Panic is a cold bucket of water. It clarifies everything.
The creak of the step above me wasn’t just a sound; it was a countdown. One second to realize I was trapped. Two seconds to realize the gun in my hand was shaking too much to aim. Three seconds to find a hole to crawl into.
I couldn’t go back up the stairs. He was blocking the only exit.
I clicked off the heavy Maglite, plunging the room into a suffocating, absolute darkness. The sudden blindness was dizzying, but the alternative—being a spotlighted target in a shooting gallery—was worse.
I scrambled backward, my boots scuffing softly against the layered rugs. I felt the rough wood of the supply crates against my spine. I slid behind them, wedging myself into the narrow gap between the makeshift pantry and the plastic-lined earth wall. The smell of damp soil and peppermint oil was overwhelming here, choking the air from my lungs.
I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a ball, making myself small. Invisible. Just like I used to do when Richard played the opera music.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Be the wall.
Another creak. Closer.
Then, a beam of light cut through the gloom.
It swung wildly at first, dancing over the ceiling beams, then settled on the floor. He was carrying a lantern. The light was warm, yellow, and terrifyingly bright.
He stepped off the final stair and into the room.
From my vantage point through the slats of the crate, I saw his boots first. They were heavy, rubber work boots, caked in fresh mud. Too big for his feet, the laces tied with electrical wire.
Then the legs. Layers of pants—jeans over sweatpants, thick and bulky.
Then the torso.
He was massive.
The boy in my memory had been scrawny, a collection of sharp angles and hunger. The man standing ten feet away from me was a monolith. He wore a canvas barn coat that was stained black with grease and soil, the sleeves fraying at the cuffs. His shoulders were broad, hunched forward with the weight of twenty years of hiding.
He turned, and the lantern light washed over his face.
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper.
It was him. It was the eyes. They were the same polished river stones I had seen through the vent, but now they were set in a face that had been ruined by the wild. A thick, jagged scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw, pulling his lip up into a permanent, slight sneer. His beard was patchy, matted with dirt.
He looked like a creature made of the woods, assembled from bark and moss and shadow.
But his eyes… his eyes were bright. Lucid. And filled with a terrifying, childlike softness as he looked around the room.
“Princess?” he rasped.
His voice was a physical vibration in the small space. It was the voice from the Walkman. The voice that hummed.
He lifted the lantern, scanning the room. “I saw the light. Did you come down?”
He was talking to me. Not knowing I was there, but hoping I was there. Or maybe he was talking to the ghost of me he kept in his head.
He walked toward the center of the room, moving with a heavy, lumbering grace. He set the lantern on the table near the kitchenette.
Then he turned to the shrine.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a fist. I had put Annabel back on the crate, but had I put her back exactly right? I still had the journal in my pocket. Would he notice the gap in the stack?
Elias stood before the wall of photos. He reached out a hand—his fingers were thick, the nails black and broken, wrapped in dirty bandages—and touched a picture of me. It was one of the recent ones. Me walking into the diner.
He traced the line of my face with a gentleness that made my skin crawl. It was a caress.
“You looked sad today,” he whispered to the photo. “The Bad Prince made you sad. I saw him yell at you.”
He turned to the doll.
“Annabel,” he murmured. “Did she come? Did you see her?”
He picked up the doll. He cradled it against his chest, rocking slightly on his heels. It was a grotesque parody of a father holding a child.
“She’s scared,” he told the doll. “She doesn’t remember the rules. She forgot the map.”
He turned away from the shrine and walked toward the kitchenette, passing within three feet of where I was huddled. I could smell him now—a sharp, acrid stench of unwashed skin, pine resin, and dried blood.
He opened a can of peaches with a knife he pulled from his belt. A hunting knife. The blade was six inches long, dull gray steel. He didn’t use a fork. He tipped the can back and drank the syrup, the heavy liquid running into his beard.
He slammed the can down.
“She smashed the wall,” he said, his voice rising, angry now. He was pacing. “She smashed the sanctuary. Why did she do that? I kept her safe. I watched the door.”
He kicked the leg of the table. The lantern rattled.
“She needs to remember,” he growled. “I have to make her remember.”
