Chapter 10

NEIL

There was something off about Skinner. Her usual snarky comments were gone, seemingly drained away since the cellar. Had she really seen something? The groundskeeper had spoken briefly of the spirit that guarded the cellar, but he'd thought nothing of it. Neil didn't believe in ghosts, and he found it difficult to believe there really was something in this castle.

But her reaction had been so… visceral .

Neil paused in the hall between their doors. As if out of instinct, he took a step toward hers, his footsteps silenced by the rug. He took another and reached out a hand to graze her door before settling his palm against it. He'd stay outside her door if he thought it would do any good, but she was safe in her room, they were safe in this castle, and nothing was going to get them.

With a small shrug, he turned and retreated into his room, closing the door tightly behind him. He wasn't tired, not mentally. Physically, his muscles ached and the space between his eyes throbbed, but it was simply too early to sleep. Kneeling before the fireplace, he built a small fire in his room, the warmth of the lapping flames spreading through the room and filling all the crevices until he stopped shivering.

Castles, he decided, were cold, harsh places.

Try as he might, he kept picturing the look of terror on Skinner's face down in that cellar. She didn't look like she was lying; she'd been visibly shaken.

Sighing, he crossed to his suitcase and threw open the lid. Neil changed into sweats and a T-shirt before plopping into the chair beside the hearth. He ran his fingers over the worn leather armrest as he propped his laptop on his legs and stared blankly at the screen.

As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't been lying when he told Skinner that he was struggling, that he should have pushed back all those times with his editor and publisher, that he could have made choices that sent him on another path. But he'd chosen this one. Neil had made a lot of terrible decisions over the years, and those were only the tip of the iceberg. The instigators, so to speak.

Chewing on his thumbnail, he pulled open that document. Neil hadn't dared to look at it in ages, but he couldn't stop himself from scanning it once more. After he'd sent it to Tabitha and she'd sent her editorial letter in return, he'd made some changes. It was the process, and Neil had trusted the process. He rewrote a better part of the novel, and by the time he'd made it through revision after revision with his editor, it had been transformed into the published version of For What Savages May Be.

The original storyline of For What Savages May Be followed a young woman on a reservation looking for her sister's killer. He'd thought it was heart-wrenchingly perfect, and Neil had never been prouder of one of his books. A Southern gothic in its original state, it was everything he'd ever dreamed of. He'd used experiences from his own family, did research on the reservation, and even visited it. He studied the conditions of the Choctaw Nation, read about his ancestors, and spoke to a few Elders, and when he was good and ready, he'd drafted up an outline and sent off his manuscript.

"It's hard to stomach," his editor had said in an email. "We want you to tone it down."

Hard. To. Stomach.

What the hell did that even mean? Were people not willing to read horror about Missing and Murdered Indigenous People? Was it too real for them? But he was hellbent on writing this story. He didn't have to write the book, but Neil had known the minute he'd started drafting that there was no turning back.

So, he'd changed it. He'd followed his editor's suggestions to a T before sending it back, but it had only been shredded further. And Skinner was right; it was a sellout book. It held none of the heart of the original work. The main character was transformed into a man, the missing sister into a long-lost mystery in cowboy country. It was full of gore and stereotypes, scared women and villainous men, and Neil hadn't known how to turn it around.

The new version, his publisher's vision, was a classic horror in every regard. And that was the problem. There was nothing new, nothing original within its pages, nothing groundbreaking, and Penelope Skinner, who'd put her heart and soul into The Lies They Told Us, had every right to be angry. And not once during the entire process did he say no.

Angry, betrayed, confused, and heartbroken, he had erased everything he put down on the page with a vengeance, because none of it was good. Skinner had pulled the plug on his confidence, and he'd never doubted his storytelling more.

Fuck, here he was complaining about Skinner standing up for something he knew was wrong. Hadn't she just wanted him to listen? Hadn't she wanted him to hear her out, to understand where she was coming from?

Neil went to close the document but paused, and before he could second-guess himself, he reached into the small pocket of his messenger bag for a spare thumb drive, copying and pasting the file there with a hopeful smile.

