Page 8 of Gothikana

Four.

Five.

The stone stairwell ended, shrouded in darkness looming inside the castle, and a metal spiral staircase began. She went up.

Six levels.

She counted as she went up higher and higher until she reached the top of the tower. The small window on the staircase wall showed her the little half-moon out in the sky and the endless darkness under the castle. The music came from right behind the heavy wooden door in front of her. It was some kind of an attic at the top of the tower. The door wasn’t fully closed.

Climbing the last few stairs, she hesitated, not wanting whoever was on the other side to know she was there and stop their music. Biting her lip, she silently tiptoed to the side where the door was cracked and peeked inside.

A boy, no, a man, sat in front of a big, dark wooden piano, only his side profile visible to her. Pushing her candle behind the door to cloak herself in the shadows, she watched him from the side in the moonlight.

He was sitting in the semi-darkness, dressed all in black, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up his forearms, his eyes closed as he bent forward, the line of his jaw chiselled square and shadowed with hair, a lock of his dark hair falling forward.

He was...magnificent.

Beautiful in the way pain was beautiful, because it tugged at the chest and made something visceral come alive in the stomach and caused blood to simmer in the veins. Enchanting in the way she imagined dark magic was, because it twisted the air around it and warped the mind and overpowered the senses. Haunting in the way only very few living things could be, because it sent a shiver down the spine and cloaked itself in the darkness and fed on the energy around them.

Corvina watched, enthralled, as his fingers flew over the keys without his eyes opening once, a haunting melody of anguish floating out between them, connecting them in their lament.

He existed somewhere between the black and white when he played, and in that moment she wanted to exist in that subspace with him, see what he saw, hear what he heard, feel what he felt. Something inside her clenched, unfurled, clenched again, as she watched him, the desire to touch him and see if he was real making her palms itch. He had to be real. She couldn’t be imagining him. Could she?

The music cut off abruptly as his eyes flashed open.

Corvina stepped behind the door quickly, her heart thudding in her chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The sudden silence felt heavier in the night than it should have. She could feel it pressing into her neck, right where her pulse fluttered, on her chest where her heart beat in a rapid rhythm, on her hand that shook as she fisted her nightgown.

The silence lengthened and she knew, just knew, that he was watching the door and the staircase. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. And she had to stand there and hide until the pressure of his gaze lifted. Whoever he was, he had intensity unlike any she had encountered before.

‘Whoever the fuck you are, walk off right now,’ a masculine voice called out the command.

His voice.

Deep, gravel baritone. There was something dulcet but rich about it, heady, textured.

Corvina considered his words and realised there wasn’t any point in hiding. He already knew she was there. It was best that she simply went back down.

Inhaling deeply, she gathered her gown in the hand that had been fisting it, and headed to the stairs, lifting the candle to light the way.

‘Jesus,’ she heard him curse but didn’t turn. She must have looked a ghostly sight with her white gown and long raven hair and the candlestick in her hand. Without stopping, she quickly descended the way she had come up, her heart beating in tandem with her footsteps, this time loudly on the spiral staircase, her gown and loose hair flowing behind her, probably making her look like a mad woman. What a first day it was turning out to be.

She felt his eyes on her from the top of the staircase and she hesitated, giving in to the temptation to look at his face just once, lest she never see him again. Glancing up at him from below,she watched as his eyes, light eyes the colour of which she couldn’t tell, connected with hers. The fabric of her gown twisted in her fist as her pulse skittered, watching him watching her.

Corvina swallowed, wanting to tell him that she hadn’t meant to disturb him, to tell him that he was possibly the most darkly beautiful man she had ever seen, that he played like he had been cursed to play for his life. She wanted to tell him all of those things, but she said none.

And then she saw it — a bold streak of white that ran through his hair from the front, disappearing to the back.

Realisation dawning upon her, she broke free from his gaze and ran down the stairs, keeping a rapid pace all the way to her room, determined to put the encounter out of her mind.

Because the light eyes and the streak of white hair only meant one thing — she’d just encountered the silver-eyed devil of Verenmore.

CHAPTER 3

Corvina

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