A Dance Macabre (Perverse City #1)
1. Mercy
1
MERCY
T he first death I ever experienced was my own.
Ripped out of my mother’s womb by sterile gloved hands and forced to take my first breath into this vile, repulsive world.
I’ve been dying ever since.
We all have.
Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end?
No one ever sees it coming.
This one laying before me certainly didn’t.
“ Gods be damned ,” I mumble under my breath.
Blood is dripping by my heels. I take a small step to my right, avoiding the growing puddle slowly leaking onto the onyx marble floors.
I peevishly eye the body thrown over the metal gurney.
It was a man before it became a lifeless corpse. Now it’s just a worthless amalgamation of skin, muscles, and sinews—soon to become pulverized bones and ashes.
That’ll teach him to try to break into my Grounds and dare to touch my things.
Death, the great teacher.
I wonder if he sensed it.
I wonder if he felt the air shift, the swish of life’s pendulum taking its last majestic swing before my dagger found its home between his ribs. If I were one for whimsy, I’d keep jars full of all the dying breaths I’ve ever had the pleasure to bear witness to. I’m certain they would create a morbