Chapter 39

I’m escorted down a vast hallway of roughly hewn stone, gray like the robes from my nightmares.

Every step is coddled by a clanking cage of synchronized guards, each adorned in a glinting shell of golden armor. I doubt there’s much that could penetrate the wall of metal and brawn surrounding me from all angles. Seems a bit of an overkill since the hall is empty aside from us—the majority of the palace’s servants celebrating in the streets with the people of Parith, shooting their pretty light show from the esplanade, getting drunk and high and singing their merry tunes.

The muffled sound of a thudding drum continues to call us forward, strengthening with every step I take, beating in rhythm with my languid heart. I know I should be nervous. That somewhere deep below the layers of shiny defense I’ve stacked inside myself, I’m just a small, frightened girl who wants to curl up beneath the bed and hide.

But fear is a luxury I can no longer afford—not for myself.

I slather more layers upon the crystal dome that’s keeping me tame. Keeping me from thinking too much.

Feeling too much.

We reach the end of the hall, and the front guards peel away, revealing a pair of large granite doors flanked by two robed Shulák who dip their heads and bow.

I cringe inwardly. There’s not one single part of me that wants their respect, and if I wasn’t so busy stuffing everything down, I’d probably say as much.

I smooth another layer of light upon my rumbling dome.

The doors are pulled wide, releasing a roll of thick, white smoke that spills across the floor, cloying around my ankles like insipid vines riddled with iridescent sparkles. I frown, crouching. Wafting some up against my face to smell it.

“Orlaith,” Kolden hisses, reaching out as if to grab my wrist and drag me away, before his gaze darts to the other guards. He clears his throat, resuming his position while the breath tingles down my throat, all the way to the bottom of my lungs.

This warm, gooey feeling unfurls within me.

Strange.

I look at the smoke again, so caught up in the glimmery, seductive swirl that the next volley of drumbeats has my stare snapping up.

I suck a sharp breath.

The massive square chamber ahead … It’s odd.

Flaming wall sconces are bolted to the lofty walls containing an ocean of heavy smoke stretched before us, freckled with specks of color that catch on the orange firelight spilling across the expanse. Every now and then there’s a riot of undulating motion that makes the smoke tide, revealing a flash of flesh or a whip of honey-colored hair.

The thick musk of sweat, spice, and sex shoves me full of seedy promises with every hoarse inhale. And the sounds—the deep, desperate grunts and high-pitched cries of passion … They settle inside me like a flush of tepid blooms unfurling from their coiled constraints.

It reminds me of a forest nymph’s lair, except all the action is caught beneath that sea of smoke. I doubt they can even see what they’re doing. Who they’re touching.

Round, flat rocks sit just above the surface of the heavy smog like stepping stones, dotting a path through the middle to a pair of stone doors bracketed by two more Shulák.

My curiosity peaks as the spilling atmosphere tangles with my hair and licks shivers across my skin. Kisses a line down the ladder of my spine. It tweaks my nipples and makes my body feel warm. Tingly.

A little more … free.

“What is this place?” My voice sounds funny. Sultry, even.

I’m not sure why.

One of the Shulák lifts a cloth to his mouth, then follows a swooping trail of steps down into the smoke and disappears from sight, the other turning his attention to me. “The Pit of Impurity. The Impurists are doing the act for which they were branded. Ten have been chosen at random to redeem their soiled souls by becoming a Vessel of the Gods. The utmost privilege.”

“Oh.”

That makes no sense.

Kolden nudges my foot with his boot, and I look at him—a pillar of fortitude staked at my side.

Don’t breathe more,he mouths.

I frown.

That’s hardly good advice.

I’m about to tell him exactly that when the Shulák scales the staircase, rising free of the vapor that wafts off him. He leads a naked woman by the hand until she’s standing beside me—blue eyes glazed, nipples peaked, cheeks as flushed as her lips that are smudged in sparkly stuff. Her hair is a tumble of creamy curls that fall well below her pert bum.

She reminds me of … someone. But I think that someone had different colored eyes. A friend, I think? Her name’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite pin it down.

It keeps wriggling further away.

“This is where your escorts leave you,” one of the Shulák announces, taking my hand and easing me forward. “You—a Paragon of Purity advocated by the Gods—will now cross the Path of Athandon, walking above the Impurists who have failed to gain passage into Mala this eve.”

Failed to gain—

Huh?

I look over my shoulder, catching a final glimpse of Kolden’s furrowed brow before the doors snip shut with a thud of finality that feels significant.

I think.

Maybe it’s not significant at all?

