1. Luna

Chapter 1

Luna

T he alley in front of the bookshop where I work is giving off its usual spooky but quaint vibes. It's dark outside – because it's Cambridge, and the middle of winter, and England is dark pretty much all day at this time of year.

There's a strange kind of mist in the air that's been hanging around the city lately. Creeping in after sunset in a way that reminds me of marshes on the coast instead of the winding streets of a big city.

I open the door and breathe in the crisp evening air. When it's cold out, the shop is either freezing or too hot. All we have are old electric heaters to warm the space – despite the fact I've told my boss via email at least one hundred times that the fluctuating temperature isn't good for the books.

Above me, the shop's glossy black sign swings gently in the breeze. It creaks as it moves, which reminds me of the way my body feels.

Achy.

Protesting under the pressure of even the slightest touch.

This line of thought leads me to the kind of conscious awareness of my pain levels that I try to avoid. Because thinking about pain is even more tiresome than talking about pain.

It starts with noticing that my forearms are sore, then my lower back, my hips, the strange throbbing feeling that seems to embed itself deep in my muscles. All of them. Like I'm recovering from a marathon I never ran.

Rubbing the small of my back, I nudge my glasses further up my nose, then lean against the doorframe and watch as a woman in a beige overcoat and bright red shoes trots down the alleyway toward the market square.

Her heels aren't too tall, but they are tall enough to make me jealous.

I haven't worn heels since before the accident.

I pretend I don't mind – that I'm okay with perpetually being the shortest person in the room – but really, it's hard to feel anything but dowdy when I have to go out wearing flats or trainers.

Steven always told me heels were for other women. Not me. That he couldn't imagine a version of me who wore pointy shoes and danced all night, and he was glad he never met that Luna.

Of course, he was glad; that Luna would never have fallen for his charms. She would never have been so in need of affection and affirmation that she allowed herself to tumble head-first into his web.

Or maybe she would.

Maybe I romanticize that version of myself; the girl who danced all night, snuck out to parties, and felt alive.

Since Steven disappeared, even though it's only been two months, I've seen glimmers of that Luna. But whenever she tries to claw her way to the surface, it seems like the pain swallows her up, bites down on her, keeps her silent and still and scared.

I have a burst of energy.

A bubbling, irrepressible need to move, to flail my limbs, to scream, and shout, and wear big earrings, and bright colors, and high heels .

It lasts a millisecond.

And then his voice creeps in. The fear that he might not really be gone. The sense that he might be lurking just around the corner, watching me. Waiting for me to act out so he can punish me for it.

A shiver runs through me.

I'm ducking back inside, ready to close up for the night, when I hear wheels and the c hug of a moped engine. When I turn around, the delivery driver is waving at me. "Delivery for The Haunted Bookshop," he says loudly.

Yes, I work at a shop called The Haunted Bookshop . No, it's not really haunted. At least, I've never seen any evidence of ghosts.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose as the delivery driver lifts up his visor. My boss has a habit of sending me books he's purchased at auction on an almost weekly basis. Always old, beautiful editions that – while wonderful to look at – will never sell.

I've asked him to slow down, or move us to a bigger shop, but he has so far ignored both requests.

I linger in the doorway. The driver opens the holdall on the back of the moped.

He makes me sign a small tablet with my index finger, then hands me a large box. I wince, anticipating its weight. But it's definitely lighter than the usual packages we receive; perhaps the books inside are paperbacks – or those strange old penny dreadful pamphlets that the boss seems to be obsessed with.

The driver is gone before I can confirm who the package is from.

Usually, as soon as the shops either side of me close and the alley grows quiet, I lock the door. Since Steven disappeared, especially, it has felt prudent to make sure no one can just walk in when my back's turned.

But tonight, because of the box, I forget.

I leave it unlocked, and the sign turned to open , then put the box on the counter and find a knife to slice through the tape on top.

Moving aside the packing, my fingers meet something smooth and hard. I peer inside. A glimpse of dark, coffee-colored wood makes me reach in with both hands.

Using my elbows to knock the cardboard box to the floor, I pull out a smaller wooden one. Glossy wood. Ornate carvings.

I set it down on top of a stack of paperwork.

Something flutters inside me but I'm not sure if it's dread or anticipation and, I swear, the lights flicker as I run my hands over the lid.

It is both smooth and sharp at the same time. There is no lock, but there is a latch. I flip it open and hesitate, fingers on the lip of the lid.

I brush the carvings on top — vines, roses, a moon, and two crucifixes. I can feel my pulse beating in my fingertips, pressing down on the wood, thudding as if the box has a rhythm of its own.

My breath catches in my chest.

My heart is racing.

It is as if the entire world has slowed down, as if something inside this box is calling to a deep, dark part of myself I didn't know existed.

My entire body feels alive. The pain is still there, but it's like a whisper. A memory of pain that I can't latch onto because something else is taking its place.

