Page 53 of Castle of the Cursed
When he pulls away again, he puts at least ten feet of space between us. “You are right,” he says, the silver of his eyes as bright as moonlit oceans. “You should go to bed.”
“Wait—”
“Good night.”
Sebastián infests my dreams.
I’ve had nightmares of him before, hunting me, chasing me, biting me. But this was different. Last night, I was the predator.
I kept showing up from the shadows and cornering the shadow beast, no matter where in the castle he sought refuge. It was like we’d traded roles, and I physically overpowered him.
Each time I brought my lips to his, he would warn me that this was a bad idea. But I would drown his words with my tongue until he gave in—then I’d wake up, appalled. Over and over and over again.
I get out of bed.
It’s brighter out than usual, so I must have slept in, but I’m not rested. Sebastián’s presence feels more pronounced after those dreams, like he’s infected my bloodstream.
I check Beatríz’s room first thing, as is my new routine, but it’s still untouched. The full moon is tonight, and she’s not back.
What if she’s never returning? asks the small voice in my mind. What if she lured me here to take her place at la Sombra, so she could finally be free?
There must be clues somewhere, something to tell me what she’s really up to. I’ve gone through her things a few times already, but I haven’t done an in-depth search of her actual space.
In her nightstand is a ring of keys, probably all duplicates, including an alarm key I’ve seen her use to lock up the clínica. I pocket it. I open every single drawer and box I see, but I don’t find a passport or checkbook or cash.
Either it’s all well-hidden, or she’s taken everything important with her.
I knock on the floor and walls, but I don’t sense a secret compartment like the one in the purple room with my photos and death certificate. I do a thorough inspection of the bathroom and come up empty. That just leaves the closet.
In size and organization, it could be a boutique clothing shop, with extra sections for shoes, handbags, and luggage. The racks and shelves are packed with fashions for both men and women, including ruffly and frilly dresses, ancient-looking frocks made of fur and wool, and accessories like hats and canes. It seems like this closet has been accruing articles of clothing over the generations.
I search everywhere for a false wall, or a hidden hatch, or somewhere to stow secrets, but I find nothing. I’m about to leave when a piece of luggage catches my eye. It’s a rolling suitcase, and it’s made of denim, just like the matching set Mom, Dad, and I shared. Only this one is a darker wash, and someone has written with marker all over it.
I pull it out from its place in the suitcase lineup, and I try to read what’s been written on it. Propiedad de Olivia Brálaga.
This was Mom’s.
I set it flat on the floor and unzip it. The breath that’s released is a ghost of Mom’s scent, and for a moment I feel her here. I close my eyes to hold on to her presence for longer, then I open them again and look at her things.
It’s mostly clothing. Sweaters, shirts, pants, socks, underwear, even a white dress for some reason. Some things look like they might fit me, others could be a little big—but I’m keeping it all. Before wheeling the bag back to my room, I feel around for anything harder than fabric, and I touch a flat, semi-hard surface.
A book.
I pull out a journal with a brown leather cover that looks old and weathered. Dad used to love this kind of journal for taking notes because of its sturdiness. I wonder if this one was his. I open it eagerly, but the pages are blank and unlined.
I drop off the suitcase in my room, then I pull on my coat and sling my empty denim duffel over my chest on the way out.
The village is quiet as usual as I approach the clínica. Beatríz’s note is still pinned to the door. I try inserting a few keys until I find the right one, and the handle clicks. I hurry to press the alarm key to the sensor so it doesn’t go off, but there’s no beep or flash of light. Like it wasn’t armed.
“Beatríz?” I call out. Did she forget to set it, or did somebody turn it off?
One of the patient beds is unmade. I poke my head in my aunt’s office, but it’s empty.
I enter the back storage area and open the freezer. It was brimming with what must have been a few hundred blood bags the last time Beatríz showed it to me. Now it looks like there are barely one hundred left.
I grab ten plastic pouches and drop them into my duffel. I can’t show up to the bookstore loaded with blood bags, so I head to the castle first to drop them off. But as I’m cutting across the plaza, I see movement.
I’m not alone.
