I'm all for new beginnings and stepping outside of my comfort zone, but the gift my mother and father gave me might be pushing it a little too far. I stare at the black invitation with gilded lettering, soaking in each word, especially the four at the bottom: a paranormal dating adventure. I mean, my parents are a little eccentric, but this is a bit much, even for them.

Two plane trips—one which was an hour and a half late taking off—and a speed boat ride later, and I'm feeling sick to my stomach. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited about what's to come. Especially the part when I'm on land again. Who wouldn't look forward to two months on a private island in French Polynesia? My mother's sponsors must have gone all out for this one, pulling out all the stops for their favorite supernatural YouTuber. Because this is some once-in-a-lifetime kind of shit.

I pull up the event agenda on my phone and then look at my watch. The welcome mixer started fifteen minutes ago. I'd hoped we would reach Île de la Cachette with enough time for me to do a vibe check on the place. I wasn't quite sure how seriously everyone was going to take the theme. The agenda simply said that Wicked Encounters is a paranormal dating experience but didn't go into detail of when we were expected to play the parts. The last thing I want is to be the jerk that doesn't participate when everyone else is totally into it.

Grabbing my suitcase, I pull it between my legs and ignore the mist beating me in the face. I'm sure to look like a wet dog by the time I arrive, but at least I'll be in costume. I pull out my black skintight bodycon dress and begin maneuvering it on in that magical way that every plus-size girl knows how to do without giving those around her a peepshow. Not that there is anyone to flash. The only other person on the boat is the captain behind the wheel. He hasn't so much as looked at me since grunting my name when I approached him at the marina in Tahiti.

When I finally have the dress on and my feet into the heels that I hope I don't sink all the way into the sand, I am out of breath. I place my hand on my chest and close my eyes, gauging how I feel. I take a breath in and am relieved when I am able to take in a normal amount of air (for me at least) and let it out without a wheezing sound. With a short nod, I zip my suitcase back up and get to my feet, even more relieved that Evermore Estate is now in sight.

Île de la Cachette—Hideout Island—is aptly named. I have literally never heard of it in my life. Not that I am a geography whiz and know all 100+ islands in French Polynesia, but still. It is so far out of the way that it's even more remote than the Gambier Islands and even more exclusive than Bora Bora, as Evermore Estate is the only thing on it.

"How bizarre," I murmur as we speed closer, stepping up to the railing.

I expected the mansion to look like the massive beach houses we've seen on our vacations to Miami and L.A.—white, with bright blue or green accents, clay roofing, surrounded by palm trees, maybe some Gregorian columns.

Nah, not even close.

This isn't a house at all. It's not even a mansion. It's a castle. It reminds me of the Gothic estates in the fantasy movies I used to watch as a little girl, with the dark gray stone and arched windows. It has three floors, and the only accents I can make out from here are black ones. It's a complete juxtaposition to the clear, gorgeous water surrounding it, and I could not love it more. Everything is dark, a little creepy, and perfect for the theme.

I smooth my palms down my dress and pull my witch's hat down on my head as the boat slows to a stop at the dock, now even more confident in my decision to lean into the costume. It appears I will fit right in.

When I pull the rope next to the hand-carved double doors, no more than a couple of seconds pass before a man in a black suit with a matching tie pulls them open. His sky-blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles scan me up and down. He takes an especially long time staring at the point of my hat before lowering his head in a bow. His voice is a deep rumble as he says, "Welcome to Evermore Manor, Miss Ashling. If you will follow me, I will show you to the dining room."

I look down at my four large suitcases and one duffel bag. Dear Poseidon, Hades, and Persephone, I'm in for a world of hurt. I highly doubt this place has an elevator, and it is a safe bet that my room won't be on the first floor. I'm going to have an asthma attack just trying to get settled.

"You can leave your luggage here. The staff will ensure that it makes it to your room, Miss Ashling."

I feel the need to sink to my knees and kiss the tips of his shiny shoes. Instead, I hold out my hand and say, "Please call me Cordelia. What's your name?"

He gazes at my hand as if it is covered in oozing blisters before shaking it with three of his fingers and saying, "I'm Clayton."

