His words do nothing to help the unease that continues to roll down my spine.

We reach another door at the end of the hall. Roses grow up it and weave through cracks in the aged wood. The handle hides among the leaves, and this time I wait for Xander to open it. He jiggles it until it clicks. As he pushes it, some of the vines tear, as if nobody else arrived this way.

I step inside and barely hold back a gasp. Gold coats the floor as if it were poured from hundreds of paint cans, drying in ripples that make it feel like stepping onto golden lava. The same gold drips from the walls in frozen rivers. The room’s an octagon, and each corner holds an ornate column made from soft beige stones and carved to look like vines of flowers climbing. At the top, the vines break to reveal a person carved into the stone. Each one lifts their hands upward, and from their fingers more etched vines flow across the arched stones of the ceiling. It reminds me of an ancient cathedral, but instead of an altar, the largest rosebush I’ve ever seen rises from the center. The twisting branches reach out like they’re trying to snag anyone who gets close enough. The closed red rosebuds make me think of drops of blood.

Just like at the opening party, everyone here is dressed in bright colors. They look like jewels against the gold of a dragon’s lair. The effect is almost overwhelming. Except me. I stick out like a lump of coal among the treasure. My stare snags on one other person dressed in all black. Roman. I haven’t seen him since our kiss. I don’t know why that’s the first thing that comes to mind. I also haven’t seen him since I watched his fangs sink into another vampire’s neck.

That’s better.

“Why’d you pick black for the dress?” I ask Xander. It appeared in my armoire just like all my other outfits.

“I didn’t.” Xander’s eyebrows draw together. “I thought you magicked it to black. Diantha picked your dress. I know it was green.”

My eyes dart to Roman again. I’m a gothic princess, and he looks like a vampire prince.

Xander sees where I’m staring and grumbles, “Of course he would.”

Roman lifts his wineglass, acknowledging our stares or his role in my black dress, I’m not sure which. My stomach clenches at the red in his cup. Willow looks my way and smiles happily in her pale pink gown. The breast of her dress is an overturned heart—the point rests in the hollow of her throat, secured by a choker of soft pink jewels. The waist puffs out in white material made of spun clouds. She’s sweet dreams personified, and she pops against the gold.

“Bastard,” Xander spits, looking back to me.