Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

THE CAR COMES TO A stop in front of shut iron gates flanked by twin gargoyles, and the driver whispers something that's either a prayer or a curse. I can't tell.

He springs out of the car and pops the trunk. By the time I click my seat belt and climb out, he's already back inside the vehicle. I find my duffel on the ground.

He books it out of here like he's terrified just being on the castle's property, and I assume my aunt must have prepaid for the service. Is that why the driver kept his face concealed? Did he think he was protecting himself? Does he believe in the castle's curse?

I turn toward the gate, which is shut with a thick chain and heavy lock. I don't see a doorbell or a box to buzz in.

My stomach does a funny flip, and it dawns on me that in this instant I'm freer than I've ever been. I could turn and run and never look back.

Like my parents did.

I stare between the black railings, across a tangled and overgrown garden that reminds me of Miss Havisham's from Great Expectations. The foliage is dry and untended, and above it stands the castle, with doors as tall as trees and knockers the size of manatees.

Questions claw at my skin in the voice of old Estela. Why did Mom keep this place a secret from me? What really happened in the room from the photograph? Who is my aunt and what does she want from me?

If I leave now, I'll never know.

I pull the duffel strap across my chest and walk alongside the iron bars, stepping on unkempt wild grass. Why did my aunt bother bringing me here if she wasn't even going to let me past the gate?

I spy a handle that nearly blends into the fence and turn it, expecting it to be locked. The door hinges inward.

I cut across a cobblestone path that's been nearly swallowed by weeds, until I reach the giant arching double doors that look twenty feet high. Closer up, I trace the outline of a set of smaller, human-sized doors embedded in the larger pair.

The wooden doors are as jet-black as the stone used on the rest of the construction. Like they were chopped from a tree the color of midnight.

I stare at gargoyle knockers that look like goblins with fangs. Before I can reach up, the door cracks open on its own.

The castle exhales old air. And as I inhale its familiar breath, I'm overcome with bone-deep nostalgia.

The sensation is one no image could hope to capture or convey. It's the musk of something ancient and powerful and alive .

Not a shadow castle, but a shadow creature.

The past is more than just a feeling here. It's a presence .

The woman who steps out is tall, yet she's dwarfed by the doorframe. She has the same shape as Mom—a narrow hourglass—and similarly sharp features, including high cheekbones and a straight nose. But that's where their similarities end.

Mom was always in jeans, and her favorite tops had vivid colors and asymmetrical patterns. She also preferred to wear her hair loose and untamed, but my aunt keeps her curls corralled in a tight bun that tugs on her face.

Wearing a floor-length, long-sleeved black dress that hugs her figure, Beatríz looks exactly how I would envision the owner of this castle— a few centuries ago.

She gives me two kisses, one on each cheek.

"Bienvenida, Estela."

She must see something in my expression because she follows up her Spanish greeting with slightly accented English. "Welcome home at last."

Tension closes in my stomach like a fist. Something about the words feels like more than a greeting. As if this were not just my first home, but my final one.

She looks down at my solitary duffel and studies the area for more bags. But on the road, you learn to let go of material possessions. They only slow you down.

She surveys the street beyond the iron fence, and I wonder if she's looking for the driver. After a moment, she gestures for me to follow her inside.

There's nothing warm about Beatríz's demeanor, and any hopes of Mom's sister being like her are dashed.

As I step into la Sombra's entrance hall, it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. Illumination comes from what must be candles bracketed high up on the walls. I can't see if they're real or electric because they're encased in thick crystal that obscures their flames. All that's visible is a red light, waxing and waning in a slower way that makes me think of the vintage lava lamps at a cabin we once rented in Oregon.

"I asked how was your trip?"

Beatríz is staring at me expectantly, as if we've been having a conversation.

"Estela?" She tips her head, concern deepening her voice. She scrutinizes me with the same disappointed look as the doctors at the center. Like I'm a defective model.

"I see they were serious when they said you don't talk."

After another moment's examination of my face, she leads me to the next room, and I nearly gasp.

The red-tinged air brightens as we enter the most majestic space I've ever seen. The high arched ceiling has ribbed vaults that crisscross it like an exoskeleton, as if we're in the heart of the castle, enclosed within its rib cage.

Stained glass windows span the length of the back wall. The main illumination comes from a massive fireplace, and every kind of seating option fills the hall, from velvet armchairs to leather couches. Hanging above the mantel is an elaborate crest that's a deep bloodred color and features an inversely mirrored full moon and black castle.

The fireplace casts shadows across the crest. Its blaze is hidden behind a crystal dome barrier, just like the lights bracketed along the walls. The flames lap around the frame, distorted by the filter, like a sea of blood—

"That's our family escudo," says Beatríz, and I blink, breaking my trance.

