Page 596 of Flirting with Darkness

It took him some time to separate himself from the party long enough to accomplish such a thing, but not as long as he’d feared.

Once he got downstairs, the servants ignored him, likely feeling they’d done their part in making sure he wasn’t armed when he left his room. His father had been off entertaining guests and preaching to his sycophants. Ghost still felt eyes on him, so he bided his time, waiting for them to grow accustomed to his presence.

Waiting for them to forget about him.

Soon after, the vast majority of his father’s partygoers were drunk.

In the end, all it took was Ghost downing a few drinks of his own, then using the excuse of needing the water closet a second time.

By then, the party had been going for hours.

Even his father had ceased to watch him so closely, compared to what Ghost had felt when he first arrived downstairs.

Ghost had never really intended to remain unarmed.

Not for long, at least.

Now he pulled out the broadsword he’d hidden on his back in a homemade scabbard, gripping the medieval weapon by its black, leather-wrapped handle. He separated it from its holder with a smooth pull and brandished it in front of him.

No one around him even seemed to notice.

The blood of the circle continued to burn.

Its scarlet and green flames rose more than a foot in height. They formed a grim ring around the lectern and arch, with the glowing clock situated neatly in the fire’s center.

The smell had grown unbearable.

It only continued to worsen as Ghost stood there, holding the sword… even though most of the smoke still seemed to disappear into the Count’s outline.

Ghost smelled something rotting in that air now, as if whatever his father was doing, he was leaching the blood of the last of its life, stealing the very essence of humanity from every drop that burned. Perhaps the fire itself did it. Or perhaps his father’s spell was taking some part of his guests’ humanity onto himself, to strengthen himself for the ritual.

Ghost suspected the latter.

Whatever the technicalities, he almost didn’t care anymore.

He could scarcely stand it.

The rank, death-like nature of that smell hit him at a visceral level.

It made him nearly emotional.

He continued to grip the sword one-handed as he coughed into the sleeve of his coat, trying to expel that smell from his nose and skin. He feared it permeated every part of him, drenching him in death, absorbing into his hair and clothes.

He took a step forward, towards the circle.

It struck him the woman under the stone archway was gone.

He found he understood somehow anyway.

It was the clock.

The clock was all that mattered now.

His father couldn’t be allowed to touch the clock.

Somehow, this was all about that damned, glowing, magic clock.

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