Page 26

Chapter

Twenty

Bloom

Trophy Collection

O rren’s words echoed in my mind: Ravencrux’s penthouse crowns his tower. It was the obvious place to start and probably the most dangerous.

The cautious part of me, the part molded by Mom’s fearful whispers, urged retreat. If I vanished here, who would notice? Sindy might spare a thought for her missing roommate, but our friendship was still green, untested by time or trust.

But I had to find answers before the killer came for me. The killer’s cat-and-mouse game gave me borrowed time, but the clock was ticking.

That woman—my mirror in death—had stared back at me in a silent scream, her voice forever gone and her life snuffed out too soon.

Darkness had followed me through Forsaken Academy’s gates. Now it whispered through the stones, coiled in shadowed corners. Whatever truth bound me to Ravencrux, to that dead woman with my face, I would drag it into the light before the academy’s stones drank another redhead’s blood.

I drew a steadying breath and ascended. The higher I climbed, the more the air hummed with restrained energy, like the charged silence before a lightning strike.

The eighth floor revealed a curved hallway with three doors.

I crept toward the central door, my bare feet silent against the polished stone.

The absence of Ravencrux’s presence was telling.

If he’d been here, I would have felt that distinctive pressure, that tightly leashed power I’d come to recognize like a scent.

I halted before the blackwood door. Embedded at the top of the frame was an emblem of a split pomegranate, its seeds spilling like drops of blood.

My breath caught.

Persephone’s symbol.

The connection struck like a thunderclap—Ravencrux’s obsession with redheads, this homage to the Underworld’s crimson-haired queen. A hot spike of something possessive flared in my chest before I crushed it. Now wasn’t the time for such dangerous thoughts.

The door pulsed with dark energy, exactly as Orren had described. Sebastian’s warning echoed in my mind: “His wards are designed specifically against me.”

An idea sparked. I raised my hands, a column of light weaving between my palms. It came easily, like muscle memory. Without a second thought, I hurled it at the writhing ward.

My magic merged with the shimmering darkness. Strands of light and shadow wove together into a glittering net. The ward wasn’t rejecting me but welcoming me.

No time to marvel at this revelation. The realization struck harder: this protection had never been meant to keepme out.

I slipped through the door, not expecting to find myself in a scholar’s sanctum rather than living quarters.

My breath caught at its vastness. Three stories of vaulted space arched above me, the ceiling alive with shifting constellations. Floor-to-ceiling windows rose from the dark stone floor, overlooking Obsidian Wilds.

Bookshelves lined the walls with ancient tomes, their leather bindings aged to burnt umber and wine-dark crimson. Between them, glass cases displayed artifacts that hummed with dormant power, scrolls that shimmered, daggers that wept shadow.

The study’s heart held an obsidian desk, its surface pristine except for three items: a brass lamp glowing softly, a yellowed manuscript, and a neat stack of papers. The leather chair sat slightly ajar, as if Ravencrux had merely risen to pour himself a drink and would return at any moment.

I ghosted across the room, praying the secret I sought was here, hidden among the countless books or locked in one of the desk drawers that seemed to whisper to me.

Answering the pull, I headed straight for a vintage desk near the fireplace. Its inlaid black gemstones winked in the dim light. The first drawer opened easily, then the second—nothing but writing implements inside.

The third resisted, humming with dark energy. I knew instinctively what it wanted. In the stories, dark wards always demanded blood, and mine might just be the key. I bit down hard on my finger until the skin split, then pressed the bleeding wound to the lock. It clicked open, recognizing me.

Beneath a magnifying glass lay a stack of photographs. The top image, another me, another not-me, knocked the cold breath from my lungs. A woman with my face stared listlessly at eternity, her throat marred by violent purple fingerprints. She’d been strangled to death.

I lifted the first photograph with trembling fingers. Beneath it lay a yellowed black-and-white newspaper clipping. The woman’s charred remains still bore the ghost of my features. Though the image lacked color, I knew. Another redhead.

My gaze snagged on the date: November 17, 1923.

The caption named her: Lady Nora Shore.

Photo after photo slid through my hands. A dozen faces. A dozen deaths. Each woman wore my likeness, each flame-haired, each frozen forever at the cusp of twenty.

The final image stole what little breath remained—a bidding paddle raised beside my doppelg?nger, her wrists already bound for sacrifice.

A red note scrawled across the margin: All perished before their twentieth birthday.

Oh gods, I was going to be sick.

I fought to keep my dinner down. Terror unfurled in my blood, its dark tendrils pulsing with my frantic heartbeats.

Six months. That’s all I had until my twentieth birthday, until my name joined this gallery of the dead. Fury burned through me, acidic and bright. I wouldn’t be another silenced victim. I’d carve justice from stone if I had to.

Yet even with Sebastian’s accusations and the evidence glaring back at me, I forced myself to think clearly.

Facts first. The killer was clearly immortal.

Aside from the three I knew—Stardust, Ravencrux, Kingsley—who else might walk these halls?

Sebastian himself also moved with unnatural grace, his power carefully veiled.

I drew a shuddering breath. The pieces fit too neatly and too conveniently. The unlocked drawer. The ward that welcomed me like an old friend. This wasn’t evidence discovered; it was evidenceplanted.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Sebastian or Ravencrux, or both were herding me toward some unseen end. They were enemies, and enemies didn’t work in tandem.

This wasn’t merely a game. It was a taunt. A sinister challenge carved in blood and left in my path.

My fingers shook as they riffled through the photographs again, each face a mirror of my own impending fate. The chill in my bones drilled deeper as I realized the implications. Either I was seeing a killer’s trophy or I was being led to believe an elaborate lie, a frame job.

Ask a better question. The thought sliced through my panic like an ice spike.

I inhaled sharply. The real mystery wasn’t who but why me? How could dozens of dead women across centuries share my exact face?

A sudden scrape at the door shattered the silence. My heart vaulted into my throat. I jammed the photos back into the drawer and lunged for the center desk, sliding beneath it just as the door groaned open and snicked shut.

Paws whispered across stone, approaching my hiding place.

I held my breath, pressing my back against the wood, my pulse a war drum in my ears.

Then, impossibly, six glowing crimson eyes peered at me. Not one head, but three, each studying me with unsettling intelligence. A hellhound. The gatekeeper of the Underworld, standing in Ravencrux’s study as casually as a house pet.

I froze. Then fear gave way to awe. The beast was magnificent, obsidian fur rippling over corded muscle, each breath steaming in the cool air. We stared at one another, mutual surprise hanging between us. Apparently, neither of us expected this intrusion.

As soon as the initial shock vanished, I readied myself to kick the beast if those three sets of teeth came any closer. He completely blocked my escape route with his massive frame while I squatted under the desk like a sitting duck.

Yet the expected surge of terror never came, and neither did the attack.

Perhaps it was my affinity with animals, similar to my connection with plants. The hellhound was just another type of animal, wasn’t it?

Stranger still, his presence stirred something in my chest, a recognition that made no sense.

He stood frozen, six crimson eyes wide as ifhe were the startled one. His heads tilted in unison, ears pricking forward with what looked like hesitant delight. At least he didn’t seem interested in making me his next meal.

An irrational wave of affection washed over me. It felt like reuniting with a beloved companion after years apart. It sounded absurd, since I’d certainly remember meeting a three-headed hellhound.

“Hello, boy,” I murmured, keeping my voice soft as silk. The hound remained statue-still, letting me make first contact. “My, what big teeth you have.”

All three heads nodded in unison, then the center muzzle curled into what could only be a grin.

“No biting, and we’ll be best friends,” I offered.

Encouraged, his left head nudged my shoulder. Heat radiated from the contact, not scorching but soothing, like glowing embers on a cold night.

I reached out cautiously and scratched under his chin. His fur felt like silk over tempered steel. A thunderous purr rumbled through my hand, vibrating up to my elbow.

“You’re breathtaking. Do you know that?” I smiled at him. “I’d feel safer with you watching over me. Maybe then the dead would stop visiting my dreams. Maybe those aren’t dreams.”

Twin plumes of hellfire flickered from his nostrils. The sight sent a jolt through me. Orren had exhaled smoke like that once. Was this his hound? But why would it be in Ravencrux’s study.

“You won’t tattle, will you?” I crooned, fingers working the spot between his ears. “I was just, ah…looking for milk. Definitely not snooping.”

The hellhound made a sound between a cough and a snort, undoubtedly laughing at me. Two heads tilted, inviting me to scratch between them, while the third remained fixed on the door, ever vigilant.

“Don’t give me that look,” I chided mockingly, scratching between his ears.

“You may not need milk, but I was raised on a French farm. Milk was my daily dairy.” My fingers worked through his silken fur as I rambled on.

“Being mostly vegetarian, I rely on milk and eggs for protein. Milk is in short supply in this school, and no one even adds milk to their tea or coffee here.” I shook my head in disapproval.

“I thought if anywhere had a secret stash, this penthouse…”

It felt so natural to talk to the beast. The words tumbled out with surprising ease, as if we’d shared countless conversations like this before, him lounging by my garden beds while I tended the herbs.

My garden. The memory pierced like a thorn. Would I ever see it again? Live to see twenty?

The hound chuffed again, definitely laughing. His center head suddenly nudged my hand, then dragged a tongue across my knuckles. The sensation reminded me of heated sandpaper.

“Your tongue could file wood, boy,” I yelped, shaking my stinging hand. “I’m not as tough as you, you overgrown puppy.”

All three heads immediately recoiled, six crimson eyes widening in what could only be mortification.

The realization struck. Shit, this wasn’t just a magical creature. This wastheguardian of the Underworld, and he understood every word.

“Mind letting me out? It’s a bit crowded under here.”

The hound immediately backed up, settling onto his haunches with eerie grace.

As I scrambled out from beneath the desk, limbs stiff, face burning, his sheer size became apparent.

Even seated, his shoulders nearly brushed my collarbone; fully erect, those three heads would loom over me like sentinels.

“You’re brilliant,” I breathed, unable to suppress my awe. “And far kinder than your reputation suggests.” The middle head dipped at the praise. “But if you’re here, your master can’t be far. I gotta go now.”

His middle head inclined slightly as he considered my words. Then he shifted sideways, clearing a path to the door. Six crimson eyes tracked my hesitant steps, their gaze heavy with something I couldn’t name.

At the threshold, I turned back. The hellhound stood motionless, watching me wistfully. “Thank you,” I whispered, then slipped into the hall.

My pulse hammered, but not from fear. That creature had chosen gentleness when he could have chosen violence. Had recognized me in some fundamental way.

As I fled down the spiral stairs, my heart pounding, my ribs hurting, those dead women’s faces floated behind my eyelids. Their empty stares would haunt my dreams tonight, I was certain. But for now, one question burned brighter—Why did the hound feel like my familiar?