Page 48 of Devoured

Who knows what Cora is doing with them there. I haven’t been able to find out. Of course, neither have her envoys. Somehow, Cora has kept the worst from them and simultaneously convinced them she’s better for the world than Sybil ever was. I don’t know if they’re all just that wrathful—or that stupid.

Swallowing hard, I start toward the dining hall. Supper is in a half hour, and it’s become the perfect time to sleuth undetected. There is already too much bustle for anyone to notice me.

Cora’s various rugs smother my footsteps as I stroll toward the cavernous Great Hall. It isn’t hidden any longer. It’s open, vast, exploding with noise and movement as four of Cora’s werewolves hustle to and fro, hoisting platters of food and porcelain carafes high above their heads.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing I care about.

Magical flames sizzle on a pair of calloused palms in an effort to keep the stew warm while another werewolf blurs with speed to deliver a platter of buttermilk biscuits to the center of the table. I’ve seen these powers before, though. And while they’re intimidating, they aren’t anything noteworthy.

No. If Evie and I are going to find a way to dethrone Cora, to murder her, it has to be good.

I maneuver through the crowd, around them and beyond them, searching for something else. Something worse, or at least something new. But as far as I can see… everything is just as Cora wants it to be.

Sycophantic werewolves do her bidding. Courtiers from Europe and Africa gossip outside their rooms. There isn’t a hair out of place. There is no one out of line. I contemplate setting a fire in the kitchen, just because I think I could get away with it, but—

An unmistakable scent stops me in my tracks.

I take one step toward it when I hear the whispers. When that scent of blood becomes undeniable.

I whirl around, head whipping toward the stench of decay. Part of me expects to see another hallucination, but the hall is empty. There aren’t any werewolves, and that smell… It isn’t coming from the kitchen. I turn again. Back to where I came from.

I shake my head. The whispers stop.

Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I really am hallucinating. I pivot away to stride farther down the quiet corridor.

The whispers begin again.

I startle at the return of the hushed roar. It isn’t anything I can discern, even though I try. Too muffled. More of a hiss than anything else. And I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

Leaning close to the wall, nearly pressing my ear against it, I trail my hands over the rough stone. I follow it down, down, until those whispers get louder.

Louder.

The stone cuts my palm. A line of blood wells on my hand and drips on the floor. But I don’t stop moving. I’m getting closer. The voices are getting louder. Blood smears along the stone, and I’m thankful no one is around. I’m glad for the diversion of supper.

Because there—at the end of the hall—is a door I have never seen before.

Black adamant arches to a precise point, fixed with a gleaming keyhole. No doorknob in sight, but for some reason, that makes it appear all the more frightening. As if the keyhole is a mouth, and the door swallows all who step inside.

I move forward slowly. Toward that door, and the strange whispers on the other side of it.

The wrought iron seems to shudder from some sort of inside force, and the scent of blood thickens. It stings my nose, my eyes.

Part of me wants to run. I think months ago, I would have. But this could be exactly what Evie and I are looking for. Leaning close, holding my breath, I stand near enough to listen without touching the door. I can’t let anyone know I’m here.

“Harder.” A coarse, masculine voice filters through the keyhole. Distant. He sounds as if he could be underwater, or streets away. But he’s right there, on the other side of the wall. “Do it harder.”

There is something like a lash—a crack—followed by one cry, then another, then another. A dozen whimpers of pain.

“Do not hold yourselves back. Make it hurt,” the man orders again, harsher this time.

A woman sobs. “Please, no more—”

Three more cracks. Each in rapid succession. Each followed by a muffled scream. My stomach roils.

“Do. Not. Stop,” the man says.

The woman continues sobbing, and the stench continues rising. The sounds shift from cracks to squelches, wet and sharp and nauseating. I press a hand against the wall to steady myself, my head spinning as smoke begins to curl under the doorway. Heat blows through the keyhole, followed by sparks of a newborn flame. I stare at it, frozen in fear.