CHAPTER 4: THE WHISPERING DEAD

The carriage rocked gently as it rumbled along the worn dirt road, the city of Vinci fading behind Elizabeth in a haze of soot and green mist. The lamps inside the carriage form flickering shadows, painting restless shapes along the wooden walls.

She sat with the notebook open on her lap, fingers skimming over its aged pages. The scent of old ink and dried blood clung to it, a ghostly trace of the hands that had held it before her. Names, addresses, and symbols she didn’t recognize. Some were crossed out, and some were underlined.

Then—

Her fingers stilled.

A sketch.

It was crude, drawn in hurried strokes, but the image was unmistakable. A figure draped in darkness, its edges smudged as if the ink itself bled away from the shape. Eyes—two hollow pits of crimson—stared from the void of its face.

Beneath the sketch, a name had been written. The Melancholy Man.

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. The name meant nothing to her. But the way it was written, the way the ink pressed deep into the parchment—it was as if the writer had carved it in desperation.

Her gaze dropped lower.

Among the list of locations and cryptic notes, one phrase stood out. Crimson Gate.

Crossed out.

Erased.

She ran a gloved thumb over the ink as if she could uncover the truth buried beneath it. The words meant something… something important. The Melancholy Man. The Crimson Gate.

But what?

The carriage hit a rough patch, jostling her from her thoughts. She exhaled and shut the notebook. Outside, through the murky window, the landscape had shifted. The towering factories of Vinci were gone, replaced by sprawling fields, barren and windswept. The sky overhead was a dull gray, the sun choked behind thick clouds.

West.

Away from the city. Away from prying eyes.

She leaned back, notebook clutched tightly in her hands.

Whatever Dr. Chen had discovered, whatever had led to his death… she was now walking straight into its depths.

The carriage slowed to a halt, its wheels crunching against the gravel path. Elizabeth looked up, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight before her.

The manor loomed against the ashen sky, its once-grand architecture now gnawed by time. The stone façade was cracked, ivy creeping along its walls like skeletal fingers. Blackened windows stared back at her, hollow and uninviting. A rusting gate, bent and half-open, groaned softly in the wind.

Stepping out, Elizabeth pulled her coat tighter around her frame. The air here was thick, and stale, carrying the faint scent of damp wood and decay. Beyond the gate, the path leading to the manor was lined with withered trees, their twisted branches reaching out as if whispering warnings.

She pushed open the gate. The hinges screeched.

Her boots clicked against the stone steps as she ascended, each one weighed down by an eerie silence. At the entrance, the great wooden doors, once polished and proud, were now dulled with age. They stood slightly ajar, beckoning her forward.

She hesitated.

Then, with a steadying breath, she stepped inside.

The interior was dim, the air thick with dust and forgotten time. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals dull and lifeless. Portraits lined the walls, their subjects obscured by grime. The floor creaked beneath her weight, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness.

And then—

A whisper of movement.

She turned her head toward a grand sitting room, where two figures sat by a small table.

Twin girls.

They were dressed in identical black dresses, lace collars pristine despite the decay surrounding them. Their skin was porcelain-pale, their raven hair neatly tied with ribbons. The room was untouched by time as if it existed separately from the rest of the house.

Between them sat a delicate china teapot, steam curling from its spout. A single cup was shared between them, exchanged hands without a drop spilled.

One of the twins raised her head, her sharp eyes locking onto Elizabeth.

"Evelyn," she said, tilting her head, "why do we have an unexpected guest?"

The other mirrored her movement, gaze equally piercing.

"Evelyn, I do not know."

Their voices carried a strange melody, synchronized yet distinct.

Elizabeth steadied herself.

"My name is Elizabeth Rofford," she said, stepping forward. "I came seeking help."

The twins exchanged a glance before setting their cup down in perfect unison.

"Help," one mused.

"A lost soul," the other murmured.

Elizabeth hesitated, then pressed on.

"I have… abilities. Psychic abilities. But they are unstable. I need guidance, and I was told this place could offer it."

The twins rose together, their movements fluid, and unnatural.

"We know of you, Elizabeth Rofford," one said.

"We knew your mother," the other finished.

Elizabeth’s breath hitched. "You knew Helene Rofford?"

They nodded in unison.

"We were her servants," they said together, voices soft, eerie.