Clayton steps to the side and gestures for me to enter the foyer. The gothic touches to the outside of the mansion are just as prominent on the inside—high arched ceilings, iron and crystal chandeliers, and so much black—just about everything is or is at least accented in ebony. We walk past a grand staircase that splits on the first landing with two gargoyles standing watch on either side of it. The walls that aren't painted black are gray with black-framed paintings of a slew of diabolical acts—orgies, battles, and bondage. I don't think I've ever seen so many images of beings tied up in various ways.

We arrive at a set of tall doors, where music and conversations can be heard on the other side. Clayton gives me a final onceover and swings the door open. For a split second, I consider running, but my plan is killed before it has a chance.

"Miss Cordelia Ashling."

The entire dining room goes silent and everyone sitting at the long banquet table turns in my direction, and I know instantly that I have made a grave error.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I whisper, my eyelids closing in immediate humiliation. The classic if I can't see them, maybe they can't see me. But oh no, I know they can see me. Every last one of the people in this room. They're all staring at me. Dressed in what is clearly a costume. As a witch.

And they're all in normal...fucking...clothes.

They're all very stylish, very posh clothes. But normal nonetheless. Not a witch's hat, set of devil's horns, or black cape in sight. So much for fitting right in.

"Hey," I drawl, lifting both hands in finger guns. Oh my God, did you just do finger guns? I'd like to just vacate the planet now, thanks.

The room is silent for another second, then conversations start back up and everyone goes back to their food. I breathe a sigh of relief now that the attention is off me, and Clayton places a hand on my shoulder, pointing to the one empty seat near the other end of the table.

"There's your seat, Miss—Cordelia," he corrects himself, offering me a pleasant grin that says don't worry about these people. They've already forgotten your fashion faux pas.

I swallow hard and return his smile as I yank the hat off my head and shove it into my oversized purse. "Thank you, Clayton. I appreciate your help."

"Of course," he says with a bow. "I'll see your things get to your room—23—on the second floor."

I knew it wouldn't be on the first floor. Hopefully the air agrees with me here.

"Thank you," I say again before I head down to the seat he indicated.

I slide into the velvet-covered highbacked dining chair, slipping my purse on the floor between my feet, attempting to draw as little attention to myself as possible. But the others around me are already glancing my way, and my rosy cheeks are on fire.

This is probably the most embarrassed I have ever been in my entire life. And that says a lot for a girl whose mom used to come read palms at every school Halloween carnival.

The strong scent of fruit with a hint of mint lingers in the air and my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I haven't eaten in hours, and the only thing near me to ingest is a glass of water with no ice. I suppose that could have been colder if I had been on time. Not to mention I'd probably have a glass of wine in my hand and a plate of food in front of me by now too.

I look around for a server, and when I turn to my right, I meet the richest, most exquisite set of brown eyes that have ever existed. You think I'm exaggerating. Okay, maybe I am, but I certainly have never seen eyes like this before. They're nearly black on the outer rings, dark chocolate brown on the majority of the irises, and a stunning caramel around the pupil.

Fuck anyone who ever said brown eyes weren't beautiful, special, or sexy.

They were already wrong, but they've clearly never seen these brown eyes before.

In fact, I've never seen a man like him before. His skin is warm brown without a flaw on it, and his hair is so black that I swear I catch hues of blue and violet in it. A light dusting of facial hair covers a jaw so sharp I could cut my finger if I touched it. And his lips...people pay a lot of money to have lips that pink and plush. He is absolutely the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

"I kind of liked the witch hat. It was the most interesting part of this entire night so far," he says before bringing his glass of red wine to his mouth.

Nyx's tit. That low melodic voice is like warm honey sliding down my spine.

I look around the table, double checking that he is really talking to me. When he shoots me a sidelong glare over the rim of his glass, I know he is.

"I—Are you making fun of me?" I ask, cocking my head to the side.

"Not at all. I challenge you to find one person at this table who doesn't look like they would bore you to death."

I take in the other fifty or so attendees. It's impossible to know what any of them are talking about over the music of the eight-piece orchestra. It appears to be polite conversations. The kind of talking people do when they are first getting to know each other. No one is doing magic tricks or truly capturing everyone's attention. It's all small talk.

I purse my lips and nod once. "Fine. You got me there. No one looks like they're talking about anything soul-shattering," I admit.

"Now I know he's flirting with you," a voice pipes up from the other side of the handsome guy in question. "Because I am quite sure that he knows he can find stimulating as fuck conversation right here with his bestie."