After quickly scribbling on the thumb drive with a Sharpie, he went to his door. Pressing an ear to the wood, he turned the han dle, the hinges squealing as he pulled it open. Neil peered past the lit lamps and glowing pedestals of the east wing. Everything was still and silent in the night, the dim lighting making it eerier. Laszlo and Daniela must have gone to sleep sometime since he'd slipped into his room. No sound could be heard but his own breathing.

Neil shivered as he crossed the hall to Skinner's room. This place creeped him out, and although he hadn't seen whatever Skinner was screaming about in the cellar at the top of her lungs, he was almost willing to admit there might be more to their world if it would just give him proof. Neil was open to being wrong if a ghost would pop out and yell, "Boo!" He'd never encountered the paranormal, never had any reason to believe there was something more out there, but it didn't mean there wasn't.

Reaching out, he slipped the thumb drive with "Sorry" written across it beneath her door. Maybe this would ease some of the tension between him and Skinner, bridge the gap after the pain they'd caused each other. If she only knew what he had given up to be here…

There was a creak in the hall. Neil jumped in surprise, nearly falling face-first into Skinner's door. He pivoted on his heel to scan the wing.

"Hello?" he called.

This was ridiculous. There was nothing else in this castle save for him and the other writers. So, then, why was he scared? Why did he want to pack up and leap out his window, feeling safer in the expansive woods than in this place? With a ragged exhale, Neil took another step down the hall, hesitating, his hands outstretched.

Then he smelled it. Rot and decay. It flooded his senses all at once, and Neil banged back into the door, his other hand going to the wall to steady him as he covered his nose and mouth.

"Oh god," he gagged, the whiskey in his stomach threatening to bubble up.

Neil wedged himself as far back as he could and searched the hall, his eyes tracing over framed paintings and busts and sconces. The lights flickered as something white swept into a room down the hall, and Neil froze. Oh, there was something all right, but he was not sticking around to see who or what it really was.

He turned and yanked open the door behind him, slamming it closed with a gasp. He leaned against the wood and squeezed his eyes shut, trembling hands gripping either side of the doorframe as his heart slammed against his ribs.

"Get out!" someone screeched.

Neil snapped his head back, his skull cracking against the door. Before he could get out a word, he was bombarded with a flurry of pillows, and he held up his hands in defense as Penelope Skinner cried out furiously.

"Skinner, it's me!" he yelled. He caught a pillow and tossed it to the side. "Stop, it's me ."

The barrage of soft ammunition stopped. Wincing, Neil squinted against the dimness as Skinner pulled on her glasses, eyes wide. Her hair was mussed from sleep, her cheeks warm and flushed. Her braid had come undone in the time since he'd seen her last, dark hair spilling into her eyes as she looked up at him, brow furrowed. He was suddenly mesmerized, taking her in. Damn it, why couldn't he bring himself to say anything?

"Are you just going to stand there?"

"I'll be going," he said, turning to the door.

His hand stilled on the doorknob, his nails scraping against metal. He knew he needed to turn it, but he couldn't convince himself to, not when something was somewhere out in the hall. Probably waiting for him. Neil leaned his forehead against the door, fingers shaking and heart pounding.

"Storm?" He heard the creak of the bed, followed by the quiet padding of footsteps. Warm hands covered his, prying his fingers from the doorknob one by one.

"Storm," she repeated, calmer, "what happened?"

"There was…" He frowned as he focused on their joined hands. Hers were so warm as she held his. Gentle. Kind. "I saw a…" But what had he seen? What had he smelled?

He was an author, and for the first time in a long time, words were failing him.

Penelope Skinner looked at him as if she understood. And he supposed she did. She'd seen something too. Dropping her hands from his, she stepped back. "Why don't we…" Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught on something at their feet. "What's this?" she asked, stooping to grab it.

Reality slammed back into him. "Wait, Skinner, that's not—" He bent to reach for it as she straightened, her elbow slamming into his gut. Sputtering, Neil stumbled back a step, coughing. "You're so violent," he wheezed, plopping onto her bed.

She ignored him, turning it over in her fingers. "Sorry," she read. "What is this?"

He couldn't get the words out. Cowardly, damn it, he was so fucking cowardly. Clearing his throat, Neil held out his hand. "It's nothing. I'll take that back, please."

