Page 142 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
All of them displayed the image of a hulking, shirtless male. Loose black pants dipped low across his waist, held in place by a knotted belt. His broad chest was chiseled and ripped, laced with corded muscle and throbbing veins. Inky tattoos of skulls, lost souls, and monsters she couldn’t name crawled up his arms and over his torso. He stood with his arms crossed, intimidating and monstrous, but perhaps what Everinne found the most unsettling was the giant animal skull he wore on his head. It reminded her of a wolf, yet ivory antlers sprouted from the skull, the tips of them blackened like they’d been rubbed with soot and ash. Beams of crimson and deep gold light spilled across the stage, dousing them in the hues of a blood moon.
A roar of discourse sounded from the audience.
“Dance!”
“Do something!”
The heckles startled Everinne, and she tore her gaze away from the alarming male, carefully guiding herself instantly into a series of delicate steps, mindful of the daggers attached to her shoes. Each movement was a precarious balancing act as she let her arms float through the air, while her fingers pretended to weave the wind. She bent at the waist, swooping low while the music led her on a breathtaking journey of the dark and depraved. Her back arched with the dramatic notes, and she extended her arms, gradually unfurling them like wilted flowers desperate for sunlight. With painstaking slowness, she twirled once, the dull thump of the daggers digging into the stagesending pinpricks of apprehension needling up her spine. Her toes throbbed and her calves burned.
She spun once more, a little faster this time to the swell of a woeful melody, when a hand slid around her waist.
Panic shot through her as she came face to face with the male wearing the wolf skull.
He dragged her close, not caring as the sharp blades grated across the stage floor. His grip was fierce when he snared her wrist, inserting himself into the dance with her. She dared a furious glance up at him, and in the gaping sockets of the skull, she caught a glimpse of golden, honey-colored eyes.
“Jarek,” she hissed.
“And here I thought you’d be pleased to see me.” He grabbed her leg and hiked it up, then stepped into her space, forcing her to bend away from as he dipped her. “You need a partner for the Dance of the Macabre.”
“The what?” she snapped as he righted her with ease, his fingers digging into her waist as he kept her pressed tightly against him.
“It’s a seductively morbid dance based on an archaic fairytale,” he explained, coaxing her into a series of spins and turns that sent her toppling toward the edge of the stage, only for him to haul her back into his powerful hold. “The story is about a ballerina who ran off into the wicked wood to escape her betrothed. But she soon finds herself lost and in the company of none other than Raum, the demon of the night.”
Everinne’s mind whirled as the story unfolded around her, as each pivot in his arms left her lightheaded and weak, until she could do nothing but follow his lead.
“Foolishly,” he continued, cupping the back of Everinne’s knee and locking it around his waist, “the beautiful ballerina made a deal with the demon.”
Jarek positioned his hand at the small of her back while the other was fused snugly to her thigh, certain to leave bruises. “Raum claimed he would free her of her impending martial vows on the condition that she promised him a dance.”
His nefarious chuckle caused her skin to pebble with goosebumps. She shivered, and he leaned forward, the rough bone of the skull grazing her cheek.
“The problem, you see, is that the ballerina failed to declare a length of time. So, Raum forced her to dance for an eternity. Sometimes she danced alone in the wicked wood, other times he joined her.” Jarek’s fingers dug into her flesh, sending a spike of fear into her heart. His intentions were clear. “Either way, she became his puppet, dancing only for him until her feet bled, until her bones grew weak and weary, until her heart gave out.”
Everinne shrank back, tried to untangle herself from his arms, but his touch was like cold iron. Deadly. Lethal. “And I suppose he made her dance with daggers strapped to her shoes as well?”
Another low, menacing laugh. “No, pet, that was my own personal preference.”
“Bastard.” She bit the word off, planting her hands against his chest in an effort to shove away from him, but he snatched her wrists and lifted her arms over her head.
The fangs of the wolf skull gleamed like polished ivory, and for one terrifying moment, she thought he intended to bite her. But then he twirled her, forcing her into spin after spin so the colors of the Mystic Obscura bled together, the cheers of the audience became a painful thrum in her ears, and her thoughts muddled together, leaving her confused and disoriented.
“You will become my puppet, Everinne.” Jarek’s threatening promise whispered past her as her legs began to wobble and the quickening twirls disoriented her so she collapsed into his waiting arms. “Mine to own. Mine to possess.”
“N-no…” she mumbled. Everything around her was incoherent. The lights. The music. All of it was a messy blur of sound and color. Only his words were clear, and they struck a chord of terror in her heart. “Not you. Never you.”
“Yes,” he crooned, turning her away from him.
He captured her waist and hoisted her over his head. Everinne’s back bowed instantly to avoid being stabbed by the horns protruding from the skull as his words drifted up to her. Tingles of painful demonic energy crackled around her body, jarring her so she extended one leg straight up, coercing her to hold a beautifully broken pose.
She was the ballerina. He was the demon of the night.
A tear of determination slid down her cheek.
Everinne wouldnotlet him win.
But Jarek’s final words reached her over the raucous applause, and her confidence faltered.
“I will be the one to haunt your dreams now.”