I nuzzle into that heat still nesting in my lungs and decide on the latter.

Our hosts gesture us forward with sweeps of their robed arms, and I realize they mean for us to jump from one stone to the next until we reach the doors on the other side. Unsure how the woman next to me is going to manage that in her current state, I hitch the hem of my decorative sheath, take her by the hand, and lead her across the treacherous terrain.

We kick up swirls of smoke with every leap, something heavy thumping against my ankle with each frolicking bound, the girl’s giggles a tinkling echo that patters upon my skin—like this is a merry game of hopscotch.

Perhaps it is?

“Wait!”

The girl pulls her hand from mine, and I peek over my shoulder to see her crouching, eyes sparkling with mischief. Her hair hangs forward, revealing long marks on her back that are raised and red and look like they hurt.

This big, shiny thing deep inside me rattles.

Strange.

She scoops up some of the smoke and blows it toward me like she’s trying to spur a fog-fight. It wafts against my face like a pleasant splash of frothy water.

I smile, her infectious joy warming my blood into a bubbling rush.

We leap from stone to stone, pausing here and there to splash each other with smoke. I realize I’m laughing, too.

This is fun. I like this place.

Why did I not want to come here?

And what is this floaty white stuff? It smells like sexy things. Makes me want to feel the way this woman looks.

Captivating and free.

She wafts more smoke at me, and it slips down my throat like a cool, crisp drink, then settles in my lungs with a comforting heaviness that pops and crackles.

I giggle again, certain I’m floating on winged feet.

We leap onto a podium, and two robed people pull some stone doors open. A warm breeze nips at my skin as we jog up a flight of stairs that seems to cut through the sky before wrapping around the outside of a stone tower.

We sing to the stars and the wind and the sound of heaving waves below as we frolic up the stairs that curl round and round.

I like these stairs. I think they will lead me somewhere safe and sunny, but I’m not sure why.

Stopping, I look down, back the way we came …

The girl tugs my hand. “Come on!”

“I want to count them.”

“Next time.” She giggles, giving me another tug. “We’re almost at the top! I want to fly to the stars with you!”

That sounds nice.

I smile and chase her round and round some more. We spill onto a big circular stage that’s supporting a ring of high towers, each carved with strange words. I look up, seeking their tapered tips, my mouth popping open in wonderment when I see how close we are to the moon—huge and silver and beautiful, painting my upturned face in a pour of fresh light that ignites every cell in my body.

I want to dance naked for it. To drag my fingers through my hair and cup my heavy breasts. I want to climb onto all fours and bay to it like an animal full of nothing but rich, primal, wanting sounds squirming up my throat.

“This is a wonderland!”

My words echo …

echo …

echo …

The woman giggles and tugs me into a spin, and we twirl for the moon, her creamy hair like liquid silver beneath those rays of light.

I’m not sure why that makes my chest hurt.

I stare at that silver moon again as somebody tugs me sideways—

I land on my knees on a large, soft pillow, and my stare levels with a pair of blue eyes.

The man before me has hair the color of a tumbleweed, the tousled tips brushing broad, bare, muscular shoulders. Pretty gray words are painted down the sides of his neck, over his chest and chiseled stomach where they disappear beneath the waistband of his pants.

I savor the words. Part of me even wants to touch them. But there’s something wrong with them. As though they’re in the wrong place …

Or something.

He’s a beautiful man, but my body doesn’t respond to him like it did the moans and the smells and the deep, throaty grunts.

Like it does the silver moon.

Why am I here with this man I don’t know in this place that is so very strange?

My mind squeezes, like a muscle trying to contract. I’m certain if I squeeze it hard enough this will all make sense again.

“Petal,” the man says on a throaty laugh. “It’s hit you hard, hasn’t it? I can barely see the purple in your eyes. We’ll have to build up your immunity.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. Who is this petal? I don’t think that’s me.

Hearing it doesn’t make me feel good.

Somebody begins speaking strange words that make no sense, and I look up at a robed woman with long hair bound in a very tidy braid, her eyes such a pretty blend of purple and blue—though I don’t like the way they’re looking at me.

I don’t think that woman likes me very much.

Kneeling before her is the naked woman I danced beneath the moon with, her kind eyes staring right at me.

She giggles.

Such an infectious sound.

A glint of something long and sharp catches my attention, and a splash of warmth hits my face. Dark liquid pours from a line drawn across her throat, down her breasts.

Frowning, I look at her eyes, but they don’t see me anymore.

She’s no longer giggling. Instead, her mouth is gaping.

