Chapter 8

NEIL

Giddy excitement crept into Neil's bloodstream at her words, flooding him with warmth. You get used to it. As if he were someone to get used to.

He shook himself, snuffing out a smile as his fingers tightened around his glass as the others surrounded the cabinet and Skinner. Neil pivoted and crossed to the fireplace, taking a swig of his whiskey as he strode away from them, as far as he could possibly go in this large room.

Distance, he needed distance from her.

The whiskey was strong, the harsh fumes racing down his throat and lighting his insides. Coughing, he pounded a fist against his chest, eyes watering as he set aside the glass, knelt, and reached for some firewood.

Neil could do this. Neil could focus on something else, keep his hands and his mind preoccupied for a few minutes. Working with his hands always seemed to calm him; he wasn't meant to sit still for long. Even when he wrote, he did it in twenty-minute intervals, too antsy to stay seated for any longer.

His fingers tore off strips of newspaper as he began to carefully place the wood in the center, building a cone-shaped masterpiece. As he bent over the woodpile, Neil jumped at a soft sound coming from the back of the study, a faint crash somewhere in the darkness. He straightened and squinted over his shoulder, straining to see, but everyone was still by the liquor cabinet, the rest of the massive room empty.

Strange, he thought. Frowning, Neil turned to the fireplace.

The groundskeeper had left some supplies for them by the fireplace, and his hands worked of their own accord, muscle memory kicking in. He finished stacking the firewood and filling in the bottom of his formation with kindling and newspaper before lighting a match to it.

"How do you know how to do that?" Skinner asked from behind him.

Neil whipped his head around in surprise, exhaling when he met her stormy eyes. Grabbing his glass, he stood and wiped his hands on his pants, taking another sip of the fiery drink. He smelled the smoke and saw the firelight from his periphery as he stared down at her.

"Cub Scouts… and my older brother. My dad taught us how when we built a sweat lodge in the backyard." The memory of the smoke and the heat seemed to soothe something in him, loosening his shoulders. When was the last time he took part in a sweat? When was the last time he visited his family?

She nodded slowly, rocking back on her heels. She'd relaxed since earlier, her shoulders had slackened, and her eyes had softened. Swallowing, she held out the bottle of whiskey.

"A peace offering."

"Peace?" Neil asked with a raised brow.

Skinner shrugged. "Or an apology. For yelling at you and the like."

"And the like," he said, taking the bottle and filling his glass. He noticed how she carefully avoided any mention of the Incident or the rest of their past. Two could play at that game. "You have an odd way of apologizing."

"I'm not very good at it," she admitted.

Clearly.

"I can tell."

His voice came out harsher than he'd meant to, like gravel was caught in his throat. God, what was wrong with him? Even when he meant to be kind to her, anger seeped into his voice, poisoned his words. He didn't know if he could make it a week under these conditions, with her and Laszlo and Daniela and this godforsaken castle in the snow. Would he and Skinner be spending the entire time bickering about things that couldn't change? Could they change, or was it simply too late for either of them?

"So," Daniela started, plopping into a leather chair. Her sugary voice sliced through the uncomfortable silence. "Do we think this place is actually haunted?"

Neil forced his eyes from Skinner, focusing on the others as they made their way toward the couches and chairs. They congregated near the warmth like cats, lingering on the rug, scrutinizing the furniture like the leather held secrets.

Laszlo shrugged, cradling his drink close. "Haunted? I dunno about that. I don't really believe in ghosts, but I've gotta say, this place is weird . And the groundskeeper?" He shivered. "Abandoned us to the ghost's mercy. What did she say?"

Daniela snorted, her voice a poor mimic of the groundskeeper, "Yer on yer own."

"Love that for us," Laszlo said.

"Thought you didn't believe in ghosts?" Neil countered.

Laszlo shrugged but said nothing, taking a long drink instead. Neil took the moment to search the room again. He eyed the bookshelves and the shadows dancing on the walls, breathed in the thick smoke, the hint of dust and forgetfulness lingering in the corners. How many people rented out a castle? Rather, how many people rented out a haunted castle? Few, he supposed.

"Reminds me a bit of that creepy show," Neil began, his free hand sliding into his back pocket. "The one with the family who tries to fix up the manor?"

"The Haunting of Hill House," Skinner offered.

Neil spun toward her, tilting his head in thanks. She pressed her lips into a flat line to keep from smiling before bringing her glass to her lips and sipping.

"That one gave me nightmares for weeks," Laszlo drawled as he shuddered and settled on the arm of the couch. "I don't really do spooky."

Everyone turned toward him, mixed expressions of shock, confusion, and accusation on their faces.

"This was your idea!" Neil yelled. "You set this up!"

"You write thrillers," Skinner said slowly.

"Not horror," Laszlo corrected. "I don't write horror."

"Laszlo." Daniela laughed, throwing back her head. "Why the fuck are we here?"

"You went on that haunted tour with me!" Skinner yelled, tone accusatory, with a hint of laughter curling the ends of each word. "I was the one who was scared!"

"Are you kidding?" Laszlo shook his head. "I was shitting myself the entire time, Pen. I don't do basements or crypts."