The lights flicker again.

I lift the lid.

It creaks like the sign outside.

At first, there is darkness. Shadows swell in my vision. I pull the box a little closer, and it makes a strange sound against the papers on the desk. I lift it up. There is a deep red stain grazing the top sheet of paper.

Like scarlet mixed with crimson.

Instead of looking into the box, I look under it. I run my finger along the bottom edge then stare at it.

Deep, velvety redness coats my pale skin. Like I've cut myself, except I haven't. It's not my blood.

The scent tingles in my nose.

I have always been sensitive to the smell of blood; but I have never been squeamish. In fact – and I know this sounds weird – I've always been kind of drawn to it.

As a child, if I grazed my knee or scraped my elbow, I would press my finger to the wound then, when no one was looking, I'd taste the blood. The tang on my tongue would make me feel alive.

I would let it rest there, aware this was not something normal girls did, but enjoying it all the same.

This blood, however, tastes sour. It makes me wrinkle my nose and wipe my hand on my jeans.

The blood continues to drip. Faster now. Some of it falls onto the large, beautiful volume of Unleash The Magick Within that I'd been saving up for. It soaks almost instantly into the pale blue cloth cover.

I still haven't looked into the box.

I should feel afraid, shouldn't I?

A normal person, if they received a package containing a box dripping with blood, would panic. Drop it. Scream and run into the street flailing their arms about.

But I am delaying looking, not because I'm afraid, but because I don't want the anticipation to be over.

The lights flicker again.

My vision darkens at its edges, turning the room into a vignette of itself, with shadows closing in.

I'm shaking now.

Because whatever is inside this box is going to change my life.

I can't explain how I know. I just do.

Finally, I set the box back down, take a deep breath, and peer inside.

The first thing I notice is a soft velvet cushion, which looks like it used to be purple but is now almost black from the blood it has absorbed.

The second thing I notice is what's sitting on top of the cushion; a tangled, bloodied mass of...

Body parts?

The sort of things you find in the back room of a butcher's shop.

Except… human? Human body parts.

I reach in and nudge them.

Told you, not squeamish.

Beneath them, drenched in blood, is a note. I tug it free and try to decipher the blood-soaked handwriting.

Luna,

He cannot hurt you anymore.

Every part of him that ever disrespected you has been removed from his worthless body.

You no longer need to be afraid.

I will always protect you.

It is then, right then, in that moment, as I read the word disrespected, that I realize what they are.

A hand.

A tongue.

An eye.

And…

Oh shit. I know what that is. And, sure, it could belong to anyone. I mean, one penis is pretty much like the next, right? But I know – just know – it is Steven's.

They are all his.

Pieces of him.

His hand. Pinching my arm . Listen to me Luna. Are you listening?

His eye. Steely. Pale blue. Assessing my body with disdain. With hate. Not love.

His tongue. You fat, frigid, pathetic whore.

His cock. You never want it. What's wrong with you?

Bile and vomit rise in my stomach, but then turn to something else.

I reach inside and lift out the hand. I rub at the spot just below the thumb until… there it is. A mole that looks like the number six. I used to wonder why there weren't two more of them.

666.

The devil's numbers.

I drop it back in and place my hands firmly on either side of the box. They are covered in blood and leave dark handprints on the desk.

Laughter fizzes and crackles in my lungs.

He would never have imagined this could happen to him. He would never even have dreamed someone could have this kind of power over him.

But someone has.

Someone took him apart, piece by piece, and they did it for me.

I will always protect you.

All that fear and worry that he was right around the corner about to jump out at me. And the entire time, he's been in bits.

Dismantled.

The way he dismantled me for so many years.

Next, I lift out Steven's tongue. Because of all the things he ever did to me, the things he said, the words he carved in the deepest crevices of my psyche, and which grew deeper, and heavier, turning my soul to blackness – those were the worst.

Looking at it in my palm, I almost expect the tongue to have a pulse. To start lapping at my skin, trying to find its way back to the Steven-shaped body that lies dismembered somewhere in the dark.

I drop the tongue and it lands with a sound that makes me start to shake.

I grip the edge of the counter and try to breathe.

This time, the laughter does turn to vomit. I puke onto the floor. Some of it splashes my shoes.

Who, and how, and why, and when circle in my head, pound against the inside of my skull.

Whatever glimmer of strength and power I felt when I realized Steven was gone has instantaneously morphed into something else.

Fear.

Solidifying like ice in my veins.

What do I do with them?

Do I tell the police?

Everyone thinks Steven left me for the woman he'd been having an affair with. The detectives showed me transcripts of their online chats, texts, his search history, proof that his car had driven up to Scotland then disappeared somewhere in the Highlands.

But he can't have.

Because he is here. In pieces. In my hands.

The eye.

The hand.

They are unmistakably his.

And now they are mine.

But what the fuck do I do with them?