White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-29

Lucy’s laughter was a sharp, jagged sound that echoed against the mahogany walls of the library. She didn't cower; she straightened her blouse, her eyes gleaming with a triumph that bordered on the deranged.

"Oh, did you read them all, Percy, or should I say Cornelius?" she taunted, her voice dripping with venom. "Did you read the parts where I orchestrated every move? Did you finally piece together that Harrington was nothing more than a toy I wound up to see if you would snap? I didn't just want you to be a man; I wanted you to be a beast. I fed your jealousy, I fueled your obsession, I whispered into your ear when you were drunk on your own rage. I wanted you to destroy her, because I couldn't stand that you belonged to anyone but me."

She stepped closer, her shadow looming over him. "I didn't account for you falling in love with her. That was your one failure—that was your weakness. You weren't supposed to be a husband, you were supposed to be my weapon."

Percy felt the blood draining from his extremities, his vision tunneling into a red-rimmed rage. The man he had been in 1834 was clawing its way up from the depths of his soul, a cold, calculating cruelty that had been dormant for a century. He lunged for her, his hands curling into claws, but Lucy was faster. She scooped the ruby necklace from the floorboards, her fingers locking around it.

"You're right," she sneered, holding it aloft like a trophy. "You are a monster. But you're a monster with no eyes. Without this, she’s gone. You will never see that pathetic ghost again. I’ll make sure she’s banished to the furthest reaches of the void, while you stay here, rotting in this house, haunted by the memory of what you’ll never touch again."

She spun on her heel and strode toward the door. "Think on that, darling. Try to be the man I wanted, or spend your eternity in the dark."

The door slammed, the lock clicking home with a sound that felt like a guillotine blade.

Percy stood in the center of the library, the silence that followed the most deafening thing he had ever known. He collapsed to his knees, his hands scrambling across the floorboards where she had stood. He cried out—a raw, inhuman sound of absolute desolation.

He was alone. The house, which had been vibrant with Alice’s presence only moments ago, turned into a sepulcher. The warmth that had been his lifeline, the cool, phantom brush of her fingers, the scent of her roses—it was all gone, evaporated into the cold, empty air.

He scrambled to the walls, clawing at the shelves, throwing books across the room until his hands bled. He was Cornelius, the master con artist, the ruthless titan, and he had been outplayed by a shadow. His mind began to fracture. He paced the floor like a caged predator, talking to the empty air, pleading with walls that offered no reply.

He couldn't feel her. He couldn't hear her.

The madness, which he had thought was a relic of the past, surged up to meet him. He was a man who had traded his soul for an eternity with her, and now, he was condemned to a prison of silence. Every ticking second was a new torment, every shadow a cruel reminder of the wife he had been promised and now, once again, had lost.

"Alice!" he screamed, his voice shattering against the ceiling. "My love, come back to me!"

But there was only the mocking silence of the house, and the realization that he would burn the world to the ground to get the necklace back—even if he had to carve the soul out of Lucy herself to find it.