Page 21 of Elven Lies

The stairwell’s foreboding, dark, cloying dankness opened before them to reveal a vastly spacious room stretching across half the length of the prison compound, if not more. Plenty of light illuminated the space, most of it cast by a crystal chandelier overhead, as well as a cheerily roaring fireplace built into the stone of the right-hand wall halfway across the room.

The rest of that wall and all the others had been transformed into as close to a receiving room as one could ever hope to get in a prison basement. Huge, thickly woven tapestries in blood-reds, deep golds, and varying gray tones hung along every bit of wall space. A curtain of the same material hung at the far end, swept apart on either side and tied back like real curtains with gold ropes, their enormous tassels winking in the light.

But instead of a window, those drawn curtains revealed two wide stone steps leading to a raised section of stone floor and the corner of a large, lavish bed piled high with pillows. Like a private bedroom.

Rebecca took it all in at first glance but not much more, because the startling contrast between what she heard and felt at the base of the stairs and the sight of this sprawling room made her stomach clench in renewed apprehension that demanded her full focus.

It was almost freezing where she and Maxwell stood, the air still dank and filmy amidst the heavy silence.

So what were they looking at now? A mirage? Some kind of illusion meant to lure them into complacency before it gave way to the horrors of reality they couldn’t yet detect?

Maxwell looked just as visibly confused by the juxtaposition, his silver eyes narrowing as he scanned the unlikely setting in front of them.

“No going back now,” she reminded him, though the second time provided no more reassurance than the first.

He snorted. “Unfortunately.”

Whatever this new deceit, they still had to face it to rescue Nyx. They had nowhere else to go.

They had to keep moving.

Setting her jaw, Rebecca ignored the warning signals blazing through her awareness—everything that helped her prioritize self-preservation when a discovery seemed far too good to be true and far too welcoming—and stepped forward onto the cleaner, brighter stone floor at the edge of warm light spilling toward the stairwell.

As she pushed herself forward, she met an unexpected physical resistance in the air. It didn’t push her back toward the stairs but made it more difficult than it should have been to enter the basement.

Almost as if she were stepping through a firm but not impenetrable film between spaces.

A ripple of pressure and enclosing tightness surged through her body in the fleeting second of her next step, then she was through.

The odd sensation disappeared, and Rebecca stopped again to consider one more surprise in the aftermath.

As soon as she’d passed through that invisible film of resistance, the temperature spiked, surrounding her with a balmy warmth. With that warmth came a flare of renewed sounds to replace the consuming silence.

First, the tinny tones of classical music played through a gramophone, the intricate chords of instrumental melody and harmony interspersed with the occasional crackle from the machine. Beneath the music, the natural crackle and pop of burning logs filled the silent spaces. Somewhere else in the room, the steady, heavy thunk of a clock’s ticking mechanism marked the time.

Now, the sounds and physical sensations of this opulently outfitted receiving room matched what Rebecca and Maxwell had seen at the bottom of the stairs.

So not a mirage, then. Right?

She would have loved to believe that was the end of the surprises, but with Harkennr, there was always more.

Beside her, Maxwell snorted and shook his head. “Some trick.”

She would have laughed if this whole thing hadn’t felt so wrong. “Most likely not the only one. Just stay sharp.”

Her unsolicited advice felt unnecessary, but she couldn’t think of anything better to say.

The luxurious receiving room showcased a grotesque contrast to the horrors and torture taking place throughout the prison above. Everything down here screamed opulence, wealth, and comfort.

The antique furnishings. The delicate embellishments on every mounted sconce providing added light. The sideboard filled with priceless dinnerware and cutlery. The overly stuffed armchairs in front of the roaring hearth. The twelve-foot grandfather clock along the right-hand wall, now confirmed as the source of the deep, hollow ticking beneath the classical music.

They’d entered the epitome of refinery and elegance. If this were 1920.

Apparently, Harkennr felt that was the height of taste and luxury in this world.

Most off-putting of all, however, was the sight of the long dining table stretching across the center of the room, its wooden surface polished to a fine sheen and glistening around the intricately embroidered golden table runner down the center.

On that runner, a mouth-watering display of dishes took up all available space. Platters of grilled fish, baked chicken steaming in fragrant herbal sauces, steamed vegetables, half a roasted pig, wheels of decadent cheese, jams and fruit spreads, fresh berries and exotic produce Rebecca still hadn’t yet seen on Earth.

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