A shiver crawled up Elizabeth’s spine. She tightened her grip on the notebook hidden in her coat.

The twins smiled.

"Come," they said. "We shall help you."

Elizabeth sat across from the twins, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows across their delicate faces. The air in the manor felt heavy, as if the past lingered within its walls, waiting to be spoken into existence. She studied them carefully—the way their hands folded neatly in their laps, the way their dark eyes never quite blinked in sync.

"You said you were my mother’s servants," Elizabeth began, her voice steady but laced with curiosity. "What exactly did you do for her? Evelyn? Evelyn?"

The twins exchanged a glance, their expressions poise. Then, one of them spoke.

"You may call me Evie."

"And you may call me Eve," the other said.

Elizabeth nodded, feeling a slight unease settle in her stomach at their perfect coordination.

"We were more than mere servants," Evie continued, her voice carrying a strange, lilting quality. "We were her hands, her eyes, her shadows in the dark."

Eve picked up where her twin left off. "She was powerful, like you. But power without control is a danger, to both the wielder and those around them."

Elizabeth tensed slightly, the bronze mask at her side feeling heavier than before. "You helped her control it?"

Evie nodded. "She needed guidance, just as you do now. We taught her how to focus, how to channel her abilities without losing herself."

Eve sighed softly. "She was brilliant. Terrifying, even. But then, one day—"

"She vanished," Evie finished.

Elizabeth's fingers tightened around the armrest of the chair. "Vanished?"

Eve’s dark eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Without a word. No trace. One moment she was here, and the next…"

"She was gone," Evie whispered.

A silence settled between them, thick and unsettling.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw. Her mother had been powerful, but no one had ever told her just how much. Not Annabelle, not James, not even Theo. And now, these two… these eerie twins… claimed to have once been her mentors.

She exhaled slowly. "Do you have any idea where she went?"

The twins shook their heads in unison.

"No."

"But we have our suspicions," Eve murmured, her fingers tracing the rim of the teacup.

Elizabeth leaned forward. "Tell me."

Evie smiled, but it held no warmth. "First, let us see how much of your mother is in you."

Eve’s gaze darkened. "Show us your power, Elizabeth Rofford."

Elizabeth exhaled, the sound barely audible over the faint crackle of candlelight. The air in the room clung to her skin, heavy and expectant, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. Across from her, the Evelyns sat motionless, their mirrored postures unnervingly precise. Their eyes, twin pools of unblinking intensity, followed her every movement, waiting.

She lifted her hand, fingers curling slightly, and the room seemed to shift. The porcelain teacup on the table trembled, then rose, smooth and deliberate, as if lifted by an unseen hand. Its handle spun lazily, catching the flickering light. The teapot followed, gliding upward with the same effortless grace. It tilted, and the amber liquid poured out in a silent, unbroken stream, filling the cup without so much as a ripple.

Elizabeth let the teapot hang in the air, suspended, as her gaze shifted to the spoon beside it. A flick of her fingers… and it rose, dipping into the steaming tea. The spoon stirred in slow, deliberate circles, the liquid swirling like molten gold beneath the candlelight. The faintest hint of steam curled upward, carrying the scent of bergamot and honey.

With a subtle motion, she guided the cup through the air, its journey smooth and unhurried. It came to rest before Eve, settling onto the saucer without a sound. The stillness of the room seemed to deepen, the only movement the faint dance of shadows on the walls.

Evie clapped her hands together, the sound soft and melodic, like the chime of a distant bell. Her head tilted, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Such control," she murmured, her voice low and approving.

Eve lifted the cup, her movements deliberate, almost reverent. She inhaled the steam, her eyes closing for a moment as if the scent carried more than just the aroma of tea. When she opened them, her gaze was distant, her smile slow and knowing.

"Such coordination," she added, her voice a mirror of her sister's, yet softer, more reflective.

Their laughter followed… a synchronized harmony that filled the room. It was light, almost musical, but there was something beneath it… something that made the hairs on Elizabeth's arms rise. Their delight was too perfect, too mirrored as if they shared not just thoughts but breaths.

"You truly are her daughter," Evie said, her voice a whisper now, her eyes glinting with something old and unspoken.

Eve set the cup down, her fingers lingering on the delicate handle.

"Yes," she agreed, her tone wistful, as though she were speaking to someone far away. "You are very much like her."

