Page 2 of Feast of Fools
The only thing I can properly discern is black hair, sticky with blood, but the face is indistinguishable, cruelly pummeled and macerated—bludgeoned to its very last breath.
I bite down into my palm as tears burn my cheeks, anguish pulsing through my veins as I imagine my own agonizing fate at the hands of one of the ruling families.
They are hardly human. Just a sick, animated rendering of the gods controlling this city.
My mouth fills up with saliva. I’m about to be sick, but I swallow it back down and run as far away as I can from the massacred corpse.
I turn right, then left, the air burning my lungs, my hair matted with sweat. I slow down. Listen. There’s no sign of life, but my body buzzes with the maddening knowledge that I am not alone in this maze. I stumble over a raised root and can’t help but swear under my breath, blindly grasping at the small branches of the hedge as I turn another corner. The hard bark digs into my palms, but I pay it no mind. Not when my mind is racing with all the tormenting possibilities of my eventual capture.
I barely have time to lift my gaze before a hand flies out from the darkness and catches me by the throat. Those mismatched eyes glow like blazing coal.
He found me.
My scream is visceral, the fear unholy, and my first instinct is to try to turn my body away from him. My impulse backfires, and I pitch backward, bringing us both down to the ground with him landing on top of me.
I react like a trapped animal. Thrashing under him, bleating like a dying goat, avoiding his eyes as if they would hold power over me.
His laugh is dark and twisted, a strand of blond hair falling over his forehead, followed by a fewtsks. “Don’t think you can escape me now,” he says, and his voice feels like being dunked into an icy bath.
“Get off me, you monster!” I shriek.
I’m still trying to fight him, even after he’s managed to pin my legs under him and slam my wrists over my head.
His body grows still, and mine does too. My eyes land on him as he tilts his head to the side, sniffing the air before his piercing gaze returns to mine.
“Say that again,” he orders.
I’m momentarily confused, surprised by the change in his demeanor. It’s a fleeting feeling, and soon enough, I renew my attempt to fight him off. “Let me go!” I yell.
His eyes narrow as he lifts a manicured brow while his fingers tighten around my wrists, his many rings digging grooves into my skin. “Who are you?” he says slowly.
My fighting wanes, the confusion returning.
Who am I?
“I — I’m—” I stop, feeling ridiculous that I even considered answering his question, and I begin to struggle under his grasp again. “Let me go!”
His expression falters, and I’m convinced my mind is playing tricks on me—some desperate last wish before he kills me—because he appears to be deliberating.
Then he lets me go. Pushing himself off the ground, he jumps back up onto his feet.
I immediately skitter backward, stunned but nonetheless fearful.
This is a trap. It must be a trap.
For a long pregnant pause, we stare at each other. The sweat beading my forehead turns cold against the night chill. Under his ripped linen shirt, his tattooed chest heaves with rapid breaths. Then, finally, he speaks again, resolve in his tone. “Two rights, one left, and another right.”
I’m stunned, the words taking far too long to sink in.
Is he—is he telling me how to escape?
Impossible. I don’t dare move.
He pouts; it’s mocking but playful, and my terror only intensifies.
With one hand on his hip, he leans closer and flicks his other hand my way. “Run, run, run, little rabbit, before I change my mind,” he singsongs, his lips curling into a bloodcurdling grin.
This can’t be real.
