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)
Nobody blinks at these weird sights—nobody even seems to notice.
Couples stroll past with porcelain masks hiding their faces, masks painted with red tears or laughing mouths. Their steps echo in unison, precise and eerie. A vendor with yellowed eyes and webbed fingers hawks roasted meat on sticks, but the smell coming from them isn’t chicken or pork or beef—it’s sweet…cloying…wrong.
I hug myself tighter and wish for my apartment with its water-stained tub and Mr. Mittens’s cheerful yowls. Hell, I’d take the drunk frat boy passed out in puke over this.
And then she appears.
“Pretty, pretty,” croons a voice like brittle paper.
I flinch as a stooped old woman hobbles straight into my path. She wears a ragged shawl that stinks of mildew and her gray hair is matted and snarled. Her eyes, peering up through the tangles, are milky and clouded, but when they lock on me I feel frozen in place.
Her fingers clamp around my wrist before I can move away. Her skin is cold and papery, but her grip is unbreakable.
“You’re not as you seem, my girl,” she rasps, and then she sings in a low, quavering voice:
“Blood as sweet as summer wine,
Bound to fangs and fate entwined.
Wed to crimson, dark, divine—
The Don of Shadows shall be thine.”
The words slither down my spine and my stomach twists. I rip my hand away like she’s burned me.
“What the hell—?”
But she only cackles, spinning back into the crowd, her shawl flapping like wings.
Whistler watches her go with a grin full of gold teeth.
“Don’t heed her, queenie. Old crones love their rhymes. More truth in ’em than you’d like, eh?”
My pulse pounds in my ears. My brain keeps shouting, Not real, this is not real, but my skin prickles where she touched me.
We keep climbing, and the road finally ends. The tower looms above us—The Crimson Spires. Up close it’s even worse, impossibly huge, its spires stabbing the sky, its blood-red windows glaring down like eyes. The whole thing seems to hum faintly, alive and watching.
Two guards stand at the massive front doors. They look like they walked off the set of a movie about assassins for hire—broad-shouldered and towering, their crimson-and-black uniforms have creases sharp enough to slice flesh. Across their chests gleam silver badges, thorn-wrapped chalices that writhe when I blink.
Their weapons are rifles but not the kind you’d find back home. The barrels glow faintly, pulsing with green inner fire. When one shifts, I see lines of runes etched into the metal. One shot could probably vaporize me.
“Hold there,” one guard grunts, his voice deep as gravel. “State your business.”
Whistler pulls out a gleaming medallion—a silver chalice twined with roses and thorns, drops of crimson glistening as though real blood slides down the cup. The thing moves faintly, as though it’s alive.
“I’m here on the Don’s business,” Whistler says smoothly. “See here—I’ve got his Lordship’s sigil.”
The guard squints, then snorts.
“Huh. Another blood slave, is it? All right then—in you go.”
Blood slave. The words make my stomach plummet.
The doors swing open, spilling golden light into the darkness. I’m surprised it isn’t red but I’ll take it—anything a little more normal is a good thing.
Inside, the lobby looks like an old-world hotel from some Gilded Age dream. Velvet drapes in crimson and black fall heavy over arched windows. Chandeliers drip with ruby crystals. The marble floors gleam with inlaid silver patterns that look suspiciously like veins.
It’s gorgeous…and terrifying.
Whistler pulls me to an elevator, its brass cage etched with roses and thorns. Another guard stands inside, uniform immaculate, weapons gleaming.
“Which floor?” he asks, looking Whistler up and down with an expression of distaste.
My guide doesn’t seem to notice the guard’s disdain.
“All the way to the top, my lad. The Don himself is waiting.” He flashes the medallion again.
The guard nods and presses a button. The elevator lurches and up we go.
The ride feels endless. We go so high my ears pop and everything feels unreal.
Whistler hums tunelessly, utterly unconcerned. I want to scream at him, shake him, ask what the hell is going on—but my throat is locked tight.
Finally—ding. The doors slide open.
The hallway is plush—carpets in crimson and black with silver threads glittering like spiderwebs. Guards line the walls at intervals, each one armed, each one staring with blank, hard eyes. Every time we pass one, I feel smaller… more exposed. I can’t help remembering I’m naked under the elf-girl glamour that Whistler put on me. The realization has my cheeks burning.
We pass checkpoint after checkpoint, Whistler flashing the medallion like it’s a golden ticket and we just won a pass to the Blood factory instead of the Chocolate factory.
At last, we stop before massive double doors. They’re made of heavy black wood engraved all over with roses and thorns in silver. In the center of each is a silver chalice which appears to be filled with blood.