Chapter 10: The Contract Breaks*
695 Words
The house didn’t breathe anymore.
It held its breath.
Evelyn’s bare feet slapped against the cold marble as she ran. The air was too thin, like the house had inhaled and forgotten to exhale. Her chest burned. The locket at her throat wasn’t humming now. It was _screaming_. A high, needle-thin vibration that drilled straight into her bones.
“Damien!” Her voice cracked and bounced off the portraits. No answer.
Only the sound of her own pulse. And something else.
_Drip. Drip. Drip._
Wet. Measured. Coming from behind her.
She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she looked back, she’d see the pale hand, the black hair, the face that was hers.
Damien’s room was at the end of the east hall. Heavy oak door. Iron handle. Cold enough to burn.
She slammed it shut and threw the bolt. _Clack._ The sound was too small.
The air in here smelled different. Like him. Cedar, old books, and something metallic she didn’t want to name. His coat was draped over a chair. The bed was unmade, like he’d left in a hurry.
And on the desk: the contract.
The paper wasn’t paper anymore. It was skin. Pale. Veined.
The ink on it was bubbling.
Evelyn stepped closer. The words were _moving_.
`The firstborn daughter shall be given to the House on the night of her twentieth year.`
The word `shall` bled and rewrote itself.
`The firstborn daughter shall be spared. If the House is denied its due, it will take what it is owed. Twice.`
Her stomach dropped. “No.”
The locket went white-hot. She gasped and tore it off. The chain left a red welt. The locket fell to the desk and cracked. Inside wasn’t a photo.
It was a tiny scrap of fabric. Baby blue. And a lock of dark hair tied with thread.
Footsteps stopped outside the door.
Three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.
_Knock. Knock. Knock._
Evelyn froze. “Damien?”
No answer.
“Damien, is that you?” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
The doorknob turned. Locked.
Then a whisper, right against the wood. Right against her ear. Even though she was three feet away.
_“Open the door, sister.”_
The voice was hers. But wrong. Wet. Like it was speaking from underwater.
Evelyn backed up until her legs hit the bed. “You’re not my sister.”
A soft laugh. It sounded like bubbles breaking.
_“The house says you are. The blood says you are. And the contract…”_
A pause. She could hear breathing on the other side. Too many breaths.
_“…the contract is broken. So now I get to choose.”_
The lights flickered. In the second of darkness, Evelyn saw them.
Footprints. Wet. Leading from the door to the bed. To her.
The lights came back. Nothing there.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She’d forgotten she had it.
Unknown number.
Message: `He’s not coming. He went to make a deal.`
Another message, right after:
`If you want him back, come to the west wing. Alone. Bring the key.`
The key. Still in her fist. She didn’t remember picking it up.
Outside, the scratching started again. _Skkkk. Skkkk._ Right under the door.
And beneath that, Damien’s voice. Far away. Like he was shouting from the bottom of a well.
“Evelyn! Don’t—”
Cut off.
Evelyn’s hands were shaking. The contract on the desk split down the middle with a sound like tearing cloth. Black smoke poured from the seam and spelled words in the air before dissolving:
`ONE MUST BE GIVEN.`
“Given to what?” she whispered.
The whisper answered, amused:
_“To me.”_
Evelyn looked at the door. At the key. At the message on her phone.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could taste copper.
She had two choices. Hide and hope Damien came back.
Or walk into the west wing and break this herself.
The doorknob rattled.
_“Last chance, sister.”_
Evelyn picked up the key. It was warm now. Almost alive.
She took a shaky breath, and reached for the bolt.
- Writer
