Bluebeard lifted her up. He was obviously a good sport. Emeline wondered how much Anna had paid him. His strong arms encompassed her and held her to his barrel-like chest.
She laughed nervously. “We should enter the North American Wife-Carrying Championship. I bet we’d be a cinch to win. Then I’d be worth my weight in gold. Or beer. I can’t remember which it is.”
“You’re already worth your weight in gold to me.”
“Oh, go on.” Emeline feigned coyness. “Well, you certainly are silver tongued.”
“I am quite gifted of tongue.”
“Aha. Yes.” Emeline patted his shoulder. This was awkward.
Bluebeard carried her at least a mile farther. The fallen leaves rustled beneath his feet, some damp and some crisp, making a constant shooshoosh sound. It was nearly noon before the path brought them to the front of a large château. It had once had pale-blue paint and black-and-white trim, but now all had faded. The southern portion of the roof was buckled, and nodules of mold grew in clusters around the indentations. Most of the roof had shifted somewhat to the east. A large tower curled up from that east side, the stone fastened tightly together and covered with a thin layer of dull green moss, and the chimney cut through the center. A smaller westward tower jutted out, but it only went up partway. All in all, the château was a slanting mishmash of angles.
“Oh . . . how charming,” Emeline said. “Why didn’t Anna recommend this place for the Halloween bash?”
Bluebeard chuckled. “Oh, I do not celebrate Halloween.”
“I think you should know I don’t have any money, and any money that I might come into wouldn’t even be enough to fix that roof,” Emeline said. Something felt off. But was there something seriously wrong, or was it just her?
Of course, her phone still wasn’t working. A glance at the screen revealed the signal was even worse. The message from Anna was 64 percent downloaded. Why wasn’t there a read-only option? Stupid phone.
“What difference does that make, my love?” Bluebeard flung open the door and then bowed. “I do not desire you for your money. I desire you for you.”
“Well, me is pretty fantastic, thank you very much. You’re getting a real bargain.”
“Indeed I am.” Bluebeard smiled through his beard. His teeth were quite white beneath all that blue. “You have made me a very happy man, Emeline.”
“I do aim to please.” As Emeline started to turn, he caught her hands in his.
“You please me already.”
“My, what strong hands you have.” Emeline laughed nervously. She’d noticed it before when he was holding her, but now as she studied his hands, she saw they were massive and had long, thin scars.
“The better to hold you with.”
“Hmmm . . . and what a quick wit you have.” Emeline smiled.
“My tongue and my wit are both equally sharp.”
Emeline laughed again, a little uneasily. “Back to that tongue. Let’s wait until after the honeymoon starts, eh, big man?” She was going to get Anna for this.
“Very well. I must go make preparations for our wedding.” Bluebeard removed a large metal circlet from his pocket. How that fit in there Emeline had no idea. He took her hand and turned its palm upward. “What is mine is yours. Go wherever you like.” He draped a circlet of keys over her palm. With a stern look, he added, “Except the West Wing. Do not enter the West Wing under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
Emeline gripped the keys. “I do.”
“It’s important, my love.”
She nodded her head wryly. “I’m sure you’ll have to kill me if I sneak a peek.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Oh, I do.”
“Then I will see you soon.” With that, Bluebeard adjusted his suit, bowed again, and turned on his heel.
“All righty, then.” Emeline waited until the great oak door slammed shut and then lifted the circlet of keys. “Well, well, Emeline, would you like to see what’s in the West Wing? Why yes. Yes, I would.”
Emeline swung the keys around her wrist and started up the sagging grand staircase.
IT WAS QUITE AN EXAGGERATION to refer to this as the West Wing. Even with her limited knowledge of architecture, Emeline doubted that a single half tower on the west side of the house could truly count as a “wing.” Then again, they were all playing a game. It was best to stay in the spirit of the adventure.
Emeline continued to twirl the keys as she went up the stairs. The aged steps creaked, each one groaning and squeaking with a slightly different voice. A few even shuddered after she moved off them.
