Page 8 of Avidian
“Yes, I wish you were here under better circumstances. Come, let’s get you to your rooms,” Viktor says and turns to the massive double doors. Two men, dressed in black and built like statues, pull them open with a synchronized motion.
As we step inside, I glance back over my shoulder. The headlights of the other cars glimmer faintly at the end of the long driveway. A pang of curiosity strikes me—I wonder who else Marco brought with us.
“All of you will stay here,” Marco instructs as he looks at his men. “When the rest arrive, have them shown to their rooms.” He looks from me to Viktor. “Now, I want you to take us to where it happened.”
I glance sideways at him. Where it happened. Finally, I’m going to uncover the real reason for this visit.
“I take it this is her, the demon you mentioned?” Viktor’s eyes flick to me, his gaze sweeping over me like I’m little more than an inconvenient curiosity. He doesn’t look impressed—more wary than anything.
“Yes, this is Katja.” Marco places a hand lightly on my back. I keep my expression neutral, unreadable, meeting Viktor’s stare without flinching. Let him underestimate me. Let him be wary. I want him to fear me.
“Very well.” Viktor gestures to one of the men near the doors. “Alex, get Bianca and Violet to show the others where they’ll be staying.”
Alex nods, a single sharp motion, though his presence dominates the room. He’s massive, towering over everyone, even Marco, with arms that look like they could crush stone. Definitely more than a doorman.
“You two can follow me,” Viktor says, pivoting and starting down the dim hallway. Marco taps my back lightly, urging me to follow, and I fall in step beside him.
The mansion’s interior is as foreboding as its exterior. Hallway after hallway stretches before us, dark and cold, illuminated only by small, intricately carved wall sconces that cast faint, flickering glows. The walls are lined with enormous portraits—grizzled older men with piercing eyes that seem tofollow us as we pass. The floors are hardwood with thick red rugs. The air feels heavy, oppressive, like the house itself is alive and watching.
After two flights of creaking stairs, we stop outside a dark wooden door. This part of the mansion feels different, older, and less meticulously maintained. The air smells faintly of damp wood and something metallic. Wherever we’re going, it isn’t Viktor’s personal quarters.
“This is the place,” Viktor says somberly. His expression is grim, his features set in a mask of discomfort. “I’ll meet you back in the living room. Take all the time you need.”
“You’re not coming in with us?” Marco asks as Viktor starts to turn away.
“I can’t stand another second in that room,” Viktor mutters before he walks off. His figure disappears around the corner, leaving us in silence.
Marco and I exchange a glance then look back to the door.
He says, “Better see what you can find out.”
I hesitate only briefly, my hand hovering over the cold brass knob. With a steadying breath, I turn it and push the door open, stepping into the room before doubt can take hold.
Chapter Four
RULE 4 OF THE NEW ORDER: EXPECT BETRAYAL AT EVERY TURN—EVEN THE PUREST SMILE MASKS KNIVES.
The smell hits me first,sharp and distinct, before my eyes adjust to the darkness. Sweet and coppery, it clings to the air, unmistakable. Fresh blood. Only fresh blood has that metallic sweetness. The scent of decay hasn’t settled in yet, which means death is still new to this room.
I don’t move an inch, my stomach tightening at the thought of stepping into a puddle of blood in my only pair of snow boots. Marco, far less hesitant, flicks on the light. The yellow glow floods the small space. I thought I knew what to expect from the smell, but I couldn’t have imagined this.
Blood.
Everywhere.
My brain takes a second too long to process it all. The walls, the floor, the bed—it’s all streaked, smeared, and splattered with red. When I glance up, my stomach churns. The ceiling too. I have to fight the absurd thought that a pack of rabid wolves broke in here and shredded someone to ribbons. There’s no body, but the remains are gruesome—clumps of flesh, tuftsof hair, and barely peeking out from beneath the dresser is a severed finger.
The room itself is modest—clearly a servants quarters. The tidy furnishings are jarringly at odds with the carnage. A simple dresser with a large mirror, a nightstand, and a narrow bed that might squeeze in two people if they didn’t mind the closeness. It would all look neat and unassuming if not for the nightmarish coating of blood on every surface.
This room is chaos, a brutal explosion of rage.
“Whose room is this?” I ask Marco.
“Carmen’s,” Marco replies. “She was one of the cooks.”
Cooks? I frown, my mind spinning. What could a cook possibly have done to deserve this?
“She’s not why we’re here,” he says.
