Marigold’s feet were drenched in semen.

  She collapsed, sobbing, her fingers twitching as she reached out, as if she could wipe it all away. But there was too much.

  Ronan stood frozen, horror-struck, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. Mal, ever the steady hand, ripped a handkerchief from his pocket and knelt beside her, his breath heavy, his face pale.

  “I got you,” he whispered, voice even—yet his hands shook violently as he pressed the cloth against her skin.

  It was useless. The fabric smeared rather than cleaned, the sickening stickiness refusing to leave.

  “Ronan!” Mal snapped, his voice laced with urgency. “Go get me some paper towels from the kitchen.”

  Ronan didn’t move. His eyes remained locked on Marigold, on the way her body trembled, on her wide, unseeing stare.

  “Ronan,” Mal barked again, sharper this time.

  Marigold choked on a sob, her mouth open, shaking, unable to close it. The sound that came out was almost inhuman.

  Ronan stumbled back to reality. He turned on shaky legs and hurried to the kitchen, his vision tunneling, the noise around him muffling into a dull, warped hum.

  Elle didn’t move. Her stomach twisted, but not from horror—from the smell.

  She could still see Marigold, wallowing on the floor, pitiful and broken. Part of her was glad. Marigold had hit her, and now? Now, she was the one suffering.

  But another part of Elle—a quieter part—felt guilty for thinking that.

  Marigold’s gaze lifted, locking onto Elle’s, pleading for comfort.

  Elle met her eyes, feeling something stir in her chest. She should help. Marigold needed a woman right now. Elle could see that. But the feeling was faint, distant, as though she were watching the moment unfold from outside herself.

  She almost stepped forward. Almost.

  A creak from upstairs. A soft noise, out of place amidst the chaos. Elle’s head snapped toward the sound. “Did you hear that?”

  Marigold let her head fall, disappointed and defeated. Mal kept wiping at her feet, his lips moving in hurried prayers, his hands trembling with the effort. Marigold began to shake, her breathing became erratic and ragged.

  Ronan stumbled back in, paper towels crushed in his fists. He dropped to his knees beside her, chest heaving.

  Elle asked again, sharper this time. “Did anyone else hear that?”

  No one responded. That was the moment Elle realized she was on her own. There was a difference between her and them. A deep, fundamental divide. They were consumed by their emotions. Elle was focused. She had a job to do. She owed it to the crew. To the Holts. To herself. She hesitated—should she stay? Should she kneel, pretend she felt the same way they did? Force herself into their world?

  Another sound from upstairs.

  Elle turned away. Her curiosity had already won. The others remained trapped in their hysteria as she climbed the stairs. The air grew colder with each step—freezing. Her breath fogged in the dim light. Then came the whispers. Soft. Unintelligible. Everywhere at once. One of the doors at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. Elle hesitated only a second before stepping inside. The air was dense and suffocating, pressing against her skin. In the far corner, something was standing. Watching. Elle’s breath stuttered.

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  A woman.

  Or—something that used to be a woman.

  Thin, skeletal—her skin stretched too tight, like old, dried leather.

  Her jaw hung slack, broken and dangling at an unnatural angle.

  Her eyes were too wide.

  Her fingers—longer than they should be—trembled and twitched as though testing the air.

  She was completely, disturbingly naked.

  Elle’s instinct screamed at her to run.

  Instead, she tilted her head, forced a smirk, and murmured,

  “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

  Elle's attempt at breaking the tension felt hollow. She had to admit, at some point, that she was afraid.

  The woman shambled closer, each step jerky, convulsive, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. It inhaled. Its mouth yawned open too wide, splitting at the corners, dragging in Elle’s scent with a slow, grating wheeze. The sound was wet, violent, something between a death rattle and an animal’s last breath. Elle didn’t move. Not because she wasn’t afraid, but because she was too afraid to do anything else.

  The woman gargled, breath bubbling in her throat.