If she had been more of an artist or a romantic, this house might have left her with a more positive impression. It was obviously quite old. The stair railing had intricate designs carved into it, and the faded blue-green wallpaper boasted what was likely an impressive damask pattern. The carpeting—if this wasn’t mold beneath her feet—could have been any color. Even white. It was so badly discolored. The scent of rot grew stronger with each step, and a faint drip-drip somewhere indicated water leakage.
“I don’t suppose you winterized your pipes, did you?” Emeline said aloud.
The landing before the West Wing creaked and groaned as she stepped onto it. Ragged fibers suggested there had once been some sort of rug. The rank scent was even worse here, but it had an almost fruity undertone. The staircase curved upward and continued on to the next floor, but this was the only stop-off point on the west side.
“West Wing,” Emeline muttered. “More like West Room.”
She fished out one of the keys and inserted it into the rusted lock. The key stuck as she twisted.
“Lucky me, I’ve got more keys.” Emeline removed it and attempted another with a triple-crossed heart in the handle. It didn’t go in at all. The third, a tarnished silver key with a skull, also failed to go in. The iron key had too much rust and residue to be used, and the fifth, with its six spikes protruding in all directions, was clearly not right. She whistled a little tune as she continued searching.
A black striped lizard stuck its head out of a nearby hole in the wall, his slick tongue flicking in and out. “Come to hear my song, did you?” Emeline grinned.
The lizard darted back into its hole. Apparently he wasn’t such a music fan.
At last, her palms a little sore from the twisting and covered in rust dust, she found the right key. A thick black one with two teeth on the end that was far heavier than it looked. It settled in, and when she gave it a firm twist, the tumblers fell into place, and the door jolted open half an inch.
“Perfect.” Emeline slid the ring of keys over her wrist and pressed her hands to the door. Its wood was black and soft, and it opened with the deepest, heaviest creak Emeline had ever heard. A horrible scent rushed out as if eager to escape.
“Oh, Morpheus, what is that?” Emeline fanned her face and peered inside. Her stomach lurched, and it was all she could do to keep from vomiting right there.
For not celebrating Halloween, Bluebeard had the most elaborate and realistic death chamber Emeline had ever seen. It was almost as good as the Horribly Haunted House in Baltimore, which had reputedly used actual corpses in its macabre tableaux. Blackened blood streaked the walls, mingling with green and black mold. Small congealing pools of blood dripped and drained across the floor, settling into the dips and crevices. Fifteen high-backed wooden chairs lined the water-damaged walls. In all but two of the chairs sat headless women clad in velvet or silk gowns, their heads sitting beside them on small octagonal tables nearby. Their hands were all folded before them as if in contemplation, and on each of their left ring fingers was a lovely sapphire ring. The gowns and bodies were in various stages of decomposition. A couple were little more than skeletons. Some were far . . . meatier.
The woman beside the two empty chairs was recent enough that despite the stench and swelling, Emeline could see that she had hazel eyes and had likely been a dancer.
“Okay . . .” Eme
line kept her hand on the door. “Either this is in terribly bad taste, or . . .”
The other side of that statement was quite unappealing.
Anna wasn’t above ghoulish—or expensive—pranks, but this was extreme even for her. Besides, how could anyone have set this up? True, it hadn’t taken much persuasion to convince Emeline to agree to the bet, so arguably Anna and this Bluebeard could have set up the entire prank long ago.
“Wonderful.” Emeline removed her phone and recorded a panoramic view. Her stomach twisted. “You know, Anna,” she said, “if you invested this sort of time and money into the shelter, we wouldn’t have budget problems.”
She finished the picture and paused. The phone and the keys fell from her hand.
A rat was nibbling on the foot of one corpse. Its nose twitched as it kept its shining eyes fastened on her.
Bile rose in the back of Emeline’s throat. “I don’t suppose you’d eat a rubber or latex corpse, would you?”
