Page 24 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
Blood and screams coated Quinn’s nightmares as she jolted awake.
The Looking Glass had worked extra hard last night, causing nightmare after nightmare after nightmare, all filled with vampires murdering her or terrible mirror consequences. Consequences like her kisses cause men guttural pain. Apparently, that was one of the infamous Harlowe Merriwether’s consequences.
But one thing was certain: the Looking Glass was taunting Quinn.
She was used to these types of rotten dreams, living in the City of Nightmares, but they were still jolting from time to time—especially today. Every morning, Quinn cursed the Royalle House for making their stupid deal with the Looking Glass.
Fuck.
Drums pounded at Quinn’s temples. The world tilted to the side, and Quinnevere Ashelle tumbled out of bed, shaking the dividers of her makeshift bedroom, and falling into the pile of ballet attire.
Quinn and her uncle lived in a humble one-bedroom apartment above the morgue at University Square. Because sharing a room was improper, they converted the living room into acobbled-together bedroom of wall dividers, stacked boxes, and hanging curtains.
It looked far better than one would expect. But then Quinn was a perfectionist, so even under meager circumstances, she would make the room orderly.
She groaned and sat up, and a ribbon stuck to her cheek.
She had landed on the pointe shoes she’d laid out the night before. Even when one partied, it was important to be ready and prepared. Therefore, Quinn always chose her clothing well in advance and neatly laid them out so as not to get wrinkles.
Oh fuck. She was running late again.
Well, at least her birthday had been . . . absolutely, horribly, and gutturally confusing.
Quinn bit her lip, remembering the rite and remembering that mirror consequences awaited her future. At least her lips actually touched his, so she wouldn’t incur the seven years of bad luck. But there were worse results of a mirror deal gone wrong, and she knew in her core that something truly horrific was about to happen.
Especially after Nightshade’s warning.
Quinn stumbled around, hopping on one foot as she tried to dress. It would be the second time that she would run down the streets of New Swansea in a tutu, but at least this time, there’d be no crowd.
Her headache only grew worse throughout the morning, and her body was slow and lethargic. The world swam and tilted on its axis. Two hours into dancing, Quinn felt like her body might give out, but she pushed through it. Athletes didn’t give up, and they certainly never gave in.
The night before was an intense blur. She barely rememberedpartying with her best friends, her jarring rite, and catching Emrys threatening Jane—who was strangely missing from class this morning.
An anchor of unease sank in Quinn’s stomach.
Quinn turned on pointe, trying to keep her dancing accurate and beautiful. It was quite a challenge.
I stayed up too late.
It didn’t matter if Quinn felt like she could throw up from her lack of sleep. She would dance the Captured by Death pas de deux from the balletLover’s Lost. The dance took place in the third act when the main character, Isadora, tragically died in her lover’s arms and was pulled into the underworld by Death. It started with quick bourrée steps to symbolize Isadora running from Death. But eventually, he captured her. The majority of the partner dance was done between Isadora and Death.
The dance was mesmerizing lightning, but for Quinn, it was an exhausting rain. With every move, she felt a pulsating stab in her calf.
A bead of sweat hovered over Quinn’s eyebrow as she spun into a partnered pirouette. Wrecked with fatigue, she measured her arm movements and made her feet move at precisely the right time. But Quinn missed steps—a rarity.
When the music slowed, her partner whispered, “So you’re hungover. I heard you were partying at the Viridian last night.”
Shit. Who else knew that?
She had drunk one—or seven—too many drinks after her deal failed. Quinn groaned and whispered a not-so-pleasant curse back at him. Arthur chuckled and pulled her into a lift.
By the time the dance was almost finished, Quinn had missed her arabesqueseven times, and her lines were wonky from the pain cutting at her leg.
I will never party again. Or challenge another mirror.
The morning passed like wildfire. Quick and destructive. Quinn danced for three hours before meeting her uncle in the morgue.
Stepping into the lab, Quinn placed her pack down before walking over to meet her uncle, who examined a corpse.