They all burst into laughter. As if this week couldn't get any more ridiculous, the person who'd set up the retreat, the person who'd tricked Neil and Skinner into coming here at the same time, was terrified of this place. And, looking around at their surroundings, at the dim lighting, the dust-covered books, the cobwebs lingering in the corners, and feeling the overall sense of dread, Neil couldn't blame his friend.

"We'll try to keep you out of the basement," Daniela said, sinking farther into the large armchair.

Skinner surveyed Neil before turning to join the others. Laszlo and Skinner settled onto the couch. She leaned into his side, stretching out her legs along the leather. Neil tried to train his eyes away, attention going to the table or the bottles, or literally anything else in the dark room. But his concentration strayed to her and away again, and he forced his feet past the couch, his free hand curling into a fist, eyes going to the bookshelves that surrounded them, titles and spines lit by the glow of the fire.

Daniela cleared her throat, and Neil's gaze slid to her over his shoulder. "Why don't we play a game?" she suggested, tossing her legs over the arm of her plush leather chair.

Neil rolled his eyes, running his fingers along the book spines on the nearest shelf. They were soft and worn under his fingers, the spines broken, the letters fading. Some were newer, crisper, but this shelf was well loved.

"We're not children, Daniela," he muttered.

"And we're not all as boring and serious as you, Neil."

He opened his mouth to reply but paused, attention going to something at his feet. He stooped and lifted a thin red book from the floor, his eyes not quite focusing on the pages in the dim lighting as he skimmed through it one-handed, whiskey still dangling in his left hand. He didn't catch any of the words, just saw glimpses of handwritten journal entries. Frowning, he slipped it onto one of the shelves. Must have fallen, he thought.

"What kind of game?" Skinner asked from the couch. He could hear the suspicion dripping from her words, the waver in them. Was she scared? Did she believe in ghosts and all the strange, otherworldly things they wrote about in their novels?

Neil turned to the others, brow furrowed. Daniela sat up, swinging her legs over the chair before standing. "How many times will we have the opportunity to play truth or dare in a haunted castle ?"

Neil swallowed his sigh, taking a sip of his whiskey. It burned a path down his throat, settling into the embers of his stomach, warming him from the inside out.

"Don't be ridiculous, Daniela," he chided.

Daniela leaned forward on her elbows, drink swinging precariously from her fingers. "What, does Neil Storm believe in ghosts?"

His nostrils flared. He'd forgotten how annoying she could be. "No."

She smiled, all teeth. "Then what are you afraid of, Prince of Horror?"

Neil's glower met Skinner's over the couch. She knew now how much he hated the nickname, but he'd be damned if he let Daniela get to him.

"Fine!" He threw up his hands and moved toward the light before settling in the other chair. He swirled his drink and surveyed their small group. Although he didn't know them all well, he much preferred Laszlo's calm energy to Skinner's fiery temper and Daniela's sharp tongue.

"I saw the groundskeeper run out of here like her life depended on it," Daniela said, turning to Skinner. "She muttered something about secret doors and you?"

Skinner frowned as she fidgeted with her glass. "Yeah, we… it was nothing." She waved her hand dismissively. "Just a misunderstanding."

But it hadn't been nothing. Fanny had looked sincerely distraught as she jogged past Neil and out the front door with the jingle of her keys trailing in her wake.

"Well, I'd much rather be down here with you three than in my room alone. Besides, being alone kind of defeats the purpose of a writer's retreat," Daniela said, puckering her lips.

Neil decided it was best not to point out that truth or dare defeated the purpose of a writer's retreat.

Daniela smiled knowingly as she took a long drink of the clear liquid in her glass. Neil watched warily as she settled on the edge of her seat and leaned forward with a devilish grin. They were playing with fire, agreeing to Daniela's games. She was nothing but trouble, and after having heard some of the rumors, Neil knew the aftermath of Daniela's potential meddling.

When Laszlo had told him Daniela would be at the castle, it was nearly enough to deter him from going. But he'd thought there would be more people as a buffer. Of course, there was everything with Penelope Skinner, though that was a whole other mess. He'd work through whatever that was another time. Though Neil did wonder: If he'd known Skinner was coming, would he have come? She'd been haunting him for years, a shadowy figure in his rearview that wouldn't go away no matter what he did. Perhaps he'd come to confront his own ghosts, to understand why Skinner had felt the need to tear him down so publicly.

Alas, he'd never know.

"Penelope, dear," Daniela started, leering at the smaller woman on the couch, "you should go first, seeing as you're the youngest."

"I'm twenty-nine."

"Still the youngest."

Skinner's eyes flickered around the room, careful to avoid Neil. Leaning forward on her knees, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Truth," she chose after a long beat.

"Boring," Daniela drawled. She sighed before her eyes flicked to Neil and back to Skinner. Neil watched them curiously, something passing silently between the two women. "Why did you throw the book at Neil?"

"Yeah, I should have expected this." Skinner sighed. She rolled her neck back, toying with the loose strands of dark waves that had fallen free of her braid.

Suddenly, he didn't know what to do with himself.