Elizabeth met their gazes, the weight of their words settling over her like a shroud. She had spent years honing her power, mastering its intricacies, but now, in the stillness of that room, she felt the pull of something deeper. It wasn’t just her abilities they were acknowledging… it was the shadow of a legacy she had only begun to understand. The air around her seemed to hum, charged with the unspoken truth that her power was not just hers alone. It was a thread woven into something far greater, something she could feel but not yet see.

The room fell silent, the kind of silence that felt alive, like it was holding its breath. The candlelight dimmed, the warm glow shrinking back as if something had sucked the life from the air. The Evelyns sat motionless, their hands folded neatly in their laps, their matching smiles fixed on Elizabeth. Unnervingly perfect. Unnervingly still.

“It is time,” Evie murmured, her voice soft and smooth, like a thread of silk unraveling in the quiet.

“Yes,” Eve echoed, her whisper barely audible. “Time to show you our power.”

Elizabeth’s muscles tightened as the air around her grew heavy, pressing against her skin like an invisible tide. It was cold and damp, and it clung to her, making it hard to breathe. Then—

Crimson light erupted.

It spilled from the corners of the room, pulsing in slow, deliberate waves. The shadows on the walls twisted and stretched, no longer still but alive, writhing like black veins across the surface. They reached for her, curling and uncurling as if testing the air.

And then she saw it.

A figure, tall and impossibly thin, standing at the edge of the room. It was made of darkness, its edges flickering like a flame struggling to stay lit. Its form shifted, unstable, as though it didn’t fully belong in this world. Its head tilted, slow and deliberate, and from the void where its face should have been, two eyes opened.

Crimson.

Burning.

Unblinking.

The Melancholy Man.

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. A cold sensation crawled up her spine, like icy fingers tracing each vertebra. The figure didn’t move, but its gaze was everywhere, piercing through her, rifling through her thoughts, pulling at memories she hadn’t fully processed. It was searching, probing, unearthing things she hadn’t even named yet.

The Evelyns watched her, their smiles unwavering, their eyes glinting with something between amusement and anticipation.

“How can we help?” Evie asked… her voice was a feather-light whisper that seemed to hang in the air.

Elizabeth forced herself to look away from the figure, grounding herself in the solidity of the table, the weight of the notebook in her hands. She exhaled slowly, steadying her voice before she spoke.

“My mother…” she began, her tone firm despite the pressure building in her chest. “She might be dead.”

Eve’s head tilted, her movement mirrored perfectly by Evie. Their eyes gleamed, twin sparks of curiosity and something darker.

“The notebook,” Elizabeth continued, her grip tightening on the worn leather. “Dr. Chen wrote that you can speak with the dead.”

Evie’s laughter was soft, almost musical, but it carried an edge that made Elizabeth’s skin prickle. “Oh, Elizabeth.”

Eve leaned forward, her fingers curling beneath her chin, her crimson-tinged gaze locking onto Elizabeth’s.

“We can do more than that,” she whispered, her voice low and deliberate.

The air pulsed again, the crimson light deepening, casting the room in a blood-red hue. The Melancholy Man remained still, its burning eyes fixed on Elizabeth, unblinking, unrelenting.

“We can peer through the Crimson Gate,” Evie said, her voice taking on a rhythmic, almost ceremonial cadence.

“The veil that divides the living world and the dead world,” Eve finished, her words flowing seamlessly with her sister’s.

The twins leaned forward in unison, their movements so perfectly synchronized it was as if they shared a single mind. Their voices dropped to a near-reverent whisper, the kind of tone reserved for secrets too dangerous to speak aloud.

“And if your mother is beyond that veil…” Evie’s fingers twitched a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.

Eve’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, her eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s.

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“We can bring her back to you.”

Evie’s voice rang out like a bell, sharp and commanding.

“Melancholy Man!”

Eve’s lips curled into a grin, eyes shimmering with an eerie glow.

“Let’s jam!”

The Melancholy Man moved.

The world fractured.

Crimson light exploded outward, and the room shattered into a swirling haze of colors—deep reds, ghostly blues, sickly yellows, twisting and bleeding together like spilled ink in water. The walls of the manor no longer existed. Reality itself had unraveled, bending, stretching, pulling apart at the seams.

