10. Frey

TEN

FREY

My father demands to see us both.

Despite the wide-eyed glance we share, Catherine hides any fear by throwing her head back and plastering on a more convincing fake smile than any I've seen before.

"Let's go." Poised with graceful confidence, she leads me into a sparsely-furnished room I vaguely remember passing on the way to the kitchen—only now, the air feels heavier. Colder. I'm shivering even before I cross the threshold, and within seconds, I have an answer as to why. Standing near a large window, with his hands clasped, eyes on the view, is my father. He doesn't even turn to acknowledge our arrival. In contrast, he tilts his head sharply at Catherine as though she were an errant fly.

"Leave us," he commands, his voice like a whip.

She lurches on the tips of her toes and nearly trips in her rush to the door. "Of course." With a curt nod, she scurries off, leaving me alone at the mouth of the room.

With her gone, I can't escape the childish urge to run and hide. At the other end of the hallway, I can make out an ornate door with a man standing guard beside it, presumably, it leads to an exit. I tell myself it wouldn't be hard to slip past him with or without the razor blade. Playing out this hypothetical scenario in my head, I imagine myself running from this place straight to Daze's arms.

Children, however, live in fictional worlds. Resigned to my current reality, I face my father without flinching, watching him relish in the fact that he has me trapped. The only trace of emotion I can see in his eyes is a malicious gleam.

"Tonight, will be your last moments as a free woman, Frances," he declares, his voice deep and rasping. He might as well be giving a sermon to thousands rather than speaking to his only daughter. Ordinarily, I would clam up and obey any command he threw my way.

Not anymore.

"Until I marry Colton, you mean," I say. It hurts to speak, and I'm sure there's still blood on my face despite Catherine's best attempts to clean me up. Good. I want him to see what he's done to me—but if I expect to find any guilt cross his expression, I'm disappointed. Fighting to keep my voice steady, I add, "Unless you've changed your deadline already?"

I sound so confident, so sure of myself. Inside, I'm shaking, replaying the scene in the kitchen over and over again. At any other time, I would have been brought to my knees by the horror of the realization. He was right. All this time, Hale was right, in more ways than he knew. I can't even fathom that the man I grew up with could be capable of such horrific things, but here we are…

Many explanations don't exist for why he could be holding people captive in a crawl space below a country estate. My heart breaks with every passing second. I don't know how I keep standing. Keep from breaking.

But I do.

"You will be married tonight," he says cryptically, drawing my attention to yet another obstacle in the way of my freedom. I'm not sure why, but his tone makes my heart race. It was almost as if he was mocking these impending nuptials. What the hell happened between the last time we spoke and now? Something terrifying. Looking at him more closely, I am alarmed by the changes I detect.

I don't think he's slept for days. In their too-large eye sockets are two lifeless dark irises devoid of light. His wrinkled suit hangs on him, a stark contrast to his usually polished appearance. With pale skin stretched taunt over hollow bones, he appears skeletal from this angle, bathed in the light filtering in through lacey curtains. I can't even explain in words what seeing him like this does to me. Once upon a time, I believed the devil was the only being in existence who could ever look so haggard.

"You will be married tonight," he says harshly, "but your freedom will begin after. Once you are stripped of your shackles and your need for earthly flesh. I see that now. Only purity can save you."

I wince in grim anticipation. I've never heard him talk like this. As if I were made of glass, he peers right through me with every word he says.

"When I'm married to Colton, I'll belong to him," I counter, raising my voice to match his booming cadence. "That's what he told me. A wife belongs to her husband?—"

"You are my flesh, and you will never belong to another," he snarls over me. "Not in your current state while you are corrupted and possessed with evil. The imposter festering inside you must be driven out. I'll see to that."

"Do you think Colton will let you? I won't answer to you after tonight. I'll answer only to him. It's what you taught me, after all. A good wife should be obedient."

If I had insulted him like that a few days ago, I'm sure he would have slapped me. The fact that he does nothing, but smile terrifies me more than any violence I've experienced since this nightmare began. In his anger, he reacts out of rage and impulse.

This is something different. From my experience, he's too calm, and that only signals danger.

"You won't be his wife for very long," he says with a knowing glance that snakes up and down the length of my body. "You were mine first, Abagail. Don't think I'd let you go so easily."

Abagail. The hairs on the back of my neck stand upright. Again, his use of my mother's name seems ominous. The way he said it… There was no detached arrogance in his voice, the way he normally spoke of her. No, this seemed more personal. As if…

As if he thinks I really am her.

"Father," I say, softening my tone. "What are you saying? Are you calling off my marriage to Colton?"

Before I can feel hope, he shakes his head, raising an eyebrow. "Oh no, you demon," he hisses, jabbing a spindly finger in my direction. "Your twisted scheme can only be circumvented through this sham. You'll get to watch it unravel from your cursed grave. And I will be here to drive you out of the soul of this child that you have corrupted."

"What are you saying?" I rasp. "It's me. It's me, Frey. I'm not Abagail!"

"We shall see," he says with that chilling half-smile. "Enjoy walking in your stolen skin. I wonder what you will look like once it's all peeled away, and your ruse has finally been exposed..."

My blood runs cold. Since this nightmare began, I've only felt anger and hatred toward my father. Rage for what he did to Hale. Confusion and pain for his supposed role in my mother's death. Maybe in the beginning, I even felt guilty for lying to him. Until that point, I never had before.

The only thing I feel now is a sick sense of dread. It's too late to turn back now. Despite my best efforts, my father will not wake up and see the error of his ways. I don't know a way for us to ever reconcile. Not only have I lost Hale, but I've lost the last remnants of the only family I've ever known.

There is no denying the obvious truth—if I stay here, I won't survive long enough for Daze to save me.

"Catherine," my father commands. In the blink of an eye, she appears at the mouth of the doorway. "Show her to her room. Prepare her. Now."

"Yes, Michael." Taking my hand, she gently leads me up a winding staircase and down a long hallway. When we enter a room near the very end, I remember the razor blade in my grasp. I should hide it, but a part of me is too dazed to even care. I can't get my father's face out of my head. The look in his eye…

It was as if I was already dead.

"What do you think?" Catherine asks nervously. She crosses the room to a massive bed draped in white sheets. I swallow hard at the sight of its stern, wooden headboard, and unforgiving frame. Even Daze's shitty mattress-on-the-floor setup held more appeal. There is no way I could even sleep here, let alone endure Colton's touch.

"Frances?"

I blink to awareness and realize that Catherine's been speaking to me all this time. "What do you think of it?" she asks, nodding downward.

As if on cue, I finally spot the dress lying in wait for me on the bed, and my heart sinks. This is not the white dress I had in mind when the thought of marrying Colton didn't disgust me only weeks ago. In my wildest dreams, I imagined myself wearing a beautiful ivory dress.

As if to mock those expectations, the gown I find sprawling before me is, every single inch, composed of black.

"Your father insisted on the color," Catherine explains. Her hands tremble as she fingers the ebony skirt with a smile that never reaches her eyes. "I know it's probably not what you had in mind, but you're so beautiful, anything you wear will look just stunning. Should we clean you up first?"

She ushers me into a bathroom and runs the water while I stare at the bruised, swollen shadow of myself I find in the mirror. This girl isn't the sweet, na?ve Frey that Daze rescued from the rail of a bridge. My father was right. I'm a new creature entirely.

And only God knows what I'm capable of.

Without taking my eyes off this strange new Frey, I finally open my fist to reveal the bloodied razor blade. In lieu of an engagement ring to mark this occasion, it feels like the next best thing.

A promise of what is to come.