"It's easier for men in the publishing industry. You make mistakes, you say the wrong thing, and most of the time, you don't get canceled." She gestured to him, sharp and meaningful. "And there you were, sitting up there on your little throne, leaning toward your mic, telling me I'd never be as good as you. Even if I was right—"

"You're not right," he said automatically.

She smiled, and Neil's gut twisted.

"Aren't I?" she asked after a beat. "You have so much power in your position. You know what this industry does to voices like ours, and when I called you out, what was your first instinct?" She leaned forward, and Neil found himself frozen under her scrutiny. "You and I could have spent this entire time working together to strengthen our positions in this genre, but you never cared. And there you were, sitting with your glowing stack of books before you, and all I had was a measly copy of my one and only, and I just…"

She mimicked throwing it and he flinched, extending his fingers on instinct to smooth over the small scar above his brow.

Silence settled between them, and Neil reached for his whiskey, taking a long, eye-watering drink.

"You're not wrong," he admitted. "Maybe I could have tried harder, said no more often when editors and my agent wanted to change things. Hell, I probably should have left my publisher years ago, but I also wonder if they're right, you know? If my other ideas, if my stories just aren't good enough, and they're the only ones who will publish me. I know what I could be doing, but I already tried it. Nobody wants that. Nobody will buy it."

"What do you mean?" Skinner asked, frowning.

Neil held up his glass, laughing. His mind was foggy, the whiskey finally hitting him and clouding his thoughts. He barreled on, ignoring Laszlo's look of concern. "Oh, I tried to write the stories you claim you want to protect. I tried to be the hero you wanted me to be, but there's only so much a Native man can do in a country that's been built on the genocide of his people."

The room fell into silence. Neil had always been good at ending conversations. Laszlo cleared his throat and squirmed as his and Daniela's gazes met.

"Fuck the colonizers!" Daniela yelled, throwing back her head and holding her glass high.

Neil met Skinner's wide eyes over his glass. "Fuck the colonizers," he whispered, taking a drink.

"Fuck the colonizers," Skinner echoed.

"Can I say that?" Laszlo asked.

Skinner's lips puckered in thought as she turned to Daniela. Neil shrugged and gestured to Laszlo.

"He is our token white friend," Daniela said.

Skinner laughed. "Eh, why not?"

And as they all raised their glasses and drank, something seemed to settle in the room. When Neil glanced up and met Skinner's cloudy gaze, he thought, Maybe we'll be okay. Maybe we'll move on.

Then she tilted her head, something else in those gray depths.

"Neil Storm."

Neil tried to focus on her words, but he'd severely underestimated the whiskey. He licked his lips, eyes narrowing on her. He made a soft sound at the back of his throat, urging her to continue.

Her eyes glinted. "Truth or dare."

He tapped the rim of his glass, eyes never leaving hers. "Dare." His voice came out gravelly, a smile curling the corners of his lips. And then Penelope Skinner smiled, and it was too much like Daniela's, all harsh lines and cruel gleams. Neil's stomach dropped. God, she was terrifying.

"No, truth," he amended, sitting up.

"No take-backsies," Daniela singsonged.

Neil ground his teeth, eyes blazing as he glared at her. "What are we, in kindergarten?"

"I dare you to go down into the cellar."

They all froze, turning to Skinner.

"That's a bit far, Pen," Laszlo chided.

Neil laughed, unmoved. "That's it? You want me to go down to the cellar."

She shrugged. "Neil Storm doesn't seem to think it's too far." Skinner waved to the castle around them, cheeks flushed as her eyes met Neil's. "Besides, if the castle isn't haunted, where's the harm in it?"

"Really," he slurred, standing, "I don't mind. It's just a cellar. What can go wrong?"

"Said every doomed character in a horror novel ever," Laszlo said.

They all stood and followed Neil down the hall toward the front foyer. They walked past more creepy paintings, eerily realistic stone busts, and tattered tapestries hidden in corners he hadn't yet noticed, feet trampling over worn-down carpets before circling around the backside of the staircase with the portrait of the woman in black.

His attention snapped to her as the others moved past, and he thought, for a moment, that she smiled . Fuck, no more whiskey for him tonight. He quickened his pace, rounding the corner to join the others. There was a strange sense of unease flitting about him as he hurried down the hall, a sense of being watched from the darkness, and Neil was not a fan.

Skinner licked her lips anxiously and waved her hand at the door. "Well, this is it."

It was a simple door, although difficult to see if you didn't already know it was there. Made of the same wood of the stairs, it blended into the side boards, only a small brass handle making it clear there was anything hidden beneath the staircase.

Neil searched the others' expressions, noting their concern. Everyone, that is, except for Skinner. Her eyes were lit up, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. She looked almost excited . Eager to see him go down. Eager to see him hurt.

He thought of the stories these people would tell, about how Neil Storm had chickened out at the last second on a haunted writing retreat, how he'd run away screaming from this door. How much pleasure would she get out of seeing him back down yet again? Swallowing, he stared at the brass handle before wrapping his fingers around it, the metal cool against his skin.

"Here goes nothing," he whispered before pulling it open.