Elizabeth staggered back, her breath stolen from her lungs. The floor beneath her feet had turned into something else—liquid yet solid, shifting like an ocean frozen mid-wave. The air pulsed with an unseen rhythm, a slow, dragging heartbeat that echoed through the nothingness.

The Melancholy Man no longer flickered. It stood fully formed, its shadowy body stretching into infinity, its burning crimson eyes wide with something that might have been hunger.

Elizabeth reached for something—anything—to ground herself, but there was nothing. The world had become a smear of color and sound, twisting in impossible directions. The Evelyns stood at the heart of it all, untouched, their hair weightless as if submerged in water.

Evie turned her head toward Elizabeth, smiling like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“The Crimson Gate,” she said, voice dripping with satisfaction.

Eve extended a hand toward the Melancholy Man, her fingers barely grazing the swirling chaos.

“The door between the worlds is opening.”

The air thickened, pressing down like a weighted fog. Elizabeth could feel it creeping into her lungs, a cold, cloying presence that didn’t belong in the world of the living. The colors around her pulsed violently, and then—

They came.

From the swirling void, shapes began to form. Wisps of tattered souls stretched into existence, their bodies flickering like candlelight in a storm. Faces emerged… twisted, hollow-eyed, mouths open in silent screams. Their forms wore the torn remnants of noble coats, elegant gowns now rotted and frayed with age. The Roffords. Their spirits spilled forth like a dam breaking, their agony bound to the very air itself.

Then came the others.

Dark silhouettes, contorted and writhing, poured from the gate like ink bleeding into water. They were different… wretched, suffering creatures, their presence burning with psychic energy. These were the lost psychics… the ones who had been claimed by the Ravenholms. Their eyes, deep and vacant, shimmered with remnants of power stolen from them in death.

They did not scream.

They whispered.

Low voices crawled into Elizabeth’s skull, threading into her thoughts like worms burrowing deep.

"The pact was sealed in blood…"

"Not even death is an escape…"

"She knew, she knew, but she did not run fast enough…"

"The gate swings both ways, girl… but it never truly closes…"

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. The spirits drifted closer, their shadows stretching unnaturally. One of them, a gaunt woman with empty sockets where her eyes should have been, reached toward Elizabeth.

“You think death is the end?” The voice slithered into her skull, bypassing her ears entirely. “Your fate is worse.”

Before Elizabeth could ask what that meant, a terrible force seized the spirit. The woman jerked backward, her form convulsing, disintegrating in an instant. A violent gust of unseen power tore her away, shredding her essence into wisps of nothing.

Elizabeth took a sharp step back, heart hammering.

The other ghosts recoiled, their whispers turning frantic.

Something—someone—had silenced her.

Elizabeth clenched her fists, her pulse a deafening drumbeat in her ears.

This wasn’t just about death.

It was about Possession. Consumption. Control.

And whatever the pact was… she was already tangled in its web.

The Melancholy Man moved.

Not walked. Not floated. Shifted.

His shadow unraveled from the walls, stretching like liquid night, and crimson eyes burned in the shifting void of his form. Without a sound, his presence expanded, devouring the space around them. The spirits recoiled, their ghostly forms warping as though being pulled by an invisible tide.

The Crimson Gate yawned open, wider, deeper, a swirling abyss of red and black. The spirits screamed in silence, their mouths open in agony, clawing at the air as if trying to resist the pull.

The Melancholy Man raised one long, clawed hand. His fingers snapped.

The air collapsed inward.

Like paper catching fire, the spirits folded and burned… sucked back into the gate. The Roffords vanished first, their decayed forms spiraling into the void, and then the lost psychics, their whispers cut short as they were dragged into oblivion.

A final, lingering wail echoed as the gate slammed shut.

Silence.

Then—

“That was a good jam,” Evie said, exhaling as she brushed the dust from her dress.

Eve straightened her teacup, unfazed, and turned her attention to Elizabeth. “I suppose it’s time you learned the truth.”

Elizabeth swallowed, still catching her breath. “The truth about what?”

Eve fixed her with a steady, knowing gaze. “About the pact.”

Elizabeth said nothing, waiting.

Evie twirled a lock of her silver hair. “Your family. The Roffords. Every psychic in your bloodline was meant to be given to the vampires in exchange for power.”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Eve continued, voice smooth, careful. “A deal was struck long ago. The Roffords were never just aristocrats… they were psychics of immense power. But power alone does not secure safety. So, they bargained.”

