Page 34 of The Captive's Curse
And so when the ghost of Mad Lord Vincenzo popped out of the floor with a snarling roar, flames in his eyes, long hair flying wildly around his gaunt and skeletal face, hands grasping at me like deadly claws, it came as something of a surprise.
Chapter Thirteen
The ghost shrieked, and I screamed, the echoes of both twining and reverberating at a pitch that set my teeth on edge and nearly blinded me.
I turned tail and fled, tripping over my feet, smashing my shoulder into the wall with a burst of pain as I tumbled headlong down the stairs, knowing that at any moment those frigid, spectral hands would wrap around my neck andsqueeze. His icy breath ruffled my hair as he roared again, deep but trailing up to an ear-splitting screech.
My eyes blurred and I couldn’t see ahead of me, I didn’t dare look behind me, I couldn’t feel my legs, my clothing was drenched in sweat…
And then I felt it: the tug of my magic, under my ribs and irresistible. Over there. That door. Certainty shocked down my spine.
My magic dragged me across the hall as a whoosh of wind redolent of the deepest, most fetid grave-pit rushed past my face. I gagged, choked, and scrabbled at the door in blind panic, gods, this one had been locked, I’d tried it, what the fuck was my magic thinking—but as I despaired, dizzying power fountained up out of me and blew the door back. I tumbled after, landing on my elbows with a jarring crack that knocked my teeth together.
As I scrabbled over onto my back, the Mad Lord growled, the sound raising all my hair until my scalp prickled.
He hovered in the hallway, his eyes twin glowing coals, his pale tongue lolling like a giant hound’s, hands flexing.
Soft moans left me with every heaving breath.
I’d die here, wouldn’t I? For real, this time. How would a ghost even kill me? Freeze my blood in my veins until they burst, fling me into the wall and smash all my bones, pulverize my flesh and leave me smeared on the floor?
The Mad Lord swiped his tongue over his lower lip and chin, obscene and flapping, with a wet, guttural groan. He seemed to tense, poised to strike.
I didn’t want to find out what he had in mind.
With the last of my strength and all of my willpower—fighting my spine, which was trying to slither away in the opposite direction—I shoved myself forward and kicked the door as hard as I possibly could.
He lunged, howling—and the door slammed in his face. If he’d been corporeal, it’d have broken his nose.
For a long, trembling moment, a pregnant silence swelled the air.
And then the storm broke. He battered against the door, shrieking his fury, the wood shuddering from his blows.
Fuck, I had to lock it, I had to—but the key wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t, the door had been locked from the outside, so stupid of me to forget, but I knew how to do this. Idid. The door might end up singed, but so be it. A deep breath, and I pressed my hand against the lock and funneled my power into it, begging it to keep me safe with every fiber of my soul.
The lock clicked, and I ignored the faint whiff of smoke that accompanied it.
There, that was all I could bloody well do, and I huddled up by the opposite wall and wrapped my arms around my head as the Mad Lord raged deafeningly outside.
Why didn’t he simply come through the door? Locks didn’t stop ghosts. Or did they? How the fuck should I know?
The Mad Lord screamed, the endless ululation of a feral wolf clamoring for my blood, and I trembled and tucked myself into a tighter, smaller ball.
But the human body could only sustain that level of muscle-clenching terror for so long before it gave up. And mine started to give up. Bit by bit, my legs relaxed, my heart slowed.
Another slam against the outside of the door made me jump and wince, but the heavy oak held up against the assault, and the lock and hinges were solid iron. They wouldn’t give way easily. Vincenzo’s howls hadn’t abated at all in their ferocity, though, despite his lack of success. If anything, he’d gotten louder. Gods, ghosts didn’t get tired, did they?
How did anyone use this part of the castle without being…whatever ghosts did to you (and on that point, I’d be happy to remain ignorant forever)? Why hadn’t Leander given me at least a little more of a hint about the legends’ truth, the coy little shit? He’d practically set me up for this!
And lastly, but certainly most importantly: why had my magic led me to this room, and why did it seem to be protecting me from Vincenzo’s wrath?
Actually, even more critically: how would I get out of here, since Vincenzo seemed to have settled in for the long haul? I didn’t want to be trapped here until my much less hideous ghost joined Vincenzo’s in swooping around the castle and screaming abuse at hapless passersby.
If anyone who heard the racket had any common sense, they’d go in the opposite direction as quickly as possible—but surely whoever had troubled to lock the door would return at some point.
I lifted my head at last and blinked into the dimness of the last faint light through the windows. How dreary. Some magescould summon a little ball of light in their hands, or if they had a lot of power, make it bob along and follow their movements like a devoted pet. I’d never mastered that, needless to say, but lighting a fire might be possible.
Yes, that was the hearth over there, and when I shuffled over to it, I found a pile of sticks laid in it. I drew a deep, cleansing breath—and exploded the kindling into smithereens, flame flaring up so violently it seared my eyeballs. Typical for my magic, really.