The woman next to him leans forward and lifts her hand in greeting. "Hi there. I'm Lorelai, this guy's decidedly not boring best friend." She elbows him in the ribs, and he shoots her a glare. "I'm sure he didn't mean to not introduce me. Your beautiful face must have temporarily stolen his ability to be polite."

I can't help but grin. Her red hair is almost as long as mine, except the curls are so wild that it almost looks like she's never been able to comb it a day in her life. But in a good way. She's tall and slender, and her clothes look like they were designed specifically for her body. She's beautiful, and I immediately wonder if they're just friends.

His head lolls to the side as if he is exasperated by his friend's antics, and he says, "It would have been impolite if I had introduced myself first, but of course you swoop in to make your mark before I can make mine."

Lorelai tilts her head back and laughs. The sound has that same satin feeling as her best friend's voice. "This is what you get for not playing the game in so long. You should take notes, Elias."

He shakes his head and extends his hand to me. "Elias Dagon."

"Cordelia Ashling," I say, curling my fingers around his.

"Cordelia. Enchanting," Lorelai says, taking a sip from her goblet, which is filled with something different than Elias's. White wine, I think. "Are you hungry?" she asks.

"I—"

Before I can answer, a server appears at my side, asking me if I prefer the chicken or the steak. "I'll take chicken. And can I have whatever wine he's drinking?" I ask, pointing at Elias's goblet.

The waiter's eyes flash to Elias and a snort comes from Lorelai's direction. Elias clears his throat before saying, "I think the white wine would pair better with the chicken, if you don't mind my saying so."

My eyebrows knit together, my eyes darting between all three of them. "Um, okay..." I say, drawing out the word. "White wine it is then." The server walks away, and I settle in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back so I can see the mysterious man beside me. "So, Elias, are you a sommelier, or what?"

"I'm just very particular in my choice of drink, and the vintage isn't for everyone."

"Never have truer words been spoken," Lorelai says lifting her glass and taking a sip.

I understand that it is judgmental of me, and I would usually reserve such hasty decisions about a person until I've gotten to know them better, but these two are strange. This entire place is bizarre. I don't claim to be an expert social butterfly—four years of dedicating myself to my studies has put a damper on that—but something doesn't feel right about all of this. I'm like a fish out of water flopping around on the floor while everyone here is just swimming by and staring.

The desire to retreat to my room and try again tomorrow is strong. If it weren't for my grumbling stomach, I'd do just that. Thankfully, I'm one step closer to being put out of my misery when my food arrives.

Lorelai tells us about the other singles sitting around the table. She keeps her voice down, and I have to lean in as she goes on about the scandalous rumors she's heard. From the man with salt and pepper hair who is said to be married to the petite blonde that is supposedly in search for several men to join her in the bedroom all at once, Lorelai seems to know all their secrets.

Elias lets his best friend carry on, replying with clipped single words to show he is interested in what she is saying. The couple of times I've glanced up from my plate, I've caught him watching me from the corner of his eye. I have to admit that it is flattering even if I'm not sure how I feel about him yet.

"May I have everyone's attention, please?" says the man sitting at the head of the table as he clinks his spoon to his glass. The room falls silent, and the man stands.

He is good-looking, in his mid-sixties with thick silver hair and a muscular build. The red suit he wears is probably the flashiest clothing item at the table, minus my witch's hat. He flashes a wide grin that reminds me of a wolf as his eyes skim over us.

"Welcome to Evermore Manor and sixty-seventh season of the Wicked Encounters social event. I am your host for the summer, Felix Evermore. It has been a long-standing tradition within my family to help others connect in a way that celebrates life and gives homage to the goddess who created us." Felix lifts his wine glass and the others at the table follow his lead. "Here's to finding a love that will withstand all of time."

"Hear, hear!" everyone says at once just as the lights go out.

The room is pitch black with disembodied murmurings. The blackout is so timely that I can't help but wonder if it's choreographed—a dramatic effect leading into the next event of the night.

When the lights flicker back on, I learn just how wrong my assumption is. Felix is bent over the table, his head awkwardly turned to the side. If the vacant look in his eyes weren't clue enough, the gaping slice oozing blood at his neck is. Someone just murdered our host.