Malachi.

Occasionally, a distant whistle echoed through the empty halls—the wind tearing through broken windows, the groan of settling stone. “Whose castle is this?” I whispered. “Who used to live here, do you think?”

But Malachi didn’t answer, staring, not at the hauntingly beautiful desolation, but at the floor in front of the throne.

At the crown lying there, tipped to the side, fallen from the head of some forgotten king.

Or waiting to sit upon the head of the new one.