The Revelation

The Bridal Suite was a cavern of luxury designed to suffocate. Heavy crimson velvet curtains blocked out the storm. The four-poster bed was carved from black oak, the posts resembling twisting vines of thorns. A fire roared in the hearth, but it offered no warmth, only a flickering, chaotic light.

Silas locked the heavy oak door. He didn't just turn the key; he slid a heavy iron bolt into place.

He turned to face her, dropping the mask of the doting groom instantly. His face went slack with boredom.

"You can stop shaking now," Silas said, walking to the sidebar to pour himself a drink. "It’s tedious. The crying usually starts around 11:00, and I’d prefer a few moments of quiet before the dramatics."

Elara stood by the fireplace, her hands folded. "Am I going to die tonight, Silas?"

Silas paused, the crystal decanter hovering over his glass. He looked at her with mild surprise. "Direct. I like that. Your father said you were a mouse. Perhaps he underestimated you."

He took a sip of the amber liquid. "Yes, Elara. You are going to die. Tonight. At midnight, specifically."

He gestured to the room. "You see, the Blackwood fortune isn't built on investments or real estate. It’s built on a bargain. An entity lives beneath the foundations of this house. It feeds on vitality. It grants us wealth, influence, and this..." He gestured to his flawless face. "Eternal vigor. But every fifty years, the contract renews."

"And the price is a bride," Elara said. Her voice was steady.

Silas narrowed his eyes. "A pure soul. A life uncorrupted by the rot of this family. The entity requires a heartbeat. The ruby," he pointed to her throat, "is the beacon. It attunes the demon to your pulse. When the clock strikes twelve, the shadows will peel themselves off the walls, and they will stop that heart."

He checked his pocket watch. "11:15. You have forty-five minutes to pray, scream, or drink. I recommend the drink."

Elara didn't move toward the alcohol. She walked toward him.

"You think I didn't know?" she asked.

Silas laughed, a cruel, barking sound. "You’re a pauper’s daughter sold for gambling chips. What could you possibly know?"

"I know about Isabella, the bride from 1974. I know about Sarah, from 1924. I went to the library, Silas. I looked at the microfiche. Every fifty years, a Blackwood bride disappears on her wedding night. 'Tragic accidents.' 'Sudden heart failure.'"

Silas set his glass down. He looked annoyed now. "Clever girl. But knowledge isn't power, Elara. Not in this room. The door is bolted. The windows are barred. You are meat in a locker."

"I didn't come here to run," Elara said. She reached down and hiked up the heavy silk of her wedding dress.

Strapped to her thigh, stark against the white lace of her garter, was a sheath. She pulled out a shard of glass—the jagged bottom of a broken champagne bottle, wrapped in leather at the base to form a handle.

"I came here to renegotiate the contract," she said.