Book 17: Behind the Door

Aris

Morgan’s long fingers trace over the top of my hand, her red painted nails shining in the firelight as she smiles at me, cat-like, her dark eyes giving away nothing. When I don’t react to her touch, she leans away to refill her glass of sparkling wine, clicking her tongue. She rises and turns around the room, that smile angling into a frown.

I bring my glass of scotch to my lips. I’ve been drinking more than I’d like. I feel sluggish, and the booze is doing nothing to fill the creeping void spreading in my chest with every hour that ticks by.

“My maids have been saying this place is haunted,” she says with a small disbelieving laugh. “Idiots. It’s just an old castle. I keep telling them that.”

Her guard is asleep in an armchair by the fire, sprawled out and snoring. She passes him without a glance but comes to