AI The air smelled wrong the moment they crossed the threshold.
Rory exhaled sharply, her breath curling into silver mist that lingered too long before dissolving. The scent was thick—sweet, like overripe fruit left to ferment in the sun, but beneath it something darker, something *meaty *. Her stomach clenched. The last thing she’d eaten had been Yu-Fei’s leftover pork buns at midnight, and now the grease sat heavy in her gut, souring.
“You’re frowning,” Nyx observed, their voice a whisper that didn’t quite belong to the wind . A shadow detached itself from the gnarled trunk of an oak and coalesced into their familiar , shifting form. Violet eyes flickered in the dim, watching her.
“Yeah, well, it smells like a butcher shop had a baby with a winery,” Rory muttered, adjusting the strap of her delivery bag. The Heartstone pendant at her throat pulsed once, warm against her collarbone. She resisted the urge to clutch it. “You’d think *Gluttony * would at least smell like… I don’t know, chocolate or something.”
A laugh , soft and chiming, drifted from ahead. Isolde turned back to them, her silver hair catching the strange, amber-tinted light like strands of liquid metal. “Oh, little moth, chocolate is for amateurs.” She gestured with one slender hand, and the air *shimmered *—not like heat haze, but like the world itself had been dipped in honey . “Dymas is not about mere *sweetness *. It’s about *satiation *. The deep, drowning kind.”
Rory swallowed. The trees here weren’t right. Their trunks were too wide, their bark black and slick as if polished by countless hands, and their leaves—god, their leaves were the color of fresh bruises, veined with gold. They rustled without wind, a sound like crumpling parchment. The ground beneath her boots was spongy, giving slightly with each step, as if she walked on something *alive *.
Nyx’s form rippled, their edges blurring. “The Veil is thin here. Thinner than the grove.” A pause. “Thinner than *you *.”
Rory shot them a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Isolde was already moving deeper into the orchard, her bare feet making no sound, no imprint. Rory hurried after her, boots sinking fractionally into the damp, loamy earth. The air pressed against her skin, humid and *thick *, like breathing through wet cloth. Her scar itched.
The first thing she saw was the fruit.
It hung from the branches in obscene abundance—pears the size of her fist, their skins so taut they looked ready to burst, their scent cloying, almost *rotten * in its intensity . Grapes like black jewels, swollen with juice, their vines coiled like serpents around the boughs. And the *apples *—god, the apples were the worst. Red as fresh blood, their glossy skins reflecting the amber light like polished garnets. One had split open where it hung, the flesh inside not white, not pale, but a deep, unnatural *pink*, glistening .
Rory reached out before she could stop herself.
“Don’t.”
Nyx’s voice was sharp. Their hand—if it could be called a hand, when it was more like smoke given temporary shape—closed around her wrist. The shadow’s touch was cool, almost *absent *, but it stopped her fingers an inch from the fruit.
“Why not?” she asked, though her pulse was already hammering in her throat.
Isolde plucked a grape without looking back. It burst between her fingers, juice dripping like dark wine . “Because, little moth, *nothing * here is free.” She licked the liquid from her skin, her tongue flickering out, too quick, too *pointed *. “Everything has a cost. Even a taste.”
Rory yanked her hand back. The apple’s scent clung to her, sickly-sweet, making her saliva thicken. She wiped her palm on her jeans and glared at Nyx. “You could’ve *warned * me before we stepped through.”
“Would you have come?” Nyx’s eyes gleamed, amused.
She didn’t answer.
The path—if it could be called a path—twisted between the trees, the ground sloping gently downward. The light here was all wrong, too golden, too *warm *, like perpetual sunset. No shadows stretched where they should. Instead, the darkness pooled in strange places, clinging to the bark of the trees or gathering in the hollows beneath roots that writhed like sleeping snakes.
Then the trees gave way.
The vineyard sprawled before them, rows upon rows of vines heavy with grapes, their leaves a deep, unnatural purple. And beyond that —
“Oh, *fuck *,” Rory breathed .
A feast.
It was the only word for it. A long table, easily fifty feet in length, groaned beneath the weight of platters and bowls and decanters. Roasted boars with apples in their mouths, their skin crisped to golden perfection. Whole fish glazed in sauces that steamed faintly, their scales still shimmering. Breads piled high, crusts glistening with butter and herbs. Cheeses in wheels and wedges and creamy mounds, some oozing, some crumbly, some *blue * with veins of mold that pulsed faintly, like something breathing. And the *wine *—decanters of it, in every color, from pale as straw to dark as blood.