Some of that dark liquid is collected in a bowl, and more robed people close in to carry the girl away, leaving a trail of wet splats that make me frown. I try to squeeze my mind again, but I just can’t squeeze it hard enough.

I try it from a different angle. Nothing.

I thought this was a wonderland … Now I’m not so sure.

Think.

Think …

I look at the man before me.

He tilts his head to the side, the blue in his eyes giving way to more and more black. “Is this the first time you’ve seen a sacrifice?”

I don’t know what that is.

“Maybe not?”

That seems like a good answer—halfway between a yes and a no.

Just as confused as I am.

He makes a low humming sound. “They’re done to appease the Gods. Mainly Kvath, Jakar, and Bjorn—who created the universe with the convergence of their mighty powers. Death, blood, and a balanced number of sacrifices for a fruitful coupling.”

I frown, not certain I want any of this fruit he speaks of. His words don’t chime like the girl’s giggles.

They don’t make me feel happy inside.

I crane my neck, trying to see where she went as the woman in the robe says more words that mean less and less.

The man before me dips his fingers into the bowl of dark liquid, painting the slippery substance upon the stone bangle around my wrist as he looks into my eyes—something possessive in his stare that makes me feel strange.

“Tonight, the Gods will pierce the veil between our realms to witness me pierce the veil between our bodies. Tonight, I claim you before them—as mine. Forever.”

I frown, not so certain I want this veil to be pierced. It sounds painful.

Unpleasant.

He takes my hand and dips my fingers into the wet stuff, too. Like a puppet on a string, he coaxes me to paint his stone bangle while I’m told to repeat things:

“Tonight, we will open the veil to the Gods while I open my body to this man, surrendering my blood and binding us for eternity.”

I don’t like the way the words taste. How they feel in my mouth. I want to take them back.

My wrist is grabbed real tight, forcing my hand to flatten. Something sharp is dragged along it, drawing a line of sting that makes something big and sparkly and smooth inside me shake.

Shake.

Shake.

The man clasps my hand in his, and his own is wet and warm.

I squeeze my mind so hard I’m certain I’m making a mess of it, turning it into a mangled lump while I try to force its juices free.

Think!

My hurt is bound in a strip of material, and the man helps me to my feet. I’m led between two of the towers and over a line of those pretty scripted words painted with something red and wet I’m told not to smudge.

I’m not sure I wanted to touch it, anyway.

We step into a large, shallow dip the same shape as the moon above us. It’s smothered in white pillows that look soft as clouds. There’s white blankets and white rugs and more white pillows I keep tripping over because I can’t stop staring up.

The moon is so big and bright and silver. It sits perfectly against the bold sky.

I love it.

I want to touch it, catch it, pull it close to my chest.

Why am I here? I should be up there …

I trip on another pillow, but the man has me by the arm. Laughing, he lowers me to my knees, then leans close to my ear. “They’re going to summon the Gods now to witness our coupling.”

Coupling.

Coupling.

Coupling …

I don’t know what that is, but I don’t think it’s something I want to do. I just want to sit here and stare at the moon. Picture what it would feel like if I could drag my finger across it. Would clumps of silver come away under my fingernails? Or perhaps it would shave off in curls? Maybe it wouldn’t be hard at all but a wet paint I could smear all over myself?

I think I would like that.

More weird chanting of words I don’t understand, and I look around, seeing many robed people standing between the towers.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

I frown, feeling each strange sound pat my skin, becoming more insistent with each repetition … as though they’re trying to tell me something.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

The man on his knees before me is looking at me funny, holding my hands real tight. “Are you okay, petal? You’ve gone very pale.”

His words are so soft and squishy compared to the ones being chanted. Perhaps it’s the repetition that’s making me look at them harder. Making me examine them from their infinite angles.

No …

It’s something I can taste on the air. Something that reaches beyond the bounds of my mind, like they’re ancient. Otherworldly.

Like they were hewn from a faraway star.

The words grow heavier the more they’re stacked upon each other, building a static tower that feels as though it’s reaching for the moon.

Beyond.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

A warm, prickly current wiggles beneath my skin and makes me shudder, seeming to wrap around … my shoulder? My neck?

Deeper?

It tugs, tugs, tugs—like trying to yank a worm from the soil.

A sharp whistle flares to life, drilling into my ears. I want to clap my hands over them and block out the sound, but I can’t because the man’s got them caught. Just like this thing caught on my collarbone, like I’m on the end of a line.

“What’s that ringing sound?”

The man frowns, looking at me even funnier than he was before. “There is no ringing sound, Orlaith.”

