Page 120 of Shattered Jewel
I find myself grinning with a surge of fondness. “I’m the last person to judge, Sash. You should never feel like you have to hide anything from me.”
We both trip over an unexpected groundhog hole and stumble into each other, our arms interlocking.
I breathe through scattered heartbeats and say, “We really should’ve brought a flashlight.”
“We can’t, remember? I’m not supposed to know of this path and you definitely aren’t allowed.”
“I don’t think we can properly save anyone with broken ankles.”
“We’ll be fine. Tread lightly. And … don’t piss off any skunks.”
We weave through the night-chilled foliage in silence, until the warm glow of lights filter through the spaces between the leaves.
Thornhaven Manor’s windows are lit from the towering lancet windows to the first floor, their leaded panes catching the candlelight within and fracturing it into a thousand glittering stars. Ornate gargoyles leer from weathered cornices, their sightless eyes seeming to follow our approach, while a delicate tracery of ivy clings to the ancient walls, like the forest is trying to devour this monstrosity—and all that lingers within it—whole.
How many women were sacrificed in here these past centuries? How many are still alive in there?
We’d talked about it before separating: How Cav would look for identification records of the Sovereigns in their private chambers, Wilder would cover Sasha and I from some unseen point, and Kaspian would free Axe and locate the Heart. Sasha and I both demanded that they look for any girls in the dungeons, too. Or in the Sovereigns’ private wing. Anywhere.
They can’t keep getting away with this.
Cav agreed that whoever finished their task first could pivot and search for any captive girls. There were at least five still missing from campus, and those are only the known ones.
Of course, any mention of the Vultures assisting us was met with a swift, “Fuck, no.” And Clover hasn’t yet gotten back to me.
Sasha and I draw nearer, the muffled thumps of bass escaping through an ornate rose window closest to us, its vibrant glass a jarring counterpoint to the inky black enveloping our forms.
I’m unable to look away from the pale pink petals. This is it. We’re really doing this.
And I might not make it out alive.
Beside me, Sasha’s voice drops an octave when she asks, “You’re falling for all four of them, aren’t you?”
Her words strike a chord, resonating with a truth I’ve been reluctant to acknowledge. I open my mouth to answer, but Sasha shakes her head.
“Oh my God, what am I doing, asking you to bare your soul while your guys are in there? We have so much to talk about, but not here. It’s time we be truthful with each other. Like, all of it.”
“Deal,” I say, weaving my arm through hers and pressing as close to her side as I can.
We’re about to take the first stair on the terrace steps when the grand front door swings open, spilling out a wash of warm, amber light onto the cobblestone path. A silhouette stands framed by the vast entrance, his imposing figure casting a long shadow that stretches out towards us.
“Welcome back, Sasha,” the man says, his voice carrying across the courtyard with eerie clarity.
He steps into the moonlight, the hood from his black robe not quite hiding a face that embodies the Cimmerian Court’s boyish charm and cruel arrogance. “And you’ve brought a friend. How quaint.”
Sasha squeezes my arm reassuringly and leads us up the stairs and through the door. I lower my gaze to avoid direct eye contact—any recognition could spell disaster for us.
Inside, he leads us through the parlor. Opulent chandeliers hang from the high-vaulted ceiling, their incandescent crystals dancing over the marble floors.
He stops at the doors to the drawing room, where noises buzzing with hedonistic delight escape through the cracks. Turning, his robe billowing, he hands us two cheap, white plastic masks with a single elastic wrapping around the back of our heads to keep it affixed.
Sasha dons it without hesitation. She looks to me expectantly, but I find myself frozen by her expressionless, bone-white face with two hollow eye-holes where her bright, twinkling brown ones should be.
Sasha clears her throat and gestures with her chin.
Right. As covertly as possible, I put mine on, too, then readjust my hood to hide my hair. I look up in time to see Sasha’s man put his on, except his is of exquisite, porcelain make. It’s a half-mask, leaving his lips free to curve into a wolfish smile.
“Are you ready?”