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)
Laughter, moans, voices bartering in languages I don’t know… I also hear the sharp ring of coins, the creak of leather, the slosh of liquid poured into cups. It all blends into a fevered hum, like I’ve stepped into some twisted carnival midway.
And then, as I go further in…the sights.
There are so many people here—it looks like a crowded marketplace at midday instead of the middle of the night.
Lanterns dangle overhead, burning in colors no flame ever should—violet…green…sapphire. Their strange glow paints the stalls and faces I see in jewel tones, flickering over horns, wings, claws, and teeth.
Uh, yeah. Maybe I used the word “people” too loosely. Because many of the creatures around me seem to be demons.
The stalls themselves are piled with wares so bizarre and overwhelming my brain can’t catalog them. I see bolts of fabric that shimmer like liquid, cages that rattle with unseen things that have glowing eyes, and glass bottles of swirling smoke just to name a few.
“Buy a spirit, my lady?” Suddenly a vendor with horns and a long, forked tail is shoving one of the bottles in my face.
“A what?” I gasp, taking a step back.
“A spirit! I gets ‘em cheap from the Hollow Necropolis, so I do. The Necromancers capture the spirits of evil ones just as they’re dying and bottle ‘em up. Murderers, child abusers and the like. Got ‘em all here for sale—cheap!”
“What in the world would I do with the spirit of a murderer?” I ask, honestly mystified.
“Why, uncork the bottle and leave it by the bedside of your enemy, of course,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Do that and he’ll have the worst dreams ever—dreams of getting killed over and over again in the nastiest ways possible!”
Just the thought gives me the shivers.
“No thank you,” I say firmly.
“Well, what about a lust potion then?” he asks, putting down the bottle and lifting a vial of shimmering hot pink liquid. “Strongest on the market! This stuff’ll turn a nun into a whore!”
“No thanks.” I shake my head, tug my hood lower, and keep walking. Other vendors try to catch my eye, but I refuse to engage with them.
Don’t talk. Don’t stop. Just walk.
But it’s impossible not to at least look. My eyes keep darting, snagging on strange sights.
I see a pair of women with horns and tails sharing a long, curved hookah, the smoke rising in violet plumes. Their lips are stained dark red, their laughter husky and private. Further on, a demon with curling horns barters over a tray of obsidian knives, his voice a guttural rumble. Beside him, a cloaked figure ladles something glowing scarlet into a chalice and hands it to a customer, who drinks without hesitation.
God, it’s like a flea market from Hell. Tampa’s weekend swap meets have nothing on this place. Cuban sandwiches and knockoff purses, I can handle. This? This is…way out of my league.
I keep moving, hood low, hoping no one notices me. But of course, someone does.
“Well now, aren’t you a sweet one?”
The voice is feminine, rich and smooth as chocolate.
I flinch and turn around instinctively.
A woman stands in the mouth of a velvet-draped stall. Her gown is scarlet silk that clings to every curve and her hair spills down her back like liquid midnight. Her nails are tipped like claws and her smile shows short, sharp fangs.
“Come in,” she croons, gesturing with one long finger. “You’re shivering, darling. Let me warm you. A taste…a drink…a touch—you’ll forget everything but pleasure.”
Heat crawls up my neck as I shake my head quickly. Sexy Sapphic pleasure is definitely not on the menu for me tonight.
“No, thank you. I’m…just passing through,” I mumble.
Her laugh is low and knowing.
“Listen, darling—no one passes through the Bazaar unchanged.”
I bolt before she can say more, heart pounding, ears burning with the sound of her laughter.
But the deeper I go, the stranger it gets.
Cloying perfumes sting my nose. Some stalls reek of roasted meat, others of spiced pastries glistening with sugar. My mouth waters but I keep walking
Don’t even think about it. Who knows what—or who—they’re cooking! I tell myself.
Silk ropes shimmer in another stall, their fibers glowing faintly like they’re alive. A rack of whips hangs beside them, their braided leather gleaming with oil. The sight makes my stomach knot and twist, heat mingling with fear as I remember the pleasure dungeon I saw in Lucian’s private rooms.
I quicken my pace, clutching the signet ring in my pocket like a talisman.
Just find the way back. The hub…the Nocturne Gates…then the hallway, I tell myself. Then your bathroom. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. You’ve done harder things—tax season, for example. This is just…scarier décor.
The crowd thickens. Shadows brush me, shoulders jostle me. I keep my head down, praying I look like I belong. I think I’m about to reach the end of the market when…