Page 55 of Mostly Shattered

“The last time I transported a conscious human, they vomited on me.”

“Then I’ll pay for your dry cleaning,” I quip.

He looks annoyed. “What other rules?”

That was the only one I was thinking of when I started my little speech. Still, I want to delay fate. The fear in my chest is coming out argumentatively. “No vampire tricks. No wordplay or loopholes. You’re to do nothing that will take away my freewill to think and move for myself.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

“And no abandoning me underground,” I look at the mausoleum. It looks different from the night before. A greenish glow illuminates the edges as a colored spotlight hits it from behind. As if being in the graveyard wasn’t scary enough, they needed to add special effects.

I’m keenly aware of where we are. The graveyard feels alive with a kind of dark energy. The weathered tombstones are crooked, as if the earth beneath them has been restless for centuries. Fog rollsthrough the narrow pathways between the graves, clinging to the ground like it doesn’t dare rise any higher. Overhead, the moon hangs low, casting long, eerie shadows stretching toward the mausoleum like ghostly fingers.

Small, flickering orbs of light dart between the gravestones—spirits, maybe, or some other supernatural energy. The air here is thick and presses down on us, weighing heavily on my chest with every breath. Even the statues appear to be watching—the angel with a chipped hand and hollow eyes, gargoyles frozen in time always appearing one blink away from life.

Ahead, the mausoleum looms. I prefer to think of them as mausoleums instead of crypts. Crypt sounds so final. Mausoleum sounds more formal and less intimidating, like a museum. Its gothic spires and ornate carvings stand like a sentinel over the underworld it guards. The greenish glow from behind it pulses faintly and becomes brighter, casting an otherworldly light around the entrance. If the carved spirits in the black stone are any indication, there’s no mistaking that many things ancient and dangerous wait beneath.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“And no making fun of me if I get nervous. No stupid human jokes. And you have to stop calling me castoff.”

“You’re stalling,” he states.

He’s right. Damn him.

“Fine. I hear your terms,” he mutters with a gesture of his hand toward the mausoleum entrance. “May we go?”

I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more behind Costin’s calm insistence. His eyes—those swirling, ancient eyes—look at me with a depth I can’t translate. Am I more than just a pawn in his prophecy?

No. He wouldn’t be here if my grandfather hadn’t made him promise.

Panic overtakes me. My head churns with rapid thoughts.

I’m a mortal girl tangled up in something far bigger than me. Costin talks about the prophecy like it’s inevitable, like I’m destined to be dragged deeper into a world I’ve fought so hard to stay out of. I don’t want to go underground. I don’t want to meet monsters or trolls or whatever else lurks in those tunnels.

But it’s Costin who scares me the most. Not his power or his vampiric strength. No, it’s the way he makes me feel. The way I catch myself wanting to trust him—wanting him to be the one who protects me from all this supernatural chaos. And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.

I can’t let myself get close to him. At the end ofthe day, there is no denying that he’s a monster. And worse—his prophecy is unraveling everything I thought I knew about my human life.

I stare at the mausoleum, trying to make myself braver than I am. It’s one thing to imagine an abstract story in a book, but another to face the beginning of that tale in person. I can only imagine the dangers that lurk behind those gothic walls, knowing that they’re so much more than I can dream up. As a mortal, it will never be safe for me there—let alone a mortal meddling in things I should have no part of.

I touch my pocket where the amulet waits to be repaired. A sense of guilt comes over me when I think of Paul, though I know I have no reason for it. That was a different life, and I’m only torturing myself. I have every right to live mine in the here and now.

I’m selfish. I don’t want to die. I’m not a hero. I open my mouth to tell Costin I can’t do it.

I think of the rivers of lava. If just reading about the prophecy could feel so real that it sends me to witness the apocalypse, what will going into the mausoleum do?

I look around the murky shadows of the graveyard. The white moths circle the lamps, bumping into the glass while attempting to reach the gas flames inside. I feel a kinship to thosepoor creatures, bumbling stupidly as I seek entrance into a place I should not go. Just as the illustration foretold, will there be fire waiting to consume me inside the mausoleum?

“Does it have to be this place?” Nothing in the book said to come here. I want an excuse to leave.

“There is a troll who lives here that is friendlier than others.” He places his hand on the small of my back, trying to make me walk. “We could travel to Europe, journey long nights across the rocky terrains until we reach the mountain colony. Even if they do grant us an audience, I worry there is not enough time to convince them to assist us. They could just as easily boil you in a stew rather than help.”

Why do paranormal creatures enjoy eating humans so much?

The book said I would see a sign.

Well, actually it said something pretentiously asinine like,“When the destined soul beholds these words, omens shall guide their way to the realm of prosperity.”

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