Page 31 of Castle of the Cursed
“I am Sebastián.”
“Hilarious.” I’m tired of my mind’s games. “I know you’re not real, but you obviously have information buried deep in my brain somewhere that I want myself to have, so just spit it out already—where’s the room?”
His brow furrows, like I’ve spoken a language he’s not fluent in. “You are evidently unwell.”
“You catch on quick.”
He gapes at me for what feels like a full minute. Then a horrible howl thunders through the room, and Sebastián’s features crack with pain, like he’s been shot.
I back away as he doubles over. It seems like he can’t lift his neck to look at me.
“What is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are slits and his mouth hangs open. He seems to be in severe agony. Is this what happens when you destroy a hallucination?
“Where does it hurt?” is all I can think to ask.
“Ev-every-where,” he manages to get out. His voice isn’t breathy. It’s more choppy, like a radio station with signal interference, and there’s a low-pitched wailing—
“Are you laughing?”
As the wail becomes a howl again, there’s no denying it’s laughter. “You—” He tries to speak past his guffaws. “You believe—you made me?”
I perch at the edge of the bed. I was not prepared for how a merry monster would behave, and now I can see why. It’s insufferable.
Sebastián is still doubled over, his howls sputtering, and it seems like this embarrassing display is finally coming to an end. I don’t care how much pain I earn myself, I’m going off on him. “What the hell is your—?”
But when he raises his chin, and I see his face, the shadow beast’s smile is a supernova. The silver galaxies of his eyes are luminous, his skin as fresh as the earth after a storm. The dazzling sight makes me feel as tiny as I hoped to make him feel, and I forget what I was saying.
“You really think quite highly of yourself.”
There’s a somewhat lighter quality to Sebastián’s voice now.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“You credit yourself as my creator.” There’s such a smug superiority in his expression that I wish I had a mirror to hold up.
“Prove you’re real,” I say, crossing my arms, “and that a spell is behind everything.”
“What sort of proof would satisfy you?” His tone is as dry as a desert. “You do not even believe I am real when I stand before you.”
“Then tell me something about yourself,” I demand.
“If you are in such a sharing mood, you start.”
“Meaning what?”
“Who are you?”
He sounds like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. “You already know,” I say with a hard breath. “You saw me on the news months ago—”
“I know your father did not protect you from a lethal gas.”
My spine stiffens at the mention of Dad.
“That was a lie,” he says, his voice lower and his manner more menacing. “No human could shield you from brujería.”
My gaze swings up as the overhead light flickers.