" Shield, " she amends, like she's just located the right word. "It has hung here since the castle's original construction, eight centuries ago."

The silhouette matches la Sombra's architecture, but I wonder what the significance of the full moon is.

As we pad down another crimson corridor, I'm overcome with the feeling that I'm retracing old steps. Like déjà vu, mixed with a hit of nostalgia. Yet nothing about this castle is familiar. It's hard to synthesize.

I nearly freeze at the sight of a pair of gargantuan gargoyles as we're met by a grand staircase that branches up in a Y shape. The gargoyles are on the ground and seem to be guarding the steps, their wings unfurling into swooping banisters that reach up to the next story.

I looked up Gothic architecture and read that gargoyles were used to ward off evil spirits, especially from holy places. They were placed on a construction's exterior to symbolize that demons were without and salvation was within. So seeing these monsters' faces inside the house isn't exactly reassuring.

Beatríz keeps us moving past the stairs, and we reach a dining hall with a wooden table that could seat twenty people. Only two places have been set at one end.

"Do you need to wash up? The bathroom is to your right."

I bring my duffel with me, and when I come back out, there's food on the table. I slide into the high-backed seat across from my aunt, in front of a bowl of red soup. Between us are three small plates of olives, cheese, and chorizo slices, alongside a platter of a dozen breaded balls and half a loaf of bread.

"Have you had gazpacho before?"

I nod in assent. My parents loved this Spanish tomato soup, so we had it often.

"It's cold," she says when she sees me blowing on it. I already know that, so I'm not sure why I blew. Must be nerves.

"These small plates are called tapas, and these are croquetas," she says, referring to the breaded balls. "Half are filled with jamón serrano, the other half with setas."

I know jamón is ham, but I've no clue what setas means. I finish the soup and eat a couple of croquetas to taste both varieties, determining that setas means mushrooms.

"I run the local clínica," says Beatríz, waiting until she's finished eating to speak. "It was endowed by our family, and it's more sophisticated than any other business for many kilometers."

She sounds like she's selling me her services, and I note that her job is a source of pride for her. "Your doctor sent me your prescriptions, so I will continue to administer your medication."

She doesn't mention anyone else living here, nor do I see a wedding band on her finger, any sign of service staff, or even a single framed photograph.

"If you're finished, follow me," she says, picking up my glass of water and leading us out.

I grab my bag and trail her back to the gargoyle staircase that branches up in a Y shape. This time, she starts climbing, and after a moment's hesitation, I follow.

The gargoyles' eyes seem to trail us. I count ten steps to the middle landing, then twelve more as we go up the right side of the Y and cut down another crimson corridor.

"This is the extent of the house that's habitable," she says, stopping at a closed door after twenty-three steps. "Most of the structure is in disrepair and off-limits, so there are rules for living here."

She stares at me grimly, and I flash to the photograph of the purple room. Beatríz looked younger than Mom then, but now she has aged past her older sister.

"Rule number one: You are not to explore the castle beyond where I show you," she says, holding up one finger. "And rule number two"—she raises a second finger—"you are not to invite anyone over. ?Está claro?"

I nod in agreement because it's the path of least resistance.

"I have arranged for you to receive Spanish tutoring in the mornings. I wasn't sure if you would need it, but I think you do. Afternoons, you will report to the clínica and help me there, then we will come home together to eat. ?Bueno?"

I want to shake my head in refusal, but it'll be easier to just disappear. So I nod again.

Yet in my mind, I'm already retracing the steps to the front door. I don't have a cell phone, but there will be public phones in town. I can take a cab to the airport and fly back to DC. I'm sure Lety will let me back into the center. I still have a couple of weeks before I turn eighteen. I can figure something else out—

"My room is two doors down," says my aunt, handing back my glass of water. When I reach for it, she holds out something small in her other palm.

I was informed my aunt would have my prescriptions and would continue to administer my doses because I'm not to be trusted with pill bottles after what I did at the center. But this doesn't look like any medication I've ever taken.

The pill is black and shriveled and makes me think of the seed of a sickly tree.

"This is the equivalent of what you're taking," she says, with a bite of impatience.

I don't reach for it.

"Is there a problem?" she probes.

I stare at the seedlike thing in her hand. There's no way that's medicinal. It looks more like poison. I look at her, and I'm not sure if I'm frowning or glaring. Is there a difference? Whatever the name of the expression, I've no doubt she's picking up on my refusal.

"Your doctors weren't sure you could handle this transition," she says, closing her fist. "If that's the case, we'll have to find a new arrangement."

I can't believe it's possible to dislike my mother's sister this much so soon. And yet it's barely been a couple of hours, and I already despise her.

