Page 1 of A Dance Macabre

1

MERCY

The first death I ever experienced was my own.

Ripped out of my mother’s womb by sterile gloved hands and forced to take my first breath into this vile, repulsive world.

I’ve been dying ever since.

We all have.

Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end?

No one ever sees it coming.

This one laying before me certainly didn’t.

“Gods be damned,” I mumble under my breath.

Blood is dripping by my heels. I take a small step to my right, avoiding the growing puddle slowly leaking onto the onyx marble floors.

I peevishly eye the body thrown over the metal gurney.

It was a man before it became a lifeless corpse. Now it’s just a worthless amalgamation of skin, muscles, and sinews—soon to become pulverized bones and ashes.

That’ll teach him to try to break intomyGrounds and dare to touchmythings.

Death, the great teacher.

I wonder if he sensed it.

I wonder if he felt the air shift, theswishof life’s pendulum taking its last majestic swing before my dagger found its home between his ribs. If I were one for whimsy, I’d keep jars full of all the dying breaths I’ve ever had the pleasure to bear witness to. I’m certain they would create a morbidly beautiful symphony, like seeking the sounds of the ocean inside a seashell.

With a sigh, I walk over and turn on the cremator.

The giant stainless steel cube was an eye-sore until I had a custom carved stone covering made for it. Now it matches the muted tones of the room, the dark space, vast in size, but hidden underground.

I value my privacy.

Walking back to the gurney, my eye snags on the flickering candlelight reflecting on the dead man’s signet ring. The sound of my heels echoes as I speed up to reach for his cold hand. The sigil engraved into the gold is a symbol I recognize immediately: A hand, palm facing down, with strings tied and hanging from the tips of the fingers.

I groan out loud, pinching the bridge of my nose.

This is the last thing I need.

I clench my fists, stiletto nails digging into my palm, bristling at the thought of who must be behind this. With impatient jerks, I try to tug the ring off of the man’s pinky finger but it’s stuck. With a huff, I stalk to the drawer full of surgical instruments and pull out an autopsy bone saw, then press the blade to his skin just below the ring, cutting through the bone. Placing the finger to the side, I wheel the body into the cremator, the flames catching onto the clothes in seconds.

I usually take pleasure in watching them burn. I savor death with pride and reverence.

But today, I barely glance at the flames. My mind seethes with irritation as I throw the severed finger into my purse and exit the room, texting Jeremial, my valet, to ready the town car.

The cityof Pravitia is bustling with glimmers of life, the stars above overshadowed by a plethora of artificial lights. Thankfully, the town car windows are tinted and soundproof, otherwise I’d also hear therelentlessexistence of life. Loud, grating, and never ceasing to aggravate me. I’d kill every Pravitian to cross my path if it meant I could seek out a single moment of peace in this damnable city.

From beneath my large fringe-rimmed hat, I barely glance at the passing landscape. I know the curves and corners of every building, every street corner.

This city is my birthright, every death within it belongs to me, and I have no doubt Pravitia will also bear witness to my death.

The vehicle finally stops in front of Vainglory Tower and I roll my eyes, my temper spiking now that we’ve arrived. The building is as gaudy as the man himself. With its gold-trimmed facade, it pierces into the dark sky, flourished with garish statues of long-dead ancestors flanking the entrance.

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