The rat cocked its head. Then it returned to nibbling.
Obviously not animatronic. This was not a prank.
Scooping up her phone and the keys, Emeline hurried out, telling herself she had to remain calm. The door locked behind her. “Keep calm, yeah,” she muttered, jamming the phone and keys into her cardigan pocket. “Calmly get out of this place!”
She raced down the staircase, desperate to escape before Bluebeard returned. If it turned out that this was a joke, she’d get even with Anna in the most epic way possible. In fact, if she survived, she might do that anyway. As she struck the bottom landing, the front door squeaked open.
Bluebeard stepped inside. “My darling!” He spread his arms wide. A large bag hung from his left hand.
Emeline stopped short. “Sweetheart,” she said with far less enthusiasm.
Bluebeard offered her the bag. “A little something for my beautiful bride.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Emeline accepted it, avoiding the temptation to run. Perhaps another alternative would present itself. Forcing a smile, she peered inside. “Oh! A dress . . . and a ring.” Inside the brown paper bag were an elegant blue velvet gown and an all-too-familiar sapphire ring. “However did you guess my size?”
“I have my ways.” Bluebeard smiled, his white teeth shining beneath his beard. “And now that I have given you something, do you have something for me?”
“Hmmm . . .” Emeline raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’ll need some time to—”
“The keys, dearest love,” Bluebeard said. “I meant the keys.”
Emeline moved her hand back when she realized that both her phone and the keys were covered in sticky bits of blood and mold. She clapped her hand over her pocket. “Oh, that’s not much of a gift, you ridiculous man. Ahh!” She forced a laugh and pecked him on the cheek. “You give me this gorgeous dress and a lovely ring, and you think all I’m going to do is give you some rusty old keys? I think not! I have just the perfect gift for you. But it’s at my house. So I’ll just pop over and fetch it, and then I’ll get changed, and we can have that beautiful wedding you were talking about, all right?”
“There’s no need.” Bluebeard held his hand out again. “Just give me the keys.”
“Don’t you want a present from me?” Emeline asked.
“Your presence is all I require.” Bluebeard motioned for her to hurry up. “Now come along. There is much to be done.”
Emeline thought that it might make him more suspicious if she continued to refuse. She nodded and pulled the keys and her phone free. She wiped them on her cardigan. “I tell you. This place is so dirty. I was up there on the south side and just dropped everything. After we’re married, we’ll have to give this place a good once-over, let me tell you!”
With a rusty rattle, the keys settled back in Bluebeard’s broad hand.
Bluebeard scowled, his brows knitting together in dark fury. “You were in the West Wing.”
So much for secrecy. Emeline’s first instinct was to cower, but she forced herself to stand straight and meet his gaze. She had to play for time, come up with a plan, get him off balance. False bravado was better than none. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“You went into the West Wing,” Bluebeard said once again.
His hands clenched over the ring of keys, his knuckles whitening. “There is blood from the chamber on these keys.”
“Oh, calm your beard, Sasquatch.” Emeline folded her arms. “Of course I went into the West Wing. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I specifically told you not to.”
“Which is why I had to. But don’t worry about it. Your secret is safe.”
“It was not your time yet. There is so much yet for us to experience. Was. Now it cannot be.”
“Well, don’t sell yourself short, darling. Corpses don’t have to kill a mood.”
“But I must kill you now that the secret is out.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“You’re correct that you will tell no one. The dead can—”
“Oh, don’t be so predictable.” Emeline grimaced. “That’s so overdone, even for someone like you. ‘The dead tell no tales.’ ‘Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.’ Well, guess what? If I come back from the dead, I promise you, I’ll have a lot to say, and I’ll tell everyone. If you don’t kill me, I’ll keep quiet.”
“This is beyond tragic.” Bluebeard struck his hand to his forehead. “Previously, I have not been forced to kill my other wives until after the wedding night. That we must deny ourselves that great pleasure is the greatest heartbreak of all.” He jerked the front door shut and slid its three heavy bolts into place. “You will die a virgin.”