He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out something white.
It was a piece of cloth. Silk.
He held it up to his face, inhaling deeply.
I recognized it. It was a scarf I had lost a week ago in Seattle. He had been there. He had traveled to the city to watch me, to steal from me, before I even knew the game had restarted.
“Soon,” he whispered into the silk. “The Wedding is soon. Then we go to the Castle. The real Castle.”
He shoved the scarf back into his pocket and turned toward the back of the room, toward a dark alcove I hadn’t noticed behind the hanging plastic sheets.
“I have to get the guests ready,” he muttered.
The guests.
The bodies.
He moved toward the alcove. As he pushed the plastic aside, the lantern light didn’t follow him. He was moving into the dark.
This was it.
He was ten feet away, his back to me, distracted by whatever horrors lay in the shadows of his home. The stairs were clear.
I shifted my weight. My boot scraped against the dirt floor.
It was a tiny sound. A whisper of friction.
Elias stopped.
He didn’t turn around immediately. He went perfectly still, like a deer catching a scent.
“Princess?” he whispered.
I didn’t wait.
I exploded from behind the crates.
I didn’t try to be quiet. I tried to be fast. I sprinted for the stairs, my boots digging into the rugs for traction.
“ELARA!”
The scream that tore out of him wasn’t human. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated shock and possession.
I hit the bottom step just as I heard the crash of the table overturning behind me. The lantern shattered. The light died.
I scrambled up the earthen steps on my hands and feet, clawing at the dirt. It was pitch black. I could hear him behind me, a heavy, thundering force charging through the dark.
“WAIT!” he screamed. “DON’T GO! THE DRAGON IS OUT THERE!”
I reached the top. I burst out into the night, the rain hitting my face like a blessing.
I grabbed the heavy wooden door and slammed it shut.
There was no lock. No latch. Just the rope handle.
I threw my weight against it, bracing my feet in the mud.
THUD.
He hit the door from below. The wood bucked against my shoulder, nearly throwing me off.
“OPEN IT!” he howled. “ELARA! YOU CAN’T LEAVE! WE’RE NOT DONE!”
The door lifted an inch. I saw his fingers—dirty, bandaged—curl around the edge of the frame.
I stomped on his hand.
I brought my boot heel down with everything I had. I felt the crunch of bone.
He screamed, a high, animal sound of betrayal, and snatched his hand back.
The door slammed flat.
I didn’t wait for him to try again. I turned and ran.
I sprinted toward the ravine wall, toward the trail. I didn’t use the flashlight. I didn’t care about the thorns tearing my face or the roots trying to break my ankles. I ran with the blind panic of prey that has felt the breath of the wolf.
Behind me, the door banged open.
“I’LL FIND YOU!” his voice echoed through the gorge, bouncing off the wet trees. “I ALWAYS FIND YOU! YOU’RE MINE!”
I scrambled up the embankment, my fingernails digging into the mud. I crested the ridge and hit the trail.
I ran.
I ran until my lungs burned like acid. I ran until the sound of his screaming faded into the roar of the wind.
I burst out of the treeline and slammed into the side of Julian’s truck. I fumbled with the door handle, threw myself inside, and locked it.
I jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.
I threw it into reverse, spinning the tires in the mud, fishtailing onto the gravel road.
As the headlights swept across the treeline, I saw him.
He was standing at the edge of the woods. A massive, dark silhouette against the gray trees. He wasn’t chasing me anymore. He was just watching.
He raised one hand. Not a fist. Not a claw.
He waved.
A slow, stilted wave. Goodbye. Or see you soon.
I floored the gas, tearing down the logging road, leaving the monster in the rearview mirror.
But I couldn’t outrun what I had seen.
He was real. He was broken. And he loved me enough to kill the world.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the stolen journal.
I had the proof. I had the map of his mind.
But as I drove back toward the lights of Oakhaven, one thought echoed louder than his screams.
The Guests are waiting.
He had said he needed to get the guests ready.
He wasn’t keeping the bodies in the cellar. The cellar was for us. For the honeymoon.
The guests were somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere fit for a wedding.
I looked at the dashboard clock. 5:00 AM.
I had nineteen hours left.