Since I'm going to spit it out anyway, I open my palm to accept her pill. Yet part of me wants to call her bluff and dare her to contact the center. I doubt she would have gone through the trouble of bringing me here just to ship me right back.

I tip the black seed in my mouth and chase it with water. Seeming satisfied, my aunt says, "Buenas noches."

As soon as she shows me to my room, I slip inside and spit the pill into my hand. Then I stuff the seedlike thing into an inner pocket of my duffel for future investigation.

My new bedroom is the size of an apartment and comes complete with its own bathroom and an empty closet that could double as a second bedroom. My parents and I could have lived comfortably together in here.

It's hard to imagine Mom growing up in this castle. It's even harder to imagine that I might have grown up here, maybe even in this very room, if not for whatever happened that sent Mom and Dad packing. Their decision changed my nationality, my language, my upbringing… and they never even bothered to tell me.

I push those thoughts away and try to focus on something else.

The bathroom has a raven-claw tub and no shower. I twist the brass tap to fill it with hot water. A collection of shampoos, conditioners, body gels, moisturizers, and bath bombs line the porcelain, all of them unopened.

I haven't bathed unsupervised in months, haven't had any privacy at all. It feels surreal to be completely alone like this, to know I could do anything I want without anyone stopping me. I could hold my breath underwater until the last bubble pops.

I dunk my head and wait in muffled silence to be proven wrong.

As the seconds pass, the world gets too quiet. When the absence of sound becomes overwhelming, I wonder if that's what death is, just an earsplitting silence for all eternity. I break the surface, gasping for breath.

When I finish bathing, I towel off and change into black leggings and a hoodie.

Then I break Beatríz's first rule.

I wear socks but no shoes.

Padding across the icy hall, I stay close to furniture and other heavy items, where the floor is more settled and less likely to creak. Once I return to the landing of the Y-shaped stairs, I climb the twelve steps of the left branch.

The darkness feels deeper here, and my steps are muffled by giant mothballs. I use my key chain flashlight—an investigative necessity, according to Dad—to examine the hall's peeling paint and cobwebbed corners. A tingle creeps up the back of my neck that isn't a spiderweb.

I feel like I'm being watched.

I swing my light in a circle around me, but I don't catch the whites of anyone's eyes. Yet as I keep going, peeking into dilapidated bedrooms and bathrooms, the sensation of being followed only grows.

But I hear no footsteps.

Something brushes my cheek—

Sucking in a sharp breath, I spin and flash my light in every direction. The beam flickers, cutting in and out, before shutting off for good.

I toggle the switch, but the device is dead. I can see why the locals believe something is off about this castle.

I should head back to my room, but the bands of fear tightening around my chest excite me. The siren call of my heartbeat is too tempting to ignore.

A monstrous shadow grows sharper as I approach the end of the hall, and once my eyes adjust, I see another gargoyle carved of black stone. Like the ones from the staircase, its expression is grotesque and its eyes follow me closely. Once I manage to look past it, I notice a nondescript door.

I swing it open to a swirl of silver, and I enter a starlit space with a wall of stained glass windows. And I'm reminded of a different silver blaze.

In the early weeks after the subway, before medication drowned my dreams, I used to get the same vision, night after night. It wasn't the twenty-five dead bodies, or the black smoke, or even my parents. It was the blast of silver right before the train came back into focus.

That was how the dream would begin. Then the light would retreat into twin orbs—a pair of eyes.

He had dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, and a starry gaze. I must have made him up to watch over me at night.

I never remembered the details of our time together once I awoke, just the imprint of his face and the way shadows danced around him, reflecting back not a man's shape but a monster's. I thought of him as my nighttime guardian, a gargoyle with an angel's face protecting me from nightmares. I called him my shadow beast.

Yet the silver light in this room comes from the night sky, filtered through stained glass. The windows are cloudy with dust, but I can still make out their original designs: the eight phases of the moon.

This room has a hallowed feel to it, as if it was once a sacred chamber. Like a lunar temple for summoning gods. Or demons.

The walls look scratched, and as I approach for a closer inspection, I see that they're covered with words. Even before reading them, I know what they say.

The same line has been etched into the stone, over and over and over again, in different handwritings and to varying degrees of legibility: No hay luz en Oscuro.

There's no light in Oscuro.

The words are an incantation, and I'm thrust back in time to the purple room, as a memory overtakes my senses:

A black fire blazes through the room, singeing the wallpaper and producing clouds of smoke.

A person is screaming, and I see Mom framed in the doorway, her arms outstretched, horror splayed on her face. She looks like she's desperate to reach something in the black flames—

Me.

Five-year-old me is being burned alive.