Page 17 of Her Cruel Empire
“How long is the drive?” I venture as we pull away from the airfield.
“An hour. Maybe more.” She doesn’t look up from her phone. “Try to enjoy the scenery.”
But there isn’t much to see—just rolling hills that grow wilder and more desolate as we climb into dark and forested terrain. The sun begins to set behind us, painting everything in shades of blood and shadows.
Then we reach a village.
It’s like stepping into a fairy tale. Not the Disney kind, but the original Brothers Grimm version, where children get eaten or disappear in the woods. Narrow streets wind between ancient stone houses with pointed roofs and dark windows. Laundry flutters like ghosts from balconies. The limo has to slow right down as it passes through, so that I get a good look at everything.
And the people...
They turn to watch as our convoy passes, faces pale in the twilight. An old woman dressed in black from foot to shawled head clutches a rosary to her chest. A man pushes his daughter behind him, shielding her with his body. Another woman actually crosses herself as we drive by.
“Why are they doing that?” I whisper.
Eva’s smile is sharp. “They still believe in monsters.”
The way she says it—like she’s proud of their fear—makes ice crawl up my spine.
Then the castle comes into view, and my breath catches.
It rises against the mountainside like something from a nightmare, black stones and soaring towers silhouetted against the darkening sky. A lake stretches below it, so still it looks likea dark mirror reflecting the castle’s tormented spires. Gothic windows stare down like hollow eyes.
“Welcome to my home,” Eva says softly, and for the first time since the plane, she’s looking at me. Really looking. “What do you think?”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. It’s beautiful and terrible and completelywrong, like a poison apple that gleams too bright.
“It’s...” I swallow hard. “It’s very big.”
“Indeed it is.”
The gates swing open with a groan of metal on stone, and I notice that for all its antiquity, the gates are electric. We pull into a courtyard with walls high enough to feel claustrophobic despite the size of the space. It’s like driving into the Middle Ages.
We all get out, and I stand there in my bare feet again, not wanting to risk my heels on the flagstones. Eva sends one last text and then looks at me. “Come on.”
A woman emerges from the main entrance as we head towards it, and she’s tall, severe-looking, dressed in a slim-fitting black dress. She exchanges rapid words with Eva in that language I can’t identify, then turns to me with eyes like winter.
“This is Mrs. Kovacs,” Eva says. “She’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” I blink at her. “Aren’t we—I mean, I thought?—”
“I’ll see you at dinner later on.”
She’s already walking away, heels clicking on stone, Leon and her other shadows trailing behind her like a dark tide.
Mrs. Kovacs gestures for me to follow her, and I do—because what choice do I have? Through corridors lined with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, up a staircase that belongs in a cathedral, past suits of armor that make me glance back in case I catch them moving.
My room is at the end of a long hallway. After the darkness of the castle so far—for it is a castle, there’s no other word for it—I’m almost expecting a dungeon. But Mrs. Kovacs pushes open heavy wooden doors to reveal luxury beyond my wildest dreams.
A four-poster bed draped in midnight-blue silk dominates the space. Soft rugs cover gleaming hardwood floors. A fireplace tall enough to stand in burns with real logs, and French doors lead to a balcony overlooking that impossibly still lake.
“Dinner is at eight,” Mrs. Kovacs says in heavily accented English. “You will dress appropriately.”
Then she’s gone, closing the doors with a soft click that somehow sounds like a cell door locking.
I stand in the middle of all that opulence, shivering despite the fire’s warmth. My reflection stares back from a mirror framed in what looks like actual gold, a small-town girl caught in a fairy tale that’s turning darker by the minute.
And then, despite the fact that I slept so much on the plane, exhaustion hits me like a Mack truck. The fear, the adrenaline, the sheer unreality of the last twenty-four hours crashes down all at once. I collapse onto the bed, sink into silk and down, and close my eyes.
