Page 36 of A Dance Macabre

My beloved god of death.

It beckons me now to do its bidding. Inviting me to walk the line between this life and the next, my dagger collecting souls with every bleed of the blade.

It’s been far too long. I haven’t purposely killed since the Lottery—that was over two weeks ago. Warmth settles over me, the promise of death like a calming balm over my frazzled nerves.

A few hours later,I’m back in my rooms, considerably more relaxed and freshly showered. The kill was a little messier than expected. A probable outcome when they struggle. I might have been a tad more aggressive this time too.

I needed the release.

I needed the quiet of a kill.

I came back to Mount Pravitia to change into something a little less gory but plan on visiting the Grounds so I can cremate the corpse.

Still only wearing my velvet bathrobe, I pad out of the ensuite and into my bedchamber. My gaze lands on a vase of black orchids on the small writing desk near the door. I stutter to a stop and study them from afar. They must have been delivered when I was in the shower, most likely because it’s my birthday today.

Not that I celebrate such a thing.

When I step closer, I notice the card attached to it and pick it up to read. My eyes trail over the handwritten note.

It’s signed from Wolfgang. Offering his birthday wishes.

When the words sink in, I fling the card across the room as if it had spontaneously combusted. A swarm of butterflies explodes in my stomach, my heart drumming loudly against my ribcage as blood rushes through my ears. The calm I felt after answering death’s call is now replaced by something closer to an embolism.

Why on earth would he?—

My gaze lands back on the card, now on the floor near the bed.

It’s made out of thick papyrus, dyed red.

I press the heel of my palms into my eyes and groan out loud.

How could I have been so foolish?

Picking the card back up, I inspect it closer.

Constantine. Known to dip her stationary in the blood of her victims.

I ignore the minute pang of disappointment at the realization.

Even the handwriting is hers. I take a quick sniff. It’s perfumed. How did Iever, even for one single moment, think this was from Wolfgang?

I must be losing my fragile grip on the threads of sanity.

Constantine and her pointless pranks. Silly doll, I’ll wring her neck next time I see her.

Not that she’d remotely care. She’d probably enjoy it.

It proves quite hard to intimidate a servant of the god of torture successfully. Especially when she can feel no pain, physically or emotionally.

Letting out a large sigh, I fish my Zippo out of my purse and light the card on fire, dropping it in the empty waste basket near the table.

I need respite from this place. I can’t think straight.

My mind aches for the peace only the Grounds and a walk in the Crèvecoeur cemetery can offer.

Changedinto a long-sleeved corseted dress and black lace gloves, I pass through the drawing room, the dogs following me toward the stairs.

“Heading somewhere, Crèvecoeur?”

---