Page 16 of Property of Mako
This was different, though. I believed they were specifically seeking legacy blood carriers. That sent a jolt of nausea and rage through me.
If that was the case, the rumors that were being whispered were likely more than rumors.
The Crimson Auction was back.
It meant that Lyra was not safe—and she had no idea. It also meant I couldn’t protect her because it would involve giving away the knowledge that I’d inadvertently obtained with my little midnight visit to her bewitching existence.
I finally got a useful tip from a bear shifter named Kess—old, twitchy, and smoked clove cigarettes like they were oxygen.
“You want rumors, fine,” he rasped. “You didn’t hear it from me, D’Aragon. But they say the girls are being held at an undisclosed location until auction night… rumor has it that they already made the initial presentation in the old opera house.”
“Opera house?” I raised a brow.
“Yeah. Hollow’s End on the edge of New Orleans heading toward Red Hollow. Burned out back in ‘91. No one had the desire or the money to rebuild an old opera house in the middle of nowhere.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Some say it’s cursed. Others say it’s the perfect place to sell blood with a melody.” He wiggled his fingers through the air and cackled at his own attempt at a pun.
I’d never seen it, but I’d heard people talk about the historic building that had caught fire and been left to rot. I hadn’t paid enough attention to what the place had been because it hadn’t been important to me then.
“It’s all rumor, though,” he insisted as he chuckled. “No one would be that stupid.”
I didn’t press for more. Instead, I left two vials of nightshade and a blood-coin on the beat-up bar and vanished into the smoke that clouded the rundown bar that Kess frequented.
A quick internet search had revealed the story of when the place caught fire. For some reason, it didn’t have an address listed, though. It took Hack all of five minutes to track down a general location. Online aerial views showed mere glimpses of a structure overgrown by vines, weeds, and trees.
“This is the place,” Hack confirmed as he pointed out several identifying features of the layout.
Dexter, Crypt Keeper, and I took off as soon as we mapped a route and landmarks to look for. We found it after midnight.
After we’d killed our engines, we sat there staring at what remained of the old building.
“You sure it’s safe to walk in there?” Crypt asked as we sat there.
“No, but it’s not like a few crumbling beams can kill us,” I replied with a crooked grin.
He snorted. “Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” Dexter shot out as he got off his bike.
“Fuck you,” Crypt muttered as we all made our way closer to the burned opening on the east side.
We all glanced around once we reached the stone foundation of the opera house.
The place looked like it had crawled out of the earth and begged to be forgotten. Gothic arches, rotting red drapes hanging like flayed skin, statues crumbled into prayer-like poses with their faces missing.
We stepped inside, boots crunching on broken glass, dust, and ash. It held a stench of decay.
But the rot wasn’t the worst part.
It was the music.
We looked at each other as if we were all questioning our sanity.
Faint, off-key notes drifted through the air. A violin, maybe. Something old. Something wrong.
As quietly as we could, we followed it down the ruined corridors until we reached the main auditorium and the stage. The eerie music stopped as if it had accomplished its task.
There, under a dead spotlight, was a massive auction block—polished black obsidian, veined with thin streaks of crimson that pulsed faintly. Rows of velvet seats had been reupholstered in shadow. Chains above the stage hung from the ceiling like chandeliers over a row of about a dozen or so short, obsidian platforms.
And painted on the stage backdrop was the sigil that, despite what I’d uncovered, I’d hoped not to see.
