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Silence. Only the sound of their breathing. And then a new sound. Quiet and distant.

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“Do you hear that?” she whispered, still clinging to him. The tune grew louder. One instrument, one note at a time, it pieced itself together until at last she could place what it was she heard. An orchestra?

“Don’t listen,” he said, his voice brittle. “Pretend it’s not real.”

The music grew steadier, firmer, and it was real—string instruments sighing out a swirling waltz. A crash of cymbals accented a change in melody. The waltz swelled even louder, so unlike the deafening, crunching goth music. It couldn’t be another band, could it? There was no way. She heard no guitars. No tortured vocals.

New voices filtered in from beyond the door, different from the whispers they’d heard a moment before. These voices were more substantial, more alive, the sound of real people laughing and talking and shouting. The voices rose steadily, accompanied now by the delicate clink and tinkle of glassware. More and more voices chimed in, one for every second that passed, until they blended into a unanimous, lively hum. Despite the light laughter, the trilling, swirling tune, Isobel clung tighter to the back of Varen’s jacket. It made no sense. All of it felt . . . wrong.

“Who’s out there?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“Isobel, listen to me,” he said, turning to her. Her stare broke from the door and she looked into his eyes as he spoke. “Look for a way to the woodlands. When you’re there, find the door. You’ll know it when you see it. Go through it and don’t wait for me. Don’t trust anything you see.”

“What? But . . . I—I don’t understand.”

He shook her. “Promise me!”

“Varen, I—”

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Her voice caught in her throat, seized into silence as she watched his eyes dilate, the pinprick of fear at their core expanding, consuming the green of his irises until nothing remained.

Nothing except for two black coin-size holes.

She felt a tremble start all over. She reached for him but stopped short as black-to-purple wisps of cloudlike ink, like a thousand crawling insects, whispered out from behind his shoulders. The darkness surrounded him, growing thicker, clamoring to take hold of him, like the unlimited tentacles of some formless wraith. The wisps wrapped his shoulders, his arms.

A pair of blindingly white hands emerged from within the churning void. Like talons, they clung to his chest. A woman’s white face appeared in a flash over his shoulder—her eyes two empty sockets.

Panicked, Isobel reached for him. She caught his arm, and for a moment they held each other tightly.

“Find the door,” he said. Then he let go.

“No!”

With a hiss of shadows he fell backward, into the open wound of darkness. His arm slipped from her hands despite her desperate fight to keep hold, and then the blackness folded over him, swallowing him, knitting together until it was gone and he with it.

“Varen!”

She rushed through the space that had taken him. She reached the wall, pressed her hands flat to the wood, beating, shouting. “Varen!”

She swung around, searching the room with her eyes. The light overhead continued to sway. Back and forth. Back and forth. Breathing hard, her heart thundering, she watched it, watched it as though, with its next pass, it would bring him back.

She ran to the center of the room and turned in a full circle. She stopped, but around her, the room continued to spin. It turned and turned, revolving faster and faster until everything smeared and streaked into a blur. The light. The laughter. The voices and music. Her legs weakened. Dizziness overtook her. Her body gave in and her knees hit the floor. The room whirred faster. Nausea crept over her. She lowered her head, shut her eyes, and pressed her hands over her ears to block it out.

“Stop!” she said, then screamed, “Stop!”

A quiet click noise, like the unlatching of a door, broke through her consciousness.

Isobel looked up.

The room had ceased to spin. Before her, the door stood cracked open. Light shone in—a dim crimson glow. Through the crack, Isobel saw plush ebony carpeting and the corner of thick black draperies.

“Come, let us go,” she heard a man say, his accented voice rising over the drone of talk and distant shrill laughter. Small bells jangled.

“Whither?” another man asked.

“To your vaults.”

The scent of cinnamon, freshly baked bread, and spiced meat seeped through the door, causing her stomach to clench. She remained motionless, listening, battling the urge to throw up. pqdm.com