Serilda exhaled, shaken by the story that had spilled out of her and the lurid visions it had conjured. She was still alone in the throne room, but the smell of blood had returned, thick and metallic. She looked down to see the floor awash with it, dark and congealed, its surface the sheen of a black mirror. It pooled at her feet, to the base of the throne’s dais, covering the broken stones, splattered across the walls.
But there was one place, only a few steps in front of her, that was untouched. A perfect circle, as if the blood had struck an invisible wall.
Serilda swallowed hard against the lump that had begun to clog her throat as she told the story. She could see it all clearly now. The prince standing amid the bloodshed in this very room. She could picture his flame-red hair. The freckles on his cheeks. The flecks of gold in his eyes. She could see his fury and his sorrow. His courage and his devastation. She had seen it all herself—how he wore these emotions in the set of his shoulders and the quirk of his lips and the vulnerability in his gaze. She had even seen the scar on his wrist, where the arrow had pierced him. Where the Erlking had cursed him.
Gild.
Gild was the prince. This was his castle and the stolen princess was his sister and—
And he had no idea. He didn’t remember any of it. He couldn’t remember any of it.
Serilda inhaled a shaky breath and dared to finish the story, her voice barely a whisper.
“The Erlking’s wicked spell was cast, his gruesome revenge complete. But the massacre that happened in that castle …” She paused with a shudder. “The massacre that happened here was so horrific that it tore a hole into the veil that had long separated the dark ones from the world of the living.”
In response to her words, the blood on either side of that untouched circle began to flow upward. Two thick rivulets, the color of burgundy wine and thick as molasses, crawled toward the ceiling. When they were not much taller than Serilda herself, they moved inward and drew together, forming a doorway in the air. A doorway framed in blood.
Then, from the center of the doorway, the blood dripped … upward.
In slow, steady drops.
Climbing toward the rafters.
Serilda followed its trail, up.
Up.
To a body hung from the chandelier.
Her stomach lurched.
A child. A little girl.
For a moment, she thought it was Gerdrut and she opened her mouth to scream—
But the rope turned with a creak and she could see that it was not Gerdrut. The girl’s face was almost unrecognizable.
Almost.
But she knew it was the princess she’d seen in the locket.
The kidnapped child.
Gild’s sister.
Serilda wanted to rail. To howl. To tell the old gods and whoever was listening that this was not how the story was meant to end. The prince should have defeated the wicked king, saved his sister, saved them all.
He should never have been trapped in this horrid place.
He should never have been forgotten.
The Erlking was not supposed to win.
But even as her tears built up, Serilda clenched her teeth and refused to let them fall.
There was still one child who might be saved tonight. One heroic deed to perform.
With tightened fists, she stepped through the tear in the veil.
Chapter 51
The blood was gone. The castle returned to its splendor.
Serilda had only ever seen the throne room as part of the castle ruins. This was where the pool of blood had leaked between the brittle weeds and clung to her footsteps. Where the two thrones on the dais alone seemed to have been preserved in time, untouched by the centuries of neglect. They looked the same now as they did on the mortal side of the veil, but now the rest of the room was as pristine to match them. Vast chandeliers lit with dozens of candles. Thick carpets and fur skins and black velvet drapes hung behind the dais, framing the thrones. Pillars carved from white marble, each one depicting a tatzelwurm climbing toward the ceiling, its long serpentine tail spiraling all the way to the floor.
And there was the Erlking, waiting for her upon his throne.
Beside him, a sight that brought a shuddering gasp from Serilda’s lips.
Hans. Nickel. Fricz. Anna.
Their little ghosts standing to either side of the throne, holes in their chests and their nightgowns stained with blood.
“Serilda!” Anna cried. She started to run off the dais, but was blocked by the king’s crossbow.
She whimpered and fell back, clutching at Fricz.
“How miraculous,” the Erlking drawled. “You’ve returned from the dead. Though looking rather unkempt. Why, one might think you spent the night dead by the side of a river.”
Hatred burbled like a sulfur spring inside of her. “Why would you take them? Why would you do this?”
He shrugged mildly. “I think you know the answer to that.” His fingers drummed against the crossbow handle. “I told you to stay close. To be present in Adalheid when I summoned you. Imagine my disappointment to find you were not in Adalheid. I was forced to search for you yet again—but no one was home at the mill in M?rchenfeld.” His eyes crystallized. “How do you think that makes me feel, Lady Serilda? That you could not be bothered to bid farewell. That you would rather die than assist me with one simple favor.” A haughty smile touched his dark-tinted lips. “Or at least, pretend to.”
“I’m here now,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “Please let them go.”
“Who? Them? These darling little ghouls? Don’t be absurd. I’ve claimed them for my court, now and forever. They’re mine.”
“No. Please.”
“Even if I could let them go, have you considered what that would mean? Let them go home? I’m sure their families would be thrilled to have sad little ghosts haunting their sad little cottages. No, best they stay with me where they can be made useful.”
“You could free their spirits,” she said around a sob. “They deserve peace. They deserve to go to Verloren, to rest.”
“Speak not of Verloren,” he growled, sitting taller. “When Velos gives me what is mine, then I will consider releasing these souls, and not a moment sooner.” His rush of anger passed as quickly as it had risen, and he leaned against one arm of the throne, resting the crossbow in his lap. “Speaking of what is owed to me, I have another task for you, Lady Serilda.”
She thought of her promise to Pusch-Grohla. She had sworn she would not help the Erlking anymore.
But she was a liar, through and through.
“You took one more child,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you want any more gold from me, then you will let her go. You will return her to her family, unharmed.”