Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 38.2: More glass than wall

When Ella arrived at the fourth-floor landing, she found both doors leading to either wing had been sealed, just as she'd guessed. Quickly, she pulled out the skeleton key from her pocket and tucked it into the knob, briskly motioning for Aedion to follow along.

The door shut with an audible click, and she leaned against it, catching her breath. Then, she peered around the entrance hall. As the windows had been boarded, it was eerily dark, the barest of slivers of light coming through the cracks in the wood.

She found her way by memory alone, Aedion quietly following behind her. She trailed a hand across the walls and found that the plaster and the wallpaper had been ripped or gouged in some areas, likely from the attack. Even in the dark, she could visualise the richly patterned burnt-orange wallpaper.

"Watch your step," she called, steering Aedion out of the way of what she knew to be a faulty floorboard. The kind that always creaked obnoxiously. She could transverse this hallway in the dead of night, blindfolded, her muscle memory deeply ingrained.

"It reeks of demon in here," Aedion said after a moment, tension evident. She could feel his unease, mirroring her own.

It did smell of demon. It was that rotten egg and sulphur smell she'd come to associate with their kind. The chilling, supernatural cold that had little to do with a long-shut space, and everything to do with that lingering malignant energy.

The more they walked down the hall, ripped walls and furniture missing, the more she knew this floor had been one of the targeted areas.

Fear ran through her veins, trickling into her heart. Drip, drip, drip.

She knew, without counting, which door was her sister's room. On the left side, in the middle of the hall. This door wasn't locked. It swung open with only a gentle twist, letting cold air rush out and hit her face.

Ella braced herself for a moment, hand on the knob, the door halfway open. She stared at her feet, nostrils flaring.

Up until this moment, the one thing keeping Ella standing was the idea—the hope—that her mother and her sister were fine. Alive. Safe. She'd steadfastly refused to believe otherwise.

But now, on the other side of this door was the truth. The possibility that she'd been delusional all along, refusing to see the reality.

Ella didn't want to know if Rosie had been attacked that night. She couldn't bear it. What if she found the room in disarray? Ripped tapestries, broken furniture, blood on her pretty green bedding. If all her hopes were dashed away in one single swoop, then...

A firm, warm hand settled on her shoulder. "Darling," Aedion's voice was gentle, a soothing caress. She didn't have to turn to feel his palpable concern. "Do you want me to do it? I will walk in and grab the hairbrush you wanted. You don't have to do this alone."

Her bottom lip wobbled, but she shook her head, turning to face him, his blurry features just about visible. "No. No, I need to do this myself. For Rosie."

She screwed her eyes shut, then, rolling her shoulder, she pushed in.

Cold was her first impression. Cold, dark, and the faint smell of mildew and dampness. A stale smell typical of spaces that were enclosed far too long.

But beneath it, the soft scent of her sister. Lavender soap, clean cotton, and something sweet and babyish. More importantly, no coppery blood or demon rot. Ella almost sobbed in relief.

She took a moment to breathe in the familiar environment, untouched even in the dark. It was all there. The four-poster bed. The drawing table where Rosemary would pore over her art. The teeming bookcase and the armchair next to the boarded-up window.