Skinner raised a brow. "It's not nothing," she argued, rounding the bed. "I'd recognize your sloppy handwriting anywhere."

"It's not sloppy ."

She pulled out her laptop and switched it on, the thumb drive poised for the USB slot. How could Neil have been so foolish? He'd had a moment of courage. Now, he didn't want anyone to read it, least of all Penelope Skinner. She'd just find more excuses to hate him for giving up this version. For letting go of this story.

Coward.

"What is this?" she asked, staring daggers at him as the computer started up. Skinner grinned when he didn't reply. "Did you make me a cute PowerPoint presentation about how I'm the superior writer?"

He said nothing in response, frozen as he watched her type in her password and click on the pop-up, taking her to the thumb drive's files. Frowning, she clicked on the single file.

Within moments, his words filled the screen, thousands of words he'd been so proud of nearly five years ago. Though his book had been a raging success, this was the version he'd wanted printed. Words only his agent, editor, and two beta readers had read. Skinner's shoulders drooped as her eyes flicked over the screen.

Neil stood and crossed the room. Jaw clenched, he reached out and closed her laptop, not quite meeting her gaze.

"What is this, Storm?"

He ran a hand over his chin, his fingers scratching across thin stubble. "I thought, maybe if you saw the original… If you understood what I was trying to do in From What Savages May Be… If you just…"

If she just what? Neil trailed off, face red-hot, skin itchy and irritated. Skinner was looking at him peculiarly, emotions flitting across her features too fast for him to take in. She stood and gestured to her laptop.

"In a single page, I can already see what you've given up. Why? Why would you let them butcher your work like this?"

"Because I didn't know what to do!" Neil grimaced, reaching up to prod the bump forming on the back of his skull. "In publishing, there's only ever one response when you're BIPOC, and it's ‘yes.' If I said no, I wouldn't be where I am. They wanted to publish my book, just not that version."

"But look what you gave up! Look what you did to get here."

"And I'm embarrassed, okay?" Neil pointed sharply at Skinner. "We can't all be as brave as you. You don't care about what people think of you."

"Of course I do!" She stepped forward and shoved a hand against his chest, baring her teeth as she glared up at him like a ferocious kitten. "Because I spoke my mind, I gave up everything . I risked my career to be honest, and now…"

Her chin wobbled, and Neil was unsure what to do.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly. And he was. He was sorry for all of it. He had been for a long time, but he'd never said it to her. Her nostrils flared as she looked from him to her door.

"Please just go."

Neil's stomach twisted. She'd made him doubt himself, made him question every decision he'd ever made in his career, but he had not come to her room (had not even meant to come here) to make her cry in the middle of the night.

Swallowing, Neil turned and strode to the door. He left without another word, pausing to lean against the wood after pulling the door shut behind him. He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

Maybe she was angry, maybe she hadn't been as sympathetic as he'd hoped, but at least she knew the truth. At least she knew what he'd done in order to scrape his way to the top.

Neil pushed off to return to his room but paused, glancing down the hall. There was no sign of whatever had lurked before, no rotting stench lingering to send him spiraling into another panic attack. And though Neil couldn't be certain how much time had passed since he saw the flash of white disappearing into one of the rooms, he decided he didn't want to know what it was.

He returned silently to the warmth of his room. The fire had dimmed since he'd left, but the space was warm, the glow of the fire enough to light his way to the bed.

"Just to be safe," he said, locking the door behind him. He jiggled the handle for good measure, satisfied when it didn't budge.

Maybe there was something out there, maybe there wasn't, but Neil wasn't willing to take any chances.

Excerpt from For What Savages May Be by Neil Storm

Trent Barker was a strange man. He'd spent the better part of his life on the reservation, waiting for his chance at an escape. He'd dreamed of what it meant to see the real world, to join it and experience the things that lay beyond that border.

And now that it was time for him to leave, he couldn't bear to. So much had happened to him, so many terrible and wonderful things.

But they'd all shaped him into the man that he was, the person he'd become.

Trent stood on the border of the land he called home, looking out over the empty space beyond. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, and leaped.