Page 7 of Poison Nights & Twilight Alchemy

She was buried alive.

Cornelius had done this. He had poisoned her with … hemlock, yes. There was no mistaking its grassy-lemon-dirt flavor, even beneath the sweet lavender and heaps of sugar he’d added to the tea. Dulce had been so overwhelmed by the upcoming wedding that taking her daily dose of poisonous berries or teas wasn’t as consistent.

Alchemy was something she’d once cherished, yet she hadn’t performed any spells since her mother’s death three years before and had only kept up the tradition of eating poison berries and drinking toxic teas. Being a common witch had been a side of herself she’d let die with her mother, a side that ached to live again now. However, there was no spell she knew that would breakher from this coffin. Without proper ingredients, that was. Which she didn’t have at the moment.

How could she have been so foolish as to think Cornelius an honorable man, to judge him so wrongly? How could she not have seen the deception in his heart? If the bastard even had a heart.

If her mother were alive, she would’ve warned Dulce about him, with his slimy, over-the-top gentlemanly behaviors and simpering, false kindness. Dulce had been so blind. An utter and complete fool. Cornelius had barely even kissed her a handful of times, and she believed him to be in love. Most men would’ve tried to unfasten her dress when they’d been alone, to kiss her passionately in the gardens. But she had assumed he’d held her in too high of esteem and had wanted to wait for their wedding night.

This never would’ve happened if she hadn’t believed he was to be her true love after Vesta’s fortune. The tea leaves had to have been meant for someone else entirely—Vesta’s readings were never wrong.

The scent of earth caressed her senses, and horror churned within her. She was truly underground! Buried. Believed dead. Did Cornelius know she was still alive when he’d had her buried? Was he laughing right now, imagining her slowly suffocating to death?

The vile snake. He had never wanted her.

Dulce padded her hands around the coffin, searching the darkness. There was nothing useful buried with her. Only a silk pillow and what felt like a mountain of petunias. Petunias fromhergarden.

She still wore her wedding gown, her pearls that Cornelius had so lovingly placed around her neck beforethe entire town, and the family ring on her middle finger. The ribbons in her hair she wanted to strangle him with. Dulce imagined him artfully crying as his new bride was laid to rest, the villagers offering him their heartfelt sympathy, and she seethed with fury.

A low growl escaped her, and she squeezed the clump of flowers resting against her chest until the petals were crushed. If Dulce’s mother hadn’t helped her become immune to poisons, she would’ve surely been dead instead of falling into unconsciousness for … how long? Her estimation was three days based on the strength of the poisonous flower.

What if Cornelius had decided to murder her in a different manner? She wouldn’t have woken from a rope around her throat or a blade in the heart. No, the ruthless serpent wanted to end her life in a manner that would leave him blameless. Oh, how sad Vesta and Sylvan must have been…

Cornelius would pay for this. Dulce vowed to make certain of it.

If she ever got out of this grave, that was...

Dulce pressed her palms against the coffin’s lid and pushed with all her might, but to no avail. No rope had been fastened near her hands so she could pull on it to ring a bell and alert someone that she was alive below ground, like she’d read about in grim poems. Was she buried where Sylvan or the others would hear her?

She was truly trapped.

With each passing second, Dulce realized she wouldn’t live long. Not with the air inside her coffin running out.

Perhaps a blade to the heart would’ve been moremerciful after all.

Dulce refused to shed a single tear for her failed marriage and the bastard who had deceived her while she pounded against the dreadful coffin, hoping against hope that someone would hear and help her. She pounded until her fists ached with bloodied bruises. Until exhaustion and thirst swept over her as the air thinned and her strength waned.

No longer could Dulce fight against her eyelids closing, and when she finally gave in to sleep, she swore she heard digging, felt the jarring impact of a metal shovel against her prison.

Dreaming of an impossible escape, even as she surrendered to death…

CHAPTER FOUR

REED

If the drunks at Dankworth’s were to be believed, graverobbing wasn’t a crime, but rather an art form. There were rules to obey, procedures to follow, and details to observe. The most sacred of which was: one must never, ever visit a grave sooner than nine days after burial. Nine to symbolize the nine months the dead grew before birth, nine to remember life renewed. Also, the time of offerings—bread, water, and lighted lamp to welcome departed souls back to earth for the night—would be over, which clearly indicated the graverobbers’ welcome.

Reed had never been able to ascertain what exactlywould happen if this rule was broken, but it was clearly something very unpleasant. He guessed it involved curses, bad luck, and probably death by haunting.

Three things he fortunately didn’t believe in.

The first and most unbreakable rule established, the drunk would move on with his lesson.Once a grave is selected, he would explain, certain precautions had to be taken.First, make sure to tie a black ribbon around your arm in a display of mourning. This shows any watching spirits that you have respect and gratitude for what you’ll take.

Secondly, and very important no matter how squeamish you might feel about it, kiss the forehead of the deceased the instant you see them. This will ensure they don’t haunt your dreams.

Reed thought if a person was squeamish, they should take up another line of work, one that didn’t involve rotting corpses. He discovered pointing this out usually enraged the drunks, however, and let them ramble on about technique instead.

A body snatcher only needed a pointed spade and a ‘resurrectionist cane’—a four-foot iron bar with a hook at one end—a tool easily hidden beneath a cloak. This was perfect for cracking open the head end of the coffin, attaching the sharp end beneath the dead’s chin, and pulling them out. A single body would fetch a pretty price if one knew the right physician to sell them to…

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