Emeline choked down the panic rising within her. “That would be a tragedy. So why let that happen? There are, after all, alternatives.”
Bluebeard pulled a black covering from a whetstone in front of the staircase. He then removed a cutlass from the wall and began sharpening it.
“Hmmm . . .” Emeline pursed her lips and glanced back at Bluebeard. The cutlass blade whirred and sparked on the whetstone. This was bad. Incredibly bad. Time for a change of plans. “Listen, before you kill me, I need to get my soul in order. Can you give me ten minutes?”
“You must not leave the château or attempt to escape, or I will be forced to punish you further.”
“Well . . . dying is more than enough punishment for me. I’ll see you shortly.” Emeline bolted up the stairs, into one of the unlocked rooms, and practically tore her phone from her pocket. As the screen flicked on, the picture Anna had sent was downloaded, along with the message Here’s someone I think you’d like saying yes to. Would you like to meet him at noon on the other side of the bridge? The picture was of a charming-looking guitarist with curly brown hair and dark gray eyes. He had a strawberry mark on his left cheek. Stupid phone.
Emeline texted back. Get police to Grete’s Woods five miles from Walter County Line. Old château fair distance from main road after old Victorian bridge turnoff. Emergency. Killer with blue beard. Not joking. The little white icon flashed and flashed, loading and loading but never sending.
“Come on!” Emeline smacked her phone against her hand.
The message still sat there, the circle running around and around. There wasn’t enough signal to make a call either. She was going to have to get higher. Maybe if she reached the roof.
Emeline opened her Emergency Dial app and punched in 911. The voice messaging service clicked on and calmly asked her to state her emergency and leave the GPS on her phone turned on until help arrived.
“Yes,” Emeline said, drawing in a steadying breath. She couldn’t rush this. It wouldn’t do any good if her message was garbled. “I’m in Grete’s Woods about five miles from the Walter County line. It’s an old château in the middle of the forest about half a mile from the old Victorian bridge turnoff.” She paced back and forth across the stained wood floor. “I need emergency assistance. There are thirteen dead bodies here, and
I think that the murderer is about to kill me too! The GPS is on, but the trees are obscuring the signal, I think—please come immediately!”
She pressed 9 to end. The automated voice assured her that as soon as a sufficient signal was restored her message would be delivered.
The door slammed open, punching the wall with a sickening thud. Bluebeard stood in the opening. He was framed in cold silver light, the freshly sharpened cutlass in his right hand.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Hey! I still have five minutes!” Emeline said sharply. She jabbed her finger at him. “Get out of here.”
“You’re trying to escape, but you’ll find that you have no signal here.” Bluebeard grinned wickedly.
He then closed the door and pulled a large wooden block from the wall. It struck the floor, bloodstained and cracked.
“Now come. It is your time.”
Emeline stared at the glinting cutlass and the bloodstained chopping block.
“Kneel. I will be swift,” Bluebeard said.
“Hold on. Hold on.” Emeline lifted her hand, darting another glance at her phone. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why it is that you’re doing this.” Perhaps if she got him monologuing, the messages could finish sending.
Bluebeard did not blink as he stared at her, his eyes grim. “You lost that right when you betrayed me.”
“Your standard of betrayal is very low, isn’t it?”
“Your time is finished, treacherous woman. Now kneel.”
“You know . . . I think I’m going to risk a heftier punishment—and run for my life!” Emeline darted across the room to the door. It didn’t matter if it was just a closet. It had to be safer. She jerked the door shut behind her.
It was a closet. A tiny closet. Thin shafts of light peered through the ceiling and cracks in the wall. Up above, a great opening yawned between large beams that supported another floor.
The door jarred, and the knob twisted.
“Little maiden, let me in!” Bluebeard shouted.
“Yeah, not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, you freak!” Emeline jammed a fallen board into the hinges. Pulling herself into the rafters, she clambered upward.
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