Page 44 of Grotesque

He was serious. The notion chilled me.

The corners of Corban’s mouth pulled back, cutting farther into his cheeks. “Over you? Of coursssse sssshe would.” He hissed long and loud, his breath steaming in the air as the temperature dropped violently.

Corban struck faster than I could blink. His face turned scaly and ghastly. Long fangs flashed a breath from my own face as he lunged.

I felt Quint’s arms tense for the impact, the one that held the knife jerking violently as I instinctively turned inward, trying to create some space where there was none–

Too slow. I was too slow as Corban ripped Quint away from me. As Quint’s clenched hand ripped a white-hot line across my throat.

Something hot and wet sprayed over the left side of my face as Quint let loose a mangled scream.

I slapped my palm against my neck, but the wetness burst between my fingers. Blood. It was my blood.

Fog floated from my lips as I exhaled sharply, then gasped for air. Air that tasted like metal.

Sounds seemed somehow muffled. Somewhere, it sounded so far away, was the song of metal striking stone. The knife…

There was the briefest sound of a struggle, then an awful, wet tearing sound. Wetness splashed the other side of my face.

My eyes drifted to my right, fixed on the figure hunched over Quint’s body. The figure who had just relieved him of his throat. The figure–

“Corban.” Except I couldn’t get the word out. It felt choked. Why did his name taste so funny?

All fire evaporated from his slitted eyes when Corban lifted his head. He let Quint’s body fall and grabbed hold of me before I could follow suit. He enveloped me, pressing a cold hand to the side of my neck.

“He won’t take you from me,” he said. “Sorcha. Love, look at me.”

Corban’s other hand gripped my chin, dragging my gaze away from Quint’s jerking body.

His touch was so very cold and sticky. The rush of an ocean filled my ears.

For a brief moment, I felt like I was back in Miami, surrounded by the waves and the noise of the city. That this was all a sick nightmare.

I shut my eyes. They say manifestation can make anything happen if you believe in it strongly enough.

I manifested, wished, that I was in the white linen sheets of my bed, in my room overlooking the harbor.

That when I opened my eyes, I would see tall glistening skyscrapers.

Any moment now I would hear my mother’s condescending tone from somewhere down the hall.

“Sorcha.”

I blinked. I was floating toward a light at the end of a tunnel somewhere high above.

The glow of Corban’s eyes drew me in as he looked down on me. “Let me take you away from this place of darkness. From this nightmare. Will you let me?”

The darkness never left. The rich metallic bubble of blood was still in my nose. Yes. I needed to leave. I needed to get out of there. Get away to some place better. Get away from the violence and evil that was gripping my soul so hard it would permanently bruise once it released me.

If it ever released me.

I nodded into the hand still pressed against my throat.

“Good girl,” Corban said.

The room slanted as we fled the darkness and turned the corner that led upstairs. I swear I could see a body lying in the hallway. I grabbed the front of Corban’s soaked shirt. Trying desperately to hold onto something. What? I didn’t know.

The house seemed to waver with each step he took.

I looked on, dazed, as the walls splintered; the fine wallpaper seeming to tear off in strips as mold bloomed across it.

The marble of the columns dulling, cracking.

Tilted, empty frames decorated what had just minutes before been the glowing, lush entryway.

The whole wretched scene flickered beneath dusty lights.

Another step. The manor snapped into pristine focus, all order restored, before the illusion faltered again, shuddering into an image of ruin.

Bright crimson splashed the crumbling ceiling and walls of the top floor. The scene seemed to pulse: perfect, broken, gilded, decrepit. In both versions, the red stains remained.

Red footprints leading in the opposite direction we had come stained the rug and floor.

Corban reaffirmed the pressure on my neck, forcing my head tighter against his chest. He must have come through here before.

But that couldn’t be right. Those footprints weren’t from a pair of boots, they were clawed, and there were so many .

“Gods,” Corban whispered. “I’ll forgive the centuries you have forsaken me if you do not fail me now. ”

How strange, Corban was praying.

I’d never seen him like this. Fierce determination and desperation were carved into the striking grey lines of his face. I was the one that was supposed to be frightened, not him.

Shadows flickered in my peripheral and there at the top of the stairs stood the grand gilded mirror. Or it had once been a mirror. There was only a subtle reflection of me and the winged grotesque against a snow-covered landscape, white-blanketed trees, and darkness.

Corban’s grip on me tightened as he lengthened his stride. I braced for impact with the glass but was met instead with an all-consuming, soul-fraying cold.

And then there was nothing at all.