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)
“Like the sign over the gate told you—it’s The Bleeding Court,” Whistler says calmly, like it’s no big deal.
But it is. It is a big deal and I’m scared to death!
The road stretches upward, steep and endless. The city is alive around us. A woman with skin the color of polished marble glides past, her black, crushed velvet gown dragging behind her. She glances at me, her lips curving in a smile, and I see fangs glint before she disappears into the crowd.
Two men lean against a lamppost, their coats tailored, their shoes shining. At first they look normal—until one turns his head and I see his eyes glowing faint green, his pupils slit like a snake’s. He flicks a tongue over his teeth and laughs at something the other says, the sound sharp and cold.
A trio of pale children sit on the steps of a crumbling townhouse, their eyes completely black with no whites at all. They whisper to each other in voices so soft I can’t make out the words. The sound is monotonous and vaguely ominous—like three people all using the same throat and saying the same things at once.
I tear my eyes away, not wanting to see them anymore. I have a feeling if I lean closer I’ll understand what they’re saying. But a glance at those empty black eyes lets me know I don’t want to understand.
“Where…where are we going?” My voice shakes.
Whistler raises one long, bony finger and points.
Up…we’re going up.
We start to walk.
The road winds and winds, leading ever upward. At the very crest of the hill, dominating everything, rises the tallest building I’ve ever seen.
It doesn’t just loom over the strange, twilight city—it owns the city.
The tower stretches so high it feels endless, its spires stabbing at the swollen red moon like needles. The walls are black, a color so deep it seems to swallow the bloody light, drinking it in. Hundreds—no, thousands—of windows glow faintly crimson, as though the building itself has veins and blood runs behind the glass.
The spires twist, curling upward, menacing and inescapable. The tower leans, just slightly, like it’s bending down to glare at the city sprawled beneath it.
I can’t look away. Now that I’ve seen it, no matter how I turn my head, my gaze is dragged back to it, as if some invisible hand is pulling my eyes.
“Ah, I see you’re admiring our destination, my queen,” Whistler says. “It’s quite a monolith, is it not? ‘Tis said the foundation was laid in blood and all the mortar used to fill in the cracks has bonemeal in it.”
“What…what is it called?” I ask in a thin voice.
“Why that there is the Crimson Spires,” Whistler says.
The Crimson Spires.
My mouth is dry as dust. My heart stutters painfully in my chest. The longer I stare, the colder I feel, as though the tower itself is reaching across the distance, stealing the warmth from my body.
“That?” My voice cracks. “That’s where we’re going?”
“Indeed we are, my Curvy Queen.” Whistler’s grin flashes again. “To meet your Don. Your future husband.”
Husband.
The word hits me all over again like a slap.
Future husband. As if that place—the nightmare looming above the city—could hold anything but terror.
I dig my heels into the cobblestones, but Whistler just tightens his grip on my wrist, bony fingers unyielding.
The road stretches upward, a dark artery leading straight to the heart of something I know, deep down, I may never come back from.
And for the first time, I can’t even muster denial. I wonder if I’ll ever see my crappy little apartment again. If I’ll ever wake up with Mr. Mittens curled at my side.
My gut twists as the tower looms over me, its windows bleeding red light into the night.
And I think—no, I know—that whatever waits inside is watching me already.
11
Jules
I keep telling myself this has to be a dream. It has to be. My brain must’ve short-circuited somewhere between work and my shower. Maybe I slipped, cracked my head, and now I’m bleeding out on the tile while my subconscious serves me this twisted mash-up of True Blood and The Sopranos.
Any second now, I’ll wake up in my crappy little bed with Mr. Mittens kneading my stomach like dough, demanding breakfast at four a.m.
But the cobblestones bite into my bare feet, and the cold air cuts me straight to the bone. Dreams don’t usually hurt this much.
The street is a nightmare carnival of faces and figures. Shadows slip in and out of alleyways. The crimson light from the swollen moon paints everything with a sickly glow. Every time I think I’ve seen the worst of it, something else shambles past to prove me wrong.
A man with tattoos crawling across his face—actual tattoos that move, the spirals writhing like worms—leans against a wall, smoking something that glows faintly blue. A child holds a balloon shaped like a skull, except the balloon drips black liquid every few seconds, spattering on the cobblestones.