From Chapter 17

"Welcome, ladies," a smooth, familiar voice echoed through the chamber.

Principe Rocco Visconti glided from the shadows. He was no longer the charming host in a tailored suit. He wore long, black ceremonial robes, intricately embroidered with silver thread that formed complex necromantic sigils. He looked ancient and powerful, a high priest in his own unholy cathedral.

"I do apologize for the crude transport," he said, his voice dripping with insincere courtesy. "But we are on a rather strict schedule."

He gestured to the altars. "To your places, if you please."

The guards forced them forward. Tinbunny was pushed towards the limestone altar, Veronica towards the obsidian. As they reached them, the shadows on the stone seemed to deepen, to writhe and coalesce. Dark tendrils of shadow snaked up from the altars. Tinbunny cried out as the tendrils touched her skin, cold as the grave, wrapping around her wrists and ankles. The restraints looked like smoke but held with the strength of iron, pinning her against the cold stone, her torn clothes offering no protection.

"A necessary precaution," Rocco explained, circling the altars. "Now… for the overture."