Gypsy Moon (All The Pretty Monsters #4)(56)

I pull it out and turn it on, and confirm that there is a massive amount of dust in here. In fact, I’m almost tempted to turn and walk out, but I soldier on when I spot a lot of hanging portraits.

The frames have mostly rotted and collapsed, leaving several in the floor, but a few still mostly hang, though the images and canvases have all cracked, leaving no distinguishable features.

All but one.

One remains, and it’s in eerily pristine condition, also looking freshly dusted and cleaned.

I recognize the woman with calculated eyes and a menacing smirk staring at me from that image.

It’s Idun.

My stomach turns, and a part of me wonders if one of the guys didn’t take care of it earlier or something. Or perhaps throughout time.

All the others have fallen to decay, but hers is perfect.

She’s perfect. Exquisite, really. Polished and prim in her very decadent dress and jewels, flawless skin, and perfect posture.

She’s slightly more daunting on this scale than the small portrait painted on the square piece of cloth Arion carries around with him in his jacket pocket.

I don’t understand how he can kiss me and tell me he wants me, while silently pining for the true love of his life. Evil bitch or not, he loves her, and he’s denying it for them.

I turn and head away from the painting, since I’m here to learn about the ones forgotten, not the one everyone else remembers.

All the way up the winding staircase, the pattern continues. The portraits that have managed to hang are too corroded to see the image, left to suffer the elements throughout time. But another pristine image of Idun comes into frame once I reach the next floor.

I pause at this one, because it’s a portrait of her with Vance, her hand on his chest, as they both give the artist a serious, fierce expression. I almost don’t recognize him with the longer hair sticking out from under the top hat he’s donning.

They’re in front of a massive home with VH at the top of the entryway, and a very frivolous carriage is in the background like it was staged there to show off the trifecta proof of wealth—home, clothes, and fancy ride.

I turn and start walking down the hallway of the newest, massive floor that is easier to navigate than the downstairs seemed.

I step over a few fallen portraits and rotted piles of old furniture, finding even the worst portraits to be in surprisingly better condition than said furniture.

I push through, room by room, finding nothing that sticks out, and too creeped out to investigate for too long. At least until one of the guys gets up here.

In another room, I weirdly find three portraits that almost look hidden away, even though they’re hanging up in the same pristine condition as all of Idun’s portraits.

There’s one of her with Emit, one with her and Arion, and lastly, one of her with Damien…all on one wall.

I move closer to study them, finding those portraits just as serious and fierce as the one with Vance.

These three show off the same wealth trifecta, and two of the guys look wildly different. But not Arion.

My brow furrows as I step in closer, recognizing how very similar Arion and Ace look in this image—clothing and all.

I thought it was turn-of-the-century clothing. Clearly I was off that mark, considering Idun’s been under for much longer than that. In fact, those are the exact pants and shirt he was wearing, and that’s the exact hairstyle he had.

How…far back did his mind have to travel in order for him to get as close to human as possible for that astral projection thingy? At times like these, the gist doesn’t help me out all that much.

Putting a pin in that, I glance over to see Damien’s dead eyes in his portrait. His white-blond hair looks just as freakishly perfect on him as ever, though it’s tied off in a ponytail that drapes over his left shoulder.

My gaze flicks back over to see Arion’s happier eyes, and I note his hand is on the small of her back and not groping her ass.

He looks so content there. So at peace.

Emit’s portrait is different. It’s more…solemn. Almost like he was forced to pose in nice clothes, and he wanted the artist to capture his annoyance. I idly notice the collar of his fancy dress shirt has been painted with a tear and a wrinkle.

A noise stirs overhead like a bat is in here, and I quickly get the hell out of that room, slipping a little on the slick floors.

I move up the stairs again to the top floor, sticking close to the stairs, instead of wandering into the wider parts with just a flashlight to guide me, since I don’t want to risk getting lost in this place.

There’s one direction that intrigues me. I’ll visit it when someone else gets up here. Surely that’s coming in the very near future.

Just as I top the stairs, my heart breaks a little. Even knowing as little as I do about them, it’s still not hard for me to realize I’m now on the right floor to see where my people stayed.

Instead of doors to open, there are cage bars to forgotten prison cells that likely imitated bedrooms.

I walk into the first one with a cage door ajar, and the door falls off completely, thudding and clanging to the ground. Jumping out of the way lands me in the room a little quicker, and I shuffle along, as the echoing slowly dulls.

We’re in the towers.

She actually locked them away in the towers. I bet the lightning was terrifying at this altitude. I doubt rubber was an option back then, and there’s so much metal in here that it’s as though this was done on purpose. Surely she didn’t force them to endure every lightning storm…