Evie picked up the thread of the story seamlessly. “Every generation, a psychic child was given to the vampires. A sacrifice. In return, the Roffords thrived. Wealth. Influence. Longevity. Their power grew but at a terrible cost.”

Eve leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Your mother tried to break the cycle.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched. “Helene.”

Evie nodded. “She tried to stop it. To sever the pact. And for that…”

Eve finished… her voice barely above a whisper.

“She was erased.”

The room seemed to shrink. The candlelight flickered, shadows twisting unnaturally against the walls.

Elizabeth’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Her mother hadn’t just vanished. She had been silenced.

Because she tried to do exactly what Elizabeth was trying to do.

Break free.

The living room of the Evelyns’ manor was grand and ghostly… trapped in time like a portrait hidden beneath dust and velvet. The walls stretched high, draped in deep green tapestries embroidered with gold. A grand chandelier, its crystals dulled by the years, loomed above, catching stray glimmers of candlelight. The wooden floors shone, polished to a dark gleam, and beneath their feet, a thick Persian rug muffled their steps, its intricate patterns fading with age.

Heavy bookshelves lined the room with tomes bound in cracked leather, their spines marked with ancient languages. A fireplace sat at the far end, unlit, its mantle decorated with porcelain figurines… each one of them missing their eyes as if someone had carefully removed them long ago.

Elizabeth sat on a velvet chaise, her mind a storm beneath the stillness of her body. The notebook lay open on the table before her, pages worn from restless fingers. Across from her, Evie and Eve sat in twin armchairs, their identical figures mirroring each other perfectly, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in their laps.

The air hung thick with unspoken truth.

It was Evie who finally broke the silence. “So. It was never about your powers.”

Elizabeth barely blinked. “No.”

Eve tilted her head, studying Elizabeth carefully. “It was always about you.”

Elizabeth inhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the edges of the notebook. “The promise…”

Evie’s expression darkened. “The promise is you.”

The words sat heavy in the space between them.

The Roffords had struck a bargain generations ago. A contract sealed in blood. And every few generations, the debt had to be paid.

Elizabeth was never given a choice. She was never meant to escape.

She was the fulfillment of a contract long forgotten by time.

Eve tapped a single nail against the armrest, thoughtful. “You said Dr. Chen believed your powers were killing you?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“He thought it was the cause… but now?” She exhaled, her breath slow and steady. “It’s not a curse. It’s a leash.”

The twins exchanged a glance, something knowing passing between them.

Evie leaned forward, her silver hair falling like silk over her shoulder. “And the cure they offer?”

Elizabeth clenched her fists, the leather of her gloves creaking.

“It’s not a gift,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Eve’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “No.”

Elizabeth swallowed. “It’s the final step. The last part of the contract.”

The Ravenholms didn’t offer salvation. They offered collection.

A debt, paid in full.

The heavy creak of the front door echoed through the manor, slicing through the tension like a blade. A cold wind followed, snuffing out the nearest candle.

Elizabeth turned sharply, her breath controlled, measured… but her pulse betrayed her, thudding against her ribs like a warning drum. The Evelyns tensed, their movements eerily synchronized.

A man stepped into the dimly lit room, his presence swallowing the space with quiet authority. His clothing was immaculate… an obsidian coat draped over his shoulders, a waistcoat of midnight silk, and silver embroidery curling like vines along its edges. He walked with a slow, deliberate grace, gloved hands clasped before him. His face was sharp, and refined, with piercing gray eyes that carried the weight of generations.

Victor Ravenholm.

The heir of the clan.

His gaze drifted lazily across the room, settling on Elizabeth with a hint of amusement.

“Rofford.” His voice was smooth, a quiet ripple across still waters. “You’ve made quite the mess.”

Elizabeth’s breath sharpened. The Evelyns stood at her sides, their fingers twitching, the air around them humming with unseen energy.

Victor lifted a brow. “Oh? You intend to fight?”

The floor shuddered.

The twins’ voices cut through the air… Evie and Eve speaking as one. “Melancholy Man!”

A crimson light tore through the room. Shadows stretched, bled into the walls, and then he appeared. The Melancholy Man. Crimson eyes gleamed as he reached into the void, calling forth the spirit of a beast long lost to time.