I don’t think that’s my name …

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

The sound raises a pitch—or ten—and my vision goes wobbly, like something inside me is trying to shake loose. The pain in my ears grows until my right one feels hot, my eardrum swelling with a pulsing pressure that’s buckling. Like my entire skeleton is trying to shuck its skin and worm through my right ear.

I rip my hand free and use it to cup the hurt, blocking the teeny, tiny exit, features twisting as the hazy fog draped across my brain seems to suction out of the hole like sand flowing through an hourglass. My ear pops, like when I dive too deep without equalizing, and whatever was trying to worm out snaps back into place so hard and fast only the man holding onto my hand keeps me from whipping sideways.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

Things bead back to me like fat raindrops wetting the sun-scorched soil …

Coupling ceremony.

Promises.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

My mental focus sharpens the image of the man holding me steady, frowning. “Are you okay?”

Cainon.

Poisonous lips.

“Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei. Vliagh, ashten de na, malika nei—”

Him … gone.

The last one is not a drop at all, but a drenching.

A drowning.

My squishy mind hardens to full, devastating focus, like I’ve just been picked up out of one place and dropped into another. I have no idea which way is north. How long it’s been since those doors closed on Kolden.

I have no idea where the girl went—the one I danced beneath the moon with.

But Cainon and I, we’re kneeling on a massive bed of white pillows and throws, and that can only mean one thing …

Panic riots through me as I check my dome, finding it strong and secure, relief almost crumbling me, though I paint another layer atop it just to be certain. “I’m fine,” I lie, giving him a sweet, poisonous smile.

The chanting stops.

An eerie silence befalls us. So quiet, I can hear the constant workings of my body: the snap of a blink; the whoosh of my heart squeezing; the way my lungs squish with every breath I pull.

Something cool I cannot see or smell brushes against my face, leaving a prickly trail that makes my heart skip a beat I’m certain everybody can hear.

I look up into Cainon’s eyes, a rumbling sound boiling in his chest like a greedy promise.

Poisonous lips.

My gaze is drawn sideways, to where the High Septum and each of the robed Shulák are filing out between two of the towers, disappearing through the curtain.

“Where are they going?” My voice is too loud, screaming even though the words were whispered.

“The palace sky roof. They’ll bow before the moon until it sinks,” Cainon says, taking on that deeper tone he gets when he’s hungry.

For me.

Poisonous lips.

“They’ve left us alone to consummate before the Gods.”

Frowning, I follow the direction he’s pointing.

All the breath leaves my lungs, the sight making me feel like something just shoved its arm down my throat, gripped my guts, and tore them free.

Oh my …

No.

No-no-no …

The beautiful, happy woman I led across the stepping stones is nailed to one of the spires, blood spilling down her naked body, her chest cleaved with special instruments that bare her vacant cavity.

She’s still, like a broken doll pinned against the wall, and …

She’s watching me.

But her eyes don’t appear like they did before. The now-golden orbs dazzle in the moonlight like blazing suns. Just looking at them makes me want to scrunch my lids and hide from the radiant glare.

I wrestle the urge to vomit and rip my stare from the sight. Look to the next.

Regret it instantly.

Another woman—this one with shorter hair and more voluptuous curves—is presented in the same macabre way. Her wide, seeing eyes are like fog caught in a ball, swirling so fast they make my head spin.

My blood curdles, heart pounding hard to slush it through my veins as I close my eyes and breathe …

Breathe …

What the fuck is this?

What.

The.

Fuck.

My morbid curiosity gnaws through its chains and takes another bite of the scene.

Blood-red irises and black, slitted pupils stare out at me from the next unlucky victim of this mass slaying—a thin man with long hair and spindly hands hammered to the stone. But those eyes are anything but dead, and they’re looking at me like I’m prey; a piercing stare that makes it feel as though there’s something wrapped around my throat.

Tightening.

That voice inside screams for me to run.

Another icy trail breezes across my lips. A phantom touch—so safe and familiar I want to lean into it. To tuck beneath it and hidefrom this living nightmare.

I look over Cainon’s shoulder to a broad man tacked to the stone, his head pinned upright by nails hammered beside his ears. His ribs are splayed, baring another chest cavity. No heart, lungs, intestines.

Empty.

But his eyes—they’re a swirl of quicksilver sprinkled with stars that would bring me to my knees if I weren’t already here.

They’re the opposite to the hollow insides, churning with so much violence the waves ripple through the space between us, splashing against my chest to the beat of my thundering heart.

And they’re looking right at me.