“Get dead?” I have a feeling Harlow didn’t do so well in English class.
He eyes my neck, seems satisfied, then smiles. “It will be fine. You’ll be fine. I’m sure he’s got orders not to eat you.”
But Harlow doesn’t act fine. He’s positioning himself like he doesn’t care, but I’m a dryad, and we know body language. His neck is stiff, and the invisible shield I saw around him before—his wings—wraps tightly around his body. He’s not comfortable with this situation. And I have to wonder why.
“So, no running, jumping, playing, frolicking or any of the things dryads do because it will get me dead.” I give him a look of consternation. “Why did I agree to come here?”
“You didn’t agree to it,” he reminds me and I nod because he’s right.
“It will be one night,” I tell him and myself. “And tomorrow I’ll be back…”
“Oh the train,” Harlow finishes for me.
“Right.”
“Right.” Then he gives me a smile. “If you’re going to survive in Dread, even for one night, being under the count’s protection is a must.”
“Harlow,” I murmur. “I’m not staying here beyond tonight.”
The incubus doesn’t say anything. He stares at me. Which is why I say he knows more about why I’m here than he lets on.
“Let’s go inside.” He sticks his hands back in his pockets and nudges his chin in the direction of the immense double doors.
The sky is grayer than it was before, but a ray of light creeps over Harlow’s face. Sunset. I turn towards the horizon, and what I see is something so beautiful, it blows away all the brochures of Arcadia.
Red, pink, and orange rays bounce off the clouds and splatter into a palate of color. For a moment the city is bathed in red sunlight. Feather-light shades of blue and purple fade along the sky. And when the sun lights up the castle, I can admire the strength of Raven Night. The castle might be stern and foreboding, but there’s a feeling of safety, and crazy as it sounds, I get a sense that this place is an authority dispensing justice in its own way. As if the towers fondly look down at the city below yet swiftly deal fair punishment when needed.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to where you’re from or where you were going,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“No, it’s really beautiful.”
We stand there watching the golden orb sink beyond the far-off desert. Then the light is gone and Raven Night goes back to being the dour professor ready to smack cheaters with a ruler.
Harlow steps up to the veranda. Double doors brandish large iron wolf heads with rings in their mouths. My chaperone lifts one of the massive doorknockers and lets it fall with a loud clang. The echo from inside ripples through the towers and Harlow pushes his hands into his pockets. Seeing the mud all over my shoes, I take them off and leave them in a pile in front of the massive doors.
“Nervous?” he asks as he looks at me.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
We wait for a long time, but the faint click of shoes becomes louder from inside. Both doors open, and a man in an all-black suit stands before us. If this is the count, he looks old. And he smells pretty gross. While his face is smooth, his eyes have a glassy vacancy that’s both disturbing and intriguing. He’s pale, rail-thin, has white hair and his face is devoid of any emotion in his expression. Those watery eyes stare at us like he’s never received guests before. The more I look at him, the more I realize he looks… dead. Like he’s an animated corpse or something.
“Uh…” Harlow stumbles over his words. I’m not judging; he’s doing better than I am. “Is the count available?”
The man focuses his far-off gaze on Harlow, but still says nothing.
“This is Everly Stillwater.” Harlow motions a thumb at me. “You’re her host family while she’s here.”
The guy gives absolutely nothing back. Not acknowledgement, not a grunt, not a nod, nothing. Unless a blank stare is an answer.
“Well, this was fun,” I say and turn around. “But, clearly no one here is expecting me, which means I should be getting back to that train station...”
“Everly.” Harlow growls a warning.
“What?” I turn back.
“Give him a minute.”
I stomp back to the door. Those dead eyes now look at me. Study me.
“Creature protocol: Ghoul,” Harlow says low, speaking out of the side of his mouth which means he’s addressing me. “Remember what I said about running?”
“That’s a ghoul?” I point. Then it’s definitely dead. But someone has animated life into it again. Ghouls are like the cousins of zombies. Only they don’t rot and they only have a thirst for flesh, not brains. But they still stink. Boy, do they stink.
“Yes,” Harlow hisses. “You’re lucky he’s bound. Otherwise he’d have jumped you when your back was turned. They’re ambush creatures, but this one works for the count.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s dressed and he opened the count’s door.”
“Thank the goddess for small mercies.”
“He’s also bound, which means the count is watching you.”
“What?” I say a little louder and more desperate than I want.
“Ms. Stillwater,” a clear, strong male voice echoes from inside. Behind the ghoul, the entrance is a wide hall. Now I understand why they’re called grand entrances. But any proof of life, such as flowers on top of a table, is absent. It’s like the count and his ghoul just moved in and didn’t have time to bring in the furniture. Two opposite staircases join and create a landing. Sprawling steps connect the first floor