And the *people *.
Or what *had * been people .
A man in a chef’s whites stood at the head of the table, his hands folded before him. His face was slack, his eyes glassy, his mouth slightly open , as if he’d been caught mid-sentence. Beside him, a woman in a gown of emerald silk held a goblet aloft, her fingers frozen in elegant curvature. None of them moved . None of them *breathed *.
“Helbound,” Isolde murmured. “Souls contracted to serve. They’re not *alive *, not as you understand it. But they’re not quite dead, either.”
Rory’s fingers twitched toward the Fae blade at her belt. The moonsilver was cold even through the leather. “They’re *trapped *.”
“Some would call it an honor.” Isolde plucked a fig from a nearby branch and bit into it. Juice ran down her chin. “To spend eternity perfecting their craft. No hunger, no pain. Only *purpose *.”
“Sounds like hell to me,” Rory muttered.
Nyx drifted closer to the table, their form flickering. “It is *Hel *.”
She ignored them, stepping forward. The air here was heavier, *richer *, the scent of roasting meat and spiced wine and something darker beneath it—copper, and the faint, acrid tang of old blood. Her stomach growled. She pressed a hand to it, disgusted.
Then she saw the *centerpiece *.
It was a pig. No—a *boar *, massive, its tusks curved like scimitars, its bristles black as ink. It had been roasted whole, its skin lacquered to a glossy sheen, an apple clutched in its jaws. But its eyes —
Its eyes were *open *.
And they were *human *.
Rory stumbled back.
The boar ’s gaze was fixed on her, dark and knowing and *hungry *. Its nostrils flared. A low, guttural sound vibrated in its throat—a *laugh *.
“What the *fuck *—?”
Isolde sighed. “Oh, *that *.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Prince Belphegor’s little joke. Don’t mind it. It’s quite dead. *Mostly *.”
The boar ’s lips peeled back from its tusks. The apple in its mouth *split *, juice dripping onto the tablecloth like blood.
Rory’s hand closed around the Fae blade’s hilt. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” Nyx agreed, their voice suddenly tight . “We shouldn’t.”
Isolde tilted her head, considering. Then she smiled, slow and sharp. “But you *are * here, little moth. And now that you ’ve come, you ’ll want to see the *kitchen *.”
Rory’s blood turned to ice.
The Half-Fae didn’t wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and glided between the frozen feasters, her silver hair trailing behind her like a banner. Rory hesitated, then followed, every instinct screaming at her to *run *. Nyx kept pace beside her, their form flickering like a dying flame.
The kitchen was worse.
It was *vast *, a cavernous space of black iron and copper, the ceiling lost in shadow. Fires roared in hearths the size of cars, their flames an unnatural blue . Pots bubbled with stews that *moved *, chunks of meat rising and falling in thick , dark broth. A man—no, a *thing * that had once been a man—stood at a butcher’s block, his apron stained crimson. His hands were buried wrist-deep in the carcass of what looked like a deer, but the deer had *too many legs*, and its antlers were twisted like gnarled branches.
He looked up as they entered.
His face was human . His *eyes * were not. They were black, pupil-less, reflecting the firelight like oil on water.
“Visitors,” he said, his voice wet, like he was speaking through a mouthful of blood. “How *delightful *.”
Isolde curtsied, graceful as a dancer. “Master Harkin. We seek an audience with the Prince.”
The butcher—Harkin—smiled. His teeth were filed to points. “Do you now?” He wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of red. “And what makes you think *you * are worthy of Belphegor’s time?”
Nyx’s form solidified, their edges sharpening. “We bring a *gift *.”
Rory’s fingers twitched. *What gift ?*
Harkin’s gaze slid to her. Lingered. “Ah. *Her *.”
The air pressed in, thick as syrup. Rory’s scar burned.
“Yes,” Isolde purred. “Her .”
Harkin reached into the deer’s carcass and withdrew something glistening . A *heart *, still beating, its rhythm slow, *deliberate *. He held it out to Rory, his fingers dripping.
“Then by all means,” he said, “let’s see what the Prince makes of *you *.”