Page 26 of Obsession

I’ve been through this labyrinthine house before—enough times where I might be able to find my way. Granted, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to roam, but I wasn’t expressly forbidden from leaving this area.

Maybe there are things that I can uncover about Aris’ plans. The thought is thrilling, yet, even as I walk out the door, I’m aware that it’s far-fetched. What do I think, that I’ll find Aris’ diary with a page titled “evil schemes”?

Still, I’d like to try. I need the distraction, and stopping Aris is why I came back here, after all.

Trailing a path I’ve memorized by grim portraits, I repress shudders, unsettled by the feel of phantom bugs on my arms. I’ve forgotten how the atmosphere clings to me here—heavy and oppressive. There’s always a draft in these halls, no matter how many layers or jackets I pile on—a breeze that feels like the breath of a slumbering beast.

Though the metal fixtures shine and the furniture is well-maintained, nothing about this place feels open or inviting. I think it’s the lighting; it’s always dim, but strong enough to cast an eerie glow on the paintings.

Like the Mona Lisa, the eyes of victims and killers alike watch me pass—some, gleeful, mocking, and others despairing. Help me, help me, they whisper. Sometimes, if I turn quickly enough, it looks like expressions have shifted.

Rubbing at my arms, I tell myself it’s my imagination, but my senses remain on high alert. Realistically, I know that no one could hurt me here, not without Aris’ approval, yet I’m on edge.

When I’m in the belly of the house and cold all over, I consider retreating to my room. I am sufficiently distracted, the paintings are getting to me, and it doesn’t seem like I’ll be getting any answers—it doesn’t seem like there’s anything to find. While deliberating, I pass by an open door, the floorboards creaking under my weight.

“Who’s there?” comes a familiar voice, and I still. “No one should be in this wing.”

My heart pounds in my chest. Silva. The thought of his striking eyes cuts me as I recall when I saw him last: the fall of the Institute, Silva barking orders to find me, and, finally, how he forced the Grand Mage to open the portal, presumably murdering him right after.

I do not like this man, if he’s even a man. An immortal follower of Aris’ cult, he stood by Dominachion when he pushed the dagger into me. I saw him smile.

“Who’s there?” he says again, this time sharper.

I take a breath to settle my nerves. Aris wouldn’t have brought me back and took such care in setting up my room just to kill me a few hours in. And if Aris doesn’t want me dead, then I have insurance. None of his followers will hurt me.

Still, I glance at my arm, where my old rune used to be. I try to remind myself that I’m powerful, that I used magic once, but the thought doesn’t stick.

“It’s Mary,” I say, approaching the doorframe.

Inside, I find Silva on a velvet chair with a book so thick that he has to prop it up with two hands. If it weren’t for his silver eyes, he’d look like any other grandfather—perhaps too stern, clothes too old-fashioned, but average enough, with hair a mix between gray and white.

“Ah.” He shuts his book with an audible thwump, setting it on the table beside him. “Well, what are you doing just standing there? Come in.”

Silva gestures at a seat adjacent his own, the expectant look on his face making me nervous. I’d almost prefer him threatening my life to this social nicety. “I’m good where I am,” I say.

“Come in,” he repeats more firmly. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“You would?” I ask warily, taking a cautious step inside. The air feels even cooler in here than in the hall, and I glance around, taking in what looks like a grand piano, bookshelves, and heavy curtains, impenetrable by the light of day.

Instead of electricity, the room is illuminated with candelabras and an oil lamp beside Silva, with a flame that flickers wildly, close to death. Given the muted light, it doesn’t seem like the best place to read.

He says nothing as I walk closer and take a seat next to him. I reason: he is a murdering cultist, but he might be able to give me some answers. Maybe this excursion wasn’t useless after all.

Silva studies me for a moment, and I feel like a mouse about to be placed in a maze. He relents, glancing at the piano. “Do you play?”

“No.” I follow his look, studying the expensive instrument. Dusted, or perhaps just well-used, it’s the focal point of the room. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

His lips quirk. “No, it isn’t. I’m only making conversation.”

My fingers curl on the armrests of the chair. Why is he being pleasant? Is he trying to get on my good side, or trick me in some way? Unable to reach my own conclusion, I decide to just ask him.

“Why not attempt platitudes?” he says.

“You tried to kill me.”

Silva doesn’t respond right away, and the flame beside him flickers, makes a crackling, dying noise, and fades. Its absence shadows half of his face, his silver eye the only part I can make out of his left side.

He clears his throat and stands, walking to the bookcase with the finished oil lamp in his hand. Wordlessly, he refills it, lights the lamp again, and moves back to his seat, settling against the cushion.

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