A low, guttural snarl filled the room. The air grew thick, vibrating with ancient power. The ground cracked, and from the Crimson Gate, a towering Spinosaurus emerged, spectral and massive, its translucent form shifting between bone and ethereal flesh. It loomed behind the Evelyns, its nostrils flaring, claws digging into the manor floor.

Elizabeth raised her hands, her power crackling at her fingertips.

Victor sighed.

His fingers twitched.

The ground beneath them trembled, but not from the Spinosaurus.

A deafening crack split the air as something ripped free from the earth.

Elizabeth barely had time to react before the monstrous form burst through the wooden floorboards. Bone twisted into shape, jagged and ancient, sinew weaving itself into place. Muscle crawled over the skeleton, flesh knitting together, veins pulsing beneath translucent skin.

A Tyrannosaurus Rex.

A beast of nightmares, forged in an instant by a force far beyond them. Its flesh was deep red, pulsating as if still remembering its first life.

Victor’s Underworld had awoken.

The creature roared, the very walls of the manor quaking under the sheer force of its presence.

Melancholy Man’s Spinosaurus lunged first, its spectral claws slicing through the air.

Victor barely moved.

His T-Rex snapped forward, jaws clamping down.

The Spinosaurus shrieked. It twisted, struggling, but the T-Rex held firm. With one brutal shake, it tore through the spirit’s neck.

The Spinosaurus collapsed. Its form flickered, turning to shreds of light before being sucked back into the Crimson Gate—destroyed.

The room fell deathly silent.

Elizabeth’s hands trembled. The Evelyns stood frozen, their breath stolen, their confidence shattered.

Victor simply watched.

Unshaken. Unbothered. Underworld.

He took a slow step forward, the massive T-Rex behind him looming, its maw dripping spectral remnants of its kill.

“I expected more,” Victor murmured. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

The air in the ruined manor was thick and heavy with the scent of splintered wood and dust. The massive form of Victor’s Tyrannosaurus loomed in the background, its breath a deep, slow rumble like distant thunder.

Elizabeth stood rigid, her fists clenched, power still crackling at her fingertips… but she could feel the tremor in her own body, the creeping exhaustion settling into her bones. The Evelyns were silent, their usual mirth gone, their expressions begrudging.

Victor exhaled slowly as if this was all so very predictable.

"You can keep running," he said, voice even, unhurried. "But you already know how this ends, don’t you?"

Elizabeth said nothing.

"You’ll collapse one day," he continued, stepping forward, hands still clasped neatly behind his back. "Bleeding from the eyes. Screaming from visions only you can see. No one will save you. Not the psychics, not the occultists." His gray eyes flickered. "Just us."

His words sank into her like needles, because he wasn’t lying.

She felt it, gnawing at the edges of her mind, in the way her powers ached to be let loose, in the way her breaths had to be measured, controlled… or she would unravel. Dr. Chen had seen it before his death. The Evelyns had seen it too.

She was dying.

Slowly.

But she would rather die free than be their prisoner.

Her jaw tightened. "Then I’ll die on my own terms."

Victor let out a quiet hum.

Then he smiled.

"Then prove it."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "Prove what?"

"That you can control it," he said. "That you are more than just another Rofford cursed by their own power." He tilted his head. "Or do you already know the truth? That without us, you are simply… waiting to fall?"

The Evelyns stiffened.

Elizabeth felt her fingers twitch.

Victor’s smile didn’t change. "So then, Elizabeth Rofford… what will you do?"

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension. The Evelyns shifted uneasily, their fingers twitching near the edges of the table. The ruined parlor was deathly still, save for the slow, guttural breathing of the T-Rex Victor had conjured. Its massive form loomed in the background, waiting, a beast of raw power held in perfect check by its master.

Victor, however, remained at ease, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve before clasping his hands neatly behind his back. His pale gray eyes studied Elizabeth—not with malice, not with amusement, but with something closer to intrigue.

“I propose a wager,” he said finally.

Elizabeth stiffened. “A wager?”

Victor inclined his head.

“If you can find another way to break the curse, I will help you.” His voice was smooth, and measured, a man who always knew exactly what to say. “But if you fail, you will submit to the pact. No more running.”

