The Midpoint

"You knew," Elias said, his hand going to his hip, remembering too late he didn't have his gun.

"Of course I knew," Sebastian smiled. "I commissioned them. Well, the family did. One every generation. The Gilded Man demands a heavy price for the fortune he provides."

"The gold sickness," Elias coughed, spitting a golden fluid onto the floor. "You poisoned me."

"I prepared you," Sebastian corrected. "The gold must be in the blood. It conducts the ritual. It binds the soul to the metal. You can't just dip a man in gold, Detective. He has to become it from the inside out."

"Why me?"

"Because you fit the profile," Sebastian said, stepping closer. "Greedy. Desperate. Morally flexible. A Seeker. You came here looking for a fortune. You're going to get one. You're going to *be* one."

"I'm leaving," Elias growled. He turned to run back toward the service door.

"I wouldn't," Sebastian called out lazily.

Elias burst through the doors into the East Wing hallway.

He stopped.

The hallway was full.

The ghosts he had seen in the reflections were there. The miners. The workers. Hundreds of them. They were translucent, grey, and smelled of wet earth. They blocked the corridor, a wall of spectral misery.

They weren't haunting the Vanes. They were working for them. They were the jailers.

One of the ghosts, a large man with a pickaxe wound in his skull, stepped forward. He shoved Elias back. His touch was like liquid nitrogen.

Elias fell backward into the gallery.

Sebastian was leaning against a statue, checking his watch. "It’s December 24th, Elias. The Ball starts at midnight. You have a few hours to make your peace."