CORBIN

HERE'S THE thing: I typically loved spontaneity. I thrived in it. There was something about surprises that never failed to brighten my day.

That being said, surprises were meant to be good. They weren't meant to be something like scoring last-minute tickets to a concert you really wanted to attend, or taking an unplanned vacation. Surprises weren't meant to be life-threatening but here I was, following a man I knew next to nothing about because the only other option was spending the night in a room with twelve other people who looked like they could break my neck in their sleep.

Safe to say, I was not enjoying myself. Not to mention, I still hadn't heard from Hannah which I guess was a good thing in a sense. She hadn't been in the van with me which meant she probably got home safe and since I didn't have my phone, I had no way of actually contacting her. Maybe she was looking for me.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked the man, Marcel.

"My home," he said simply and my eyebrows shot up.

"You'd bring a random stranger into your home?" I asked disbelievingly. "Is that not..."

"Idiotic?" He finished. "Stupid beyond measure? Incredibly dangerous?"

"Yeah, all that."

"Oh, it is," he agreed. "But it's also the only way you're not going to get yourself killed tonight," he said, his tone flat but firm, like he was stating a fact I wasn't allowed to argue with.

I frowned, my brain screaming at me to run, hide, call someone—anyone—but my body stayed frozen in place. "And...you just expect me to trust you? Just because you say so?"

He shrugged, not the casual kind of shrug but the kind that carries weight, like he'd already accepted my skepticism. "You don't have to trust me. You just have to follow me long enough to survive."

I swallowed, my mouth dry, my pulse still thudding in my ears. Somehow, that sounded both terrifying and...reassuring. The lesser of two evils.

"Fine," I muttered, more to myself than him, "but if I die, I'm haunting you for the rest of your life."

Marcel didn't even flinch. "I'll be looking forward to it."

I let out a humorless laugh, though it didn't ease the knot in my stomach. This was going to be a long night.

We moved through the streets, Marcel keeping me just far enough out of sight to avoid attention, but close enough that he could reach me easily in case of danger.

"Keep your head down," he instructed. "And no sudden moves. Trust me on this."

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure I understood half of what that meant.

The city seemed to close in around us as we approached a quieter stretch. Neon lights faded, replaced by shadows that lingered longer than they should. My stomach clenched. Whoever—or whatever—had wanted me before could still be out there, watching, waiting.

I tried to match Marcel's stride, but it wasn't easy. He moved confidently and like someone owed home money. Never hesitating, always knowing exactly when to cross, when to cut through an alley, when to duck his head. Me? I felt like I was stuck in some horror‑movie boot camp. Every flicker of neon, every shadow at the corner of my eye had me jumping like a rookie.

The city smelled different here. Less like alcohol and perfume, more like damp stone and iron.

I was about to ask if we were almost there but stopped when I saw a gargantuan gated castle fast approaching.

I stopped walking, my sneakers scuffing against the cracked pavement. The thing looming ahead of us looked like it had been yanked straight out of some gothic horror film—a wrought‑iron gate taller than a bus, spiked at the top, a stone arch curling over it like a scowl. Beyond it, I could make out turrets and balconies jutting at weird angles, stained‑glass windows glowing faintly from within. Vines crawled up the walls like green veins.

"Wait—" I blurted, taking an involuntary step back. "That's your house?"

Marcel didn't even glance at me. He was already sliding a hand into his coat pocket, pulling out an old‑fashioned keyring. "Technically it's a manor," he said, voice dry. "But yes."

I stared at the building again, my stomach flipping. It looked like the kind of place where people went missing and their ghosts told cautionary tales afterward. "Manor? Dude, that's a castle."

"You're dramatic."

"No, I'm observant," I shot back, though my voice cracked at the end. "That thing has gargoyles."

"They're just statues," he said, fitting a key into the lock on the gate. A low metallic clack echoed down the empty street.

"Statues don't usually have fangs," I muttered under my breath.

Marcel pushed the gate open with one hand, the hinges groaning like they'd rather not. He didn't step aside or offer me some grand invitation, just gave me a level look over his shoulder. "You coming?"

My feet refused for a second. All my instincts screamed trap, cult, haunted Scooby‑Doo mansion. But the memory of the hotel—twelve strangers, bruised faces, eyes like knives—flashed in my head. I swallowed hard, adjusted my torn shirt, and forced my legs to move.

"Yeah," I mumbled, more to myself than him. "Sure. Let's go hang out in Dracula's Airbnb."

The courtyard swallowed me as soon as I passed the gate. The air felt cooler here, damp and heavy with the scent of moss.

Marcel shut the gate behind me. "Keep up," he said, already walking the stone path toward the front steps. "Don't wander."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, hugging myself against a shiver I didn't want him to see.

As we crossed the courtyard, I caught glimpses of odd things: symbols etched into the stone fountain at the center, an iron wind chime shaped like a skull, a door half‑hidden by ivy that looked like it hadn't been opened in a decade. Everything about this place whispered private. Dangerous. Not for you.

"You live here alone?" I asked finally, voice low.

He didn't slow down. "Not quite."

That was not a good enough answer.

I jogged a couple of steps to catch up. "Look, man, I appreciate the rescue but—if this is some weird cult thing, I'm out. I'm serious."

Marcel gave me a sideways look, and for a second the faintest ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes. "It's not a cult."

"Promise?"

"No," he said. "But you'll live."

Great. Super comforting.

We reached the front steps. They were slick with rain and moss, leading up to a massive wooden door with iron straps. Marcel put another key in the lock. My stomach knotted as the door swung inward, spilling warm light across the threshold.

"Inside," he said.

I hesitated only long enough to take one more look over my shoulder at the street behind us. Then I stepped over the threshold.

The walls were adorned with portraits of old faces frozen in oil and canvas, eyes following me like they'd just caught a whiff of a stranger. The air smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and something else I couldn't place—metallic maybe.

"Take a seat," Marcel said, gesturing toward a worn leather couch near a roaring fireplace. The flames cast a soft, golden glow across the room, making the shadows bend and twist in odd ways. "I'll get some water. You look like you could use it."

I perched on the edge of the couch, my hands gripping the arms like they were the only thing keeping me anchored. My eyes darted to the stairwell leading upward, the dark wood twisting like it had been carved from some enormous tree centuries ago. I had a very distinct feeling that every step creaked, every shadow watched, and every portrait had a secret it wasn't willing to share.

Marcel returned with two glasses of water. He handed me one, his hands steady, eyes calm as ever, while mine shook slightly just holding it. "Drink," he said simply.

I obeyed, the cool liquid sliding down my throat and soothing the tight knot in my stomach just enough to think straight. "So...you really live here with other people?" I asked cautiously.

"Three brothers," he said, settling into a chair opposite me. "Oldest one's...complicated. The middle one's annoying. The youngest—"

"Is confused who this is."

I snapped my head back around toward the top of the stairs where a man now stood. When the fuck did he get here?