Elizabeth’s nails dug into her palms. “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

“I don’t expect you to,” Victor admitted, tilting his head. “But think about it, Elizabeth. Do you really have another option? The clock is ticking. Sooner or later, your body will fail. Your mind will break.” He smiled, faintly. “This simply allows you to meet your fate on your own terms.”

A shiver crawled up her spine, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “Why would you do this?”

Victor exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Because I despise the pact as much as you do.”

That caught her off guard. She blinked. “…What?”

His expression didn’t change. “My family is bound to tradition. They have ruled for centuries by claiming your kind as their property. It is a system they refuse to change. But I see it for what it is.” He let his gaze drift over the broken room, the trembling twins, the corpse of Melancholy Man’s defeated spirit still lingering in the air. “Outdated. Inefficient. Messy.”

His voice dropped lower, almost thoughtful. “I have never had a say in my own fate either. Do you think this is a choice for me? That I am anything other than another piece in a game written long before I was born?” He looked back at her, calm and unshaken. “If you fail, you come willingly. That is the only way this ends cleanly. No war. No unnecessary bloodshed. No… complications.”

There was something else there, something he wasn’t saying. A shadow beneath his words, an edge to his otherwise perfect composure.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You don’t actually want me to win, do you?”

Victor’s lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I enjoy a good gamble,” he said. “And you’re far more interesting when you’re fighting back.”

The old manor creaked as the wind howled through its halls, rattling the stained-glass windows. The fire in the hearth flickered, casting long, wavering shadows across the ruined parlor. The scent of old books, aged wood, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.

Elizabeth sat rigid in her chair, her fingers still curled into fists against her lap. Victor’s words echoed in her head, the weight of them pressing against her ribs like a tightening vise. The game was set. She had no choice but to play.

“We need to find the pact,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. “There has to be something that ties it all together… who made it, why, and how it can be broken.”

The Evelyns exchanged glances, their mirrored faces unreadable. Then, in perfect unison, they turned back to her.

Evie leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. “There is one place that might hold the answers you seek.”

Eve nodded. “An abandoned monastery, outside the city.”

Elizabeth frowned. “A monastery?”

“Not just any monastery,” Evie murmured. “The ruins of an old vampire-hunting order.”

Eve’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Where records of past psychic pacts were kept.”

A slow chill settled over the room. Even Victor, who had been idly observing from his place near the doorway, finally looked interested.

Elizabeth inhaled sharply, her mind already racing. If the monastery held records of past pacts, it could hold the key to breaking hers.

She turned her gaze to the Evelyns. “Then that’s where we go.”

The carriage lurched forward, its wheels rattling against the uneven cobblestone road. The night stretched vast and hollow around them, the moon a silver eye peering through shifting clouds. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something unnatural.

The horses pulling them were not alive—not truly. Their flesh hung in leathery strips over exposed bone, muscles twitching beneath necrotic skin. Their breath came in slow, rattling huffs, and their eyes glowed with a dull, spectral light. They moved in eerie unison, silent save for the rhythmic thud of their hooves against the road.

Inside the carriage, Elizabeth sat between Evie and Eve, their warmth pressing against her on either side. Across from them, Victor lounged with an air of careless grace, one arm draped over the back of his seat. The faint lantern light flickered across his face, catching in his sharp, calculating eyes.

The twins whispered amongst themselves, their voices a murmur of amusement and secrets.

Victor's lips curled. “Charming as ever, ladies.”

Evie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers fidgeting with the lace of her sleeve. Eve hid her smile behind her hand. They exchanged a glance before dissolving into soft, conspiratorial giggles.

Elizabeth glanced between them, arching a brow. She wasn’t sure what was more unsettling… the undead carriage or the fact that the Evelyns seemed to enjoy Victor’s presence.

Victor tilted his head, watching them with quiet amusement. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Eve hummed. “Perhaps.”

Evie smirked. “Or perhaps we enjoy a bit of attention.”

Victor chuckled, low and knowing. “Then I’ll consider it my pleasure to indulge you.”

The twins shared another giggle, their identical hands fluttering in tandem.

Elizabeth exhaled through her nose, shifting her gaze to the darkened road beyond the window. The monastery awaited, its answers buried in dust and silence. But at this moment, surrounded by monsters and mysteries, she found herself caught in something even stranger… something almost human.