  “What are you?” Elle whispered.

  Tears streamed down her cheek, but she barely noticed. The weight of the moment grew heavier, more suffocating the longer it stretched. The woman jerked, gagged—then vomited a thick stream of blood. Elle recoiled, her breath stuttering in horror. Her mind flickered to the others. The team. They should be here. Supporting her. Instead, they were downstairs with pretty little Marigold.

  Here Elle was, faced with a monstrosity, standing at the edge of something truly incomprehensible—and Marigold needed help because…?

  Elle knew she shouldn’t be thinking like that. But faced with a death this hideous, how could she not resent them?

  Her throat tightened. She wanted to call for help. But she couldn’t. And she didn’t know why.

  The woman stepped aside, revealing something etched into the wall behind her.

  Elle’s eyes widened. The fear drained from her body. In its place—Curiosity.

  A mural. Ancient, blackened with time and somehow wet. A monstrous form of pure darkness, its eyes the only feature. Watching. Unwavering. Before it, figures carved with fingernails, not tools, knelt in worship. Hundreds. Thousands. Hands raised—not in fear, but in reverence. Some kind of religion?

  It looked demonic, yet it had been displayed with devotion. A whisper from behind her, layered and hollow, many voices at once. “This was faith. Devotion. A way of life.” Elle’s fingers trembled as she reached out, touching the mural’s surface. And she felt something stir inside her. Had she been born thousands of years ago… Would she have been one of them? Would she have worshiped? Would she have knelt? Did part of her still want to? The thought terrified her. She ripped her hand back, too fast, as if burned.

  No, no—that’s ridiculous.

  Behind her, the woman moved closer, breath cold against Elle’s skin. Then, in that same multi-layered voice, it whispered—

  “He does not take. He gives.” Elle’s fingers curled into fists. She wanted to reject this. But deep down—

  Something resonated.

  The woman shifted. One moment, she was grotesque, skeletal—the next, she was something else. A vision of beauty. Her amber-gold eyes gleamed under the dim light. Thick, black strands of hair floated weightlessly as if she were submerged in water. Her skin—smooth, pale, and perfect. Its smell shifted from rotten to earthy. Elle’s breath skipped. She hated that this thing was playing with her. She hated that it was working. She didn’t want to be one of the worshippers. Then, she remembered Marigold. The humiliation. Marigold hit her first. Maybe this was justice. Maybe this was balance. Elle exhaled, calming herself.

  The truth was, Elle didn’t know what it was. Maybe she didn’t agree with it, but she could see the sense in it. She turned back to the woman, meeting her gaze. The woman moved forward without stepping as if the air itself was pulling her closer. Her presence—looming, intoxicating. A whisper. Secrets once veiled, now being revealed. A voice like the wind through dead trees. Elle’s eyes widened. A cold chill slid down her spine. Her stomach twisted—not in fear, but in understanding.

  Understanding. Not just of the whisper, but of something deeper. Something she had refused to acknowledge until now. The crew… were not the people she thought they were. Not the people she had once believed them to be. The thought slithered in, uninvited but undeniable. The woman stepped back, head tilting. Watching. Waiting.

  Elle swallowed, her voice barely audible.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She stepped closer. Elle’s fingers brushed against the woman’s skin. Smooth, cold—like marble left in the winter air. She hadn’t meant to touch her. Not really. And yet… her hand lingered.

  A slow, almost imperceptible movement. The ghost of a squeeze, a gentle test, feeling the weight of something unnatural yet inviting. She shuddered—not from revulsion, but from something else. Something worse. The thought slithered in before she could stop it:

  She feels good.

  Elle’s breath came shallow. She hated that this thing preyed on her weakness. She hated that she wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

  Like ice cream on a cold day, she was inviting in a strange way.

  Elle’s lips parted. She barely recognized her own voice. “What happens now?”

  The woman’s gaze was blank. Unwavering.

  “I will serve you…”