The last scream hadn’t sounded like Julian. Or that’s what she tried to tell herself as she caught a boat to take her back to La Serpiente. She reminded herself it was only a game. But the madness part was starting to feel very real.
If the woman in gray truly had gone insane, Scarlett couldn’t help but wonder: Why? And if she hadn’t, if she was just another actor, Scarlett could see how going after her, how believing her cries of pain were real, could make a person mad.
Scarlett thought of Tella. What if she was tied up screaming somewhere? No. That type of thinking was exactly what would drive Scarlett mad. Legend had probably provided an entire wing of lush rooms for Tella; Scarlett could picture her ordering around servants and eating strawberries dipped in pink sugar. Hadn’t Julian said Legend took excellent care of his guests?
Scarlett hoped she’d find Julian in the tavern, teasing her about how she’d run after someone who looked like him, and how long she’d spent inside of Nigel’s silken tent. Scarlett convinced herself Julian had just given up on waiting for her; he’d gotten bored and taken off. She’d not left him screaming in the tunnel. It was a different dark-haired young man she’d seen run into that garden. And Nigel’s words had been another trick of the game. She was certain of all this by the time she made it back to La Serpiente. Almost.
The Glass Tavern was even more crowded than it had been the day before. It smelled of laughter and boasts, laced with sweetened ale. Half a dozen glass tables were cluttered with windswept women and red-cheeked men all bragging of their finds—or bemoaning their lack of discoveries.
To Scarlett’s great pleasure, she overheard the silver-haired woman she’d met in Tella’s room talk of how she’d been taken for a fool by a man who claimed to sell enchanted doorknobs.
“We tried the knob,” she said. “Put it in the door up there, but it didn’t lead us anywhere new.”
“That’s because it’s just a game,” a black-bearded man replied. “There’s not really any magic here.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
Scarlett would have loved to continue eavesdropping in the hopes of learning something, as the lines between the game and reality were starting to blur a little too much for her, but a young man near the corner caught her eye. Dark, chaotic hair. Strong shoulders. Confident. Julian.
Scarlett felt a swell of heady relief. He was all right. He wasn’t being tortured; in fact, he looked quite well. His back was turned, but the tilt of his head and the angle of his chest made it clear he was flirting with the girl near his table.
Scarlett’s relief shifted into something else. If she wasn’t even allowed to chat with another young man because of their make-believe engagement, she was not going to let Julian make eyes at some tart in a bar. Especially when this particular tart was the pregnant strawberry blonde who had made off with Scarlett’s things. Only now the young woman didn’t appear to be with child at all. The bodice of her dress was smooth and flat, no longer curving around a bulging stomach.
Slightly seething, Scarlett placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder as she approached. “Sweetheart, who is—”
Scarlett’s words broke as he turned around. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She should have realized he was wearing all black. “I thought you were—”
“Your fiancé?” Dante provided, in a tone full of nasty innuendo.
“Dante—”
“Oh, so you remember my name. You didn’t just use me for my bed.” His voice was loud. Patrons sitting at the next tables shot Scarlett looks ranging from disgust to desire. One man licked his lips, while a group of boys made inappropriate gestures.
The strawberry blonde snorted. “This is the girl you told me about? From the way you described her, I thought she’d be much prettier.”
“I’d been drinking,” Dante said.
Red heat burned Scarlett’s cheeks, far brighter than her usual peach embarrassment. Julian might be a liar, but it looked as if he was right about Dante’s true nature.
Scarlett wanted to say something back to both Dante and the girl, but her throat was tight and her chest was hollow. The men at nearby tables were still leering, and now the ribbons of her dress were beginning to darken, shifting into shades of black.
She needed to get out of there.
Scarlett turned on her heel and wove back through the tavern, followed by whispers, while black color wept from the ribbons of her dress, spreading like stains all over her white gown. Tears sprang to her eyes. Hot, angry, embarrassed.
This is what she got for pretending as if she didn’t have a real fiancé. And what had she been thinking—touching him like that? Calling him “sweetheart”? She’d believed Dante was Julian, but did that make it any better?
Stupid Julian.
She should never have agreed to her arrangement with him. She wanted to be angry with Dante, but it was Julian who had created this mess. She braced herself as she opened the door to her room, half expecting to find him lounging in the great white bed, dark head propped up on a pillow, feet resting on one as well. The room had the feeling of him. Cold wind, wicked smiles, and blatant lies. Scarlett felt the shadow of those things as she stepped inside. But there was no young man to go with it.
The fire quietly roared. The bed lay there, covered in layers of untouched fluff. The sailor had kept his promise about trading days in the room.
Or he’d never left Castillo Maldito.
17
Scarlett did not dream of Legend. She did not dream at all, no matter how hard she chased sleep. Each time she shut her eyes, the snaking corridors beneath Castillo Maldito stretched out, filled with flickering torches and screams.
When she opened her eyes, lurking shadows moved where they did not belong. Then she closed her eyes again and the dreadful cycle repeated.
She told herself it was only in her head, the shadows and the sounds. Wails and footsteps and crackling noises.
Until something cracked that was definitely in her room.
Scarlett sat up carefully. The dying fire buzzed as it tossed bits of light here and there. But the noise she heard was louder than that.
It came again. Another crack, right before the hidden door to her room flew open and Julian stumbled in. “Hello, Crimson.”
“What are—” Scarlett couldn’t finish her question. Even in the grainy light she could tell something was not right. His uneven steps. The tilt of his head. Quickly, she escaped her bed, covering herself with a blanket. “What happened to you?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Julian swayed as if drunk, but all Scarlett could smell was the metallic tang of blood.
“Who did this to you?”
“Remember, it’s only a game.” Julian smiled, twisted in the firelight, right before collapsing on the lounge.
“Julian!” Scarlett rushed to his side. His entire body was cold, as if he’d been outdoors all this time. She wanted to shake him, to wake him back up, but she wasn’t sure that was a brilliant idea given all the blood. So much blood. Very real blood. It matted his dark hair and stained her hands as she tried to put him in a better position. “I’ll be right back—I’m going to leave and get you help.”
“No—” Julian grabbed her arm. His fingers were frosty, like the rest of him. “Don’t go. It’s only a head wound; they look much worse than they are. Just grab the towel and the basin. Please.” His fingers tightened as he said the word please. “It will raise too many questions if you bring anyone else up here. The ‘vultures,’ as you called them, they’ll think it’s part of the game.”
“But it’s not?”
Julian wobbled his head as his chilly hand fell away from Scarlett’s arm.
Scarlett didn’t believe that the vultures were the only reason he wanted to avoid attention, but she hurriedly fetched two towels and the basin. Within a minute the water was red and brown. After a few minutes Julian gained a bit of warmth. He was right about the head wound; it didn’t seem to be as bad as it looked. The gash was shallow, though he tilted to the side as he tried to sit upright.