Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
That book did not have a happy ending, but I don’t want to think about it now.
“I’m fine,” Hanna says, but even her voice sounds see-through, if that makes any sense. “I just feel kind of weak, that’s all,” she murmurs.
Weak? That’s like calling a hurricane a light breeze! She looks terrible. But of course, I can’t tell her that.
“Just hang in there,” I say, trying to sound strong. “Lucian promised that we’re getting you home today. And guess what—I’m going with you.”
I try to sound upbeat—casual. But the bitterness still sneaks in around the edges.
“What?” Hanna’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? He’s letting you go?”
“Yes, he says that from the minute he grabbed me, I’ve been trying to get home. So he’s giving me what I want.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter—like my heart isn’t breaking in two. “So I guess we’ll both be at the next meeting of Book Club together.”
“Sure—I can’t wait.”
Hanna nods, attempting a smile. But something about her expression feels delayed, like her reactions are half a second behind where they should be. Like part of her is somewhere else—like maybe the creepy dark land behind the Bone Gates of that Hollow Necropolis.
Another dart of fear pierces me, but I try to hide it. I gesture to her untouched plate.
“Do you want to eat something? Maybe just a little? Those Eggs Benedict look amazing.”
She shakes her head slowly, not even looking at the food.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
That alone terrifies me.
Hanna loves food. Loves it. She’s the kind of person who plans her day around meals—who orders dessert even when she swears she’s full. And now she’s refusing her favorite breakfast which I’ve never seen her pass up before.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I’m just about to insist she drink some tea or coffee—something warm and sweet to give her at least a little bit of sustenance—when there’s a knock at the door.
The maid enters, hands folded respectfully.
“If it please you, my Lady, Don Lucian has summoned you and your friend. He says you’re to go home. If you’ll come with me, I’ll lead the way.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I nod and glance at Hanna.
She nods back, slow and unsteady, like the movement costs her something. She looks as though she might faint or fade completely away right there.
“Here—let me help you,” I say quickly, sliding an arm around her waist.
Mr. Mittens winds around my legs, purring anxiously.
I look down at him.
“You’d better come too. I’m not leaving without you.”
He answers with a decisive mrrp, his white-tipped tail flicking.
As I help Hanna to her feet, I get another nasty shock—she feels… lighter.
Not thinner—she’s still her same, beautiful, curvy self—but when I steady her, it’s like she weighs far less than she should—like fifty pounds less. It’s as though something essential has already been taken from her.
How much of her soul has been siphoned away already? How long does she have before…
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I tighten my arm around her instead, anchoring her as best I can.
“Come on,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”
And with Mr. Mittens padding along at our heels, I guide my fragile, fading friend out the door—hoping with everything I have that we’re not already too late.
64
Lucian
The Grand Ballroom of the Crimson Spires has not been opened in decades.
Not since the last time a Don attempted a reverse passage through the In-between—and paid dearly for it. He was one of my ancestors—I refuse to think of his demise right now.
The room is vast enough to swallow sound. Its vaulted ceiling arches high overhead, supported by ribs of black stone veined with lines of crimson crystals that pulse faintly, like a buried heart. Chandeliers of smoked glass and garnet hang motionless, their candles unlit out of respect for what is about to occur. The walls are lined with tall mirrors framed in gold so dark it is nearly black, each etched with scenes of ancient bargains and broken oaths—men kneeling…women weeping…shadows swallowing light.
The floor is a single expanse of mirror-polished obsidian and across it, drawn with painstaking care, is a pentagram written in my own blood.
It gleams wetly, each line precise, each angle aligned with key points that only a Don of the Bleeding Court would know how to mark. Sigils spiral outward from its center—glyphs of severance…reversal…sacrifice.
The air hums with restrained power—thick enough to taste—coppery and sharp at the back of my tongue.
Whistler stands beside me, hands clasped behind his back, boots carefully placed just outside the outermost ward.
“You’re sure about this, my Lord?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking from the sigils to my face. “You’re really going to give up your Curvy Queen after you went to so much time and effort and expense to get her here in the first place?”