Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I scramble to my feet, adrenaline cutting through my shock. Whatever’s happening downstairs is bad. Catastrophically bad.
But before I can even reach the top of the stairs, a shadow fills the doorway at the end of the hall.
Blue stands there, still wearing his plague doctor costume, but the leather coat is soaked with blood. Fresh blood, dark and wet, covering his chest and arms like he’s been bathing in it. His face is a mask of something I’ve never seen before—exhaustion, grief, rage all twisted together.
Terror floods my system so fast I can barely breathe. “What’s going on?” The question comes out high and thin. “What’s wrong with Wren? Whose blood is that?”
His dark eyes find mine across the hallway, and for a moment he just stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost. Like he’s surprised I’m real.
“Who are these skulls?” I demand, my voice getting stronger even as my hands shake. “I saw them, Blue. I saw all of them. Seven skulls with the same names as the women in your portraits like some sick exhibit. Margaret, Eleanor, Vivian, Catherine, Sophia—all of them!” My pitch climbs higher with each name. “What the fuck is happening? Where is Cordelia? What the hell is happening?” I take a shaky breath, trying to make sense of the impossible. “I saw her at the Dryad’s Dance tonight—alive, breathing, crying all over you. But her skull is upstairs with a nameplate that says she’s dead. How can she be both places?”
Blue steps into the hallway, and I can see the weight of whatever happened at the Dryad’s Dance crushing down on his shoulders. When he speaks, he’s hoarse, broken.
“Hans is dead.”
“Hans?” The name comes out like a question, like maybe I misheard him. “What? WHAT?” I shake my head. “How?”
Blue looks at me with hollow eyes, then looks down at his gore-soaked coat like he’s just now noticing it. “There were too many of them. I tried to . . . I couldn’t save him.”
Blue takes a step toward me, then another, but halfway down the hall his legs give out. He stumbles against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the stone. His head falls forward into his hands, and I can see his shoulders shaking.
I’ve never seen Blue show weakness. Not once. He’s always been controlled, composed, dangerous in that careful way that makes people step aside when he walks into a room. But this isn’t weakness. This is something much more powerful—grief so raw and devastating that it’s stripped away every defense he’s ever built.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Saylor
The church bells aren’t ringing—they’re pounding out a funeral march that vibrates through the stone floor and into my bones.
I sit in the third pew, watching Blue move through clusters of mourners, shaking hands and accepting condolences while his mind is clearly somewhere else. Dame Gothel touches his arm and speaks words I can’t hear. Dr. Finch grips his shoulder. Elliott offers a flask disguised as a prayer book.
Everyone wants to comfort the grieving, broken man. Except Blue isn’t that man. Blue is the man who keeps seven skulls on the third floor of his mansion and attends funerals for friends who died protecting his demons.
Two days of silence between us. Two days of him appearing at meals, eating without tasting, disappearing into parts of the house I don’t dare follow. Wren moves through her duties, but every task seems to require twice the effort it used to. The whole estate feels deflated, a balloon slowly leaking air.
And I’ve been hiding in storage units, sitting among boxes of my old life, trying to figure out what the hell comes next. Because I can’t stay here. Not knowing what I know. I could handle Blue being a killer—hell, that turned me on if I’m being honest. But killing women and preserving them upstairs? That crosses a line.
Doesn’t it?
The rational part of my brain keeps circling back to the same arguments. I’ve murdered now too. I poisoned men and felt nothing but satisfaction watching them foam at the mouth. I stabbed Leroy and the only thing that bothered me was the mess. I even slit a man’s throat—accidentally, yes—but still a kill. Who am I to judge anyone for their relationship with death?
But this feels different. Sick. Twisted. Demented even. He mentioned that those portraits remind him of the good. How can that be? How can skulls of these women be good? And if Blue could kill them, display them, visit them whenever nostalgia struck . . .
Would he kill me?
Of course not. Blue protects me, cherishes me, looks at me like I’m the answer to questions he’s been asking his whole life.
But maybe Margaret thought that too. And Eleanor. And all the others whose skulls are organized so carefully upstairs.