Page 9 of A Dance Macabre

I refresh my glass with more ice from the small bucket on the table, mulling over what he just said. My eyes meet his. “Similar to the six of us. We must have been children the last time we were all in one room together.”

Aleks scoffs but his hazel eyes twinkle with mischief. “Let the fun begin.”

I let out a moan, placing my hand on top of the head bobbing up and down under the table. Biting my lip, I regain some composure. “Speaking of — did you hear about Crèvecoeur?” I ask with a small hiss to my tone.

“Mercy? What about her?” Aleksandr responds while he signals for another vodka bottle for the table.

“Someone wearing my sigil broke into the Grounds last week.”

His eyebrows dip in confusion. “Under whose orders? Yours?”

Irritation spikes. As it always does when on the subject of Mercy Crèvecoeur. “Why would I want anything to do with that brute?” I say through gritted teeth.

Chuckling, he takes a sip of his drink. “My thoughts exactly.” He lets out a small sigh, looking up at the ceiling seeming to think it through. “I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. Pravitians are always a little … unruly before a Lottery.” A savage darkness falls over his eyes. “Something in the air.”

I let his words linger between us before my lips curl into a vicious smile, raising my glass in a toast. “Sunt superis sua iura,”I declare.

Aleksandr snickers, clinking his glass with mine. “Sunt superis sua iura,”he repeats.

6

MERCY

The weather is dreary tonight, the sky darkened by clouds pregnant with rain. If I were fanciful enough to have a favorite kind of weather—this would be it.

The leaves crunch under my booted feet as I wind through the path up to the Crèvecoeur cemetery entrance, located on the north corner of the Grounds, my three Dobermans trotting alongside me.

The cemetery is the only place where my thoughts seem to make sense—the only place where I feel remotely relaxed and at ease. I am drawn to it almost nightly. There is peace in death, and silence is a true friend to where death lies sleeping.

I enter through the arched copper gate turned green with age. It’s permanently open, welcoming a never-ending queue of the dearly departed. Walking onto the consecrated grounds feels like walking through a thick veil. It’s as if the spirits cloak the cemetery with an invisible barrier, and the draining noise of Pravitia is divinely left behind.

The large granite gargoyles guarding the entrance are weather-worn, the forest surrounding the cemetery slowly engulfing them. Like the earth itself grows weary of theseimposing man-made structures and tries to reclaim its rightful place.

Continuing on the overgrown path, my gaze sweeps over the familiar tombstones, some with vines crawling up their facade like venomous snakes, some half-tipped over as if frozen in time and space. I don’t let the groundskeeper upkeep the cemetery much. There is beauty in decay, in letting nature take its course.

Sundae circles my feet, ears perked up, tongue out, while Éclair and Truffles run around the tombstones close by, nipping at each other as they play-fight. I throw a femur far into the cemetery and Sundae bolts, sprinting to fetch it.

Naming the dogs after desserts was never my idea. I practically crawl out of my skin every time I have to utter their imbecilic names aloud. But all three never answered to anything else ever since Constantine brought them to me as puppies.

Housing the dogs was meant to be temporary—a favor for a friend. I never thought I’d keep them forever, but somewhere in the two years I’ve had them, I’ve grown … fond of them.

At the very least, they are much better companions than humans.

Sundae bounds back toward me, the clink of her diamond collar piercing the silence around us as she drops the bone at my feet. Picking it up, I pull my arm back, readying for another throw when I freeze, my arm still up in the air. Nearby, Éclair and Truffles stop in their tracks, pointed ears perked up as if trying to discern what I’m experiencing, while Sundae lets out a low growl at my feet.

I sniff the air, more as a reflex than actually picking up on anything other than the familiar earthy perfume of the Crèvecoeur cemetery. I can still sense it though—the call. The incorporeal sensation entwines itself around me like an invisible paramour.

It’s time.

Back inside thebelly of Pravitia, my momentary sense of peace has been replaced with bone-deep agitation. The traffic, even at this late hour, is a ceaseless drum of noise.

Needing something to do while I wait, I take a clove cigarette out of a thin silver case from my fur coat and light it. The strike of the Zippo echoes in the deserted alley, the flame illuminating the Crèvecoeur sigil—an open hand holding a flame—engraved on its side.

Even with the autumn chill, I’ve kept my coat open, revealing a silk slip dress with quick access to the dagger harnessed around my thigh. I also changed into a specific pair of black stilettos for the occasion. I wouldn’t call myselfsuperstitious, more like … ritualistic.

I have time to stub my cigarette under my pointed toe before the all-consuming feeling comes wafting around me. My eyes sweep the area until my gaze snags on a blonde walking my way. My mouth nearly waters with her approach.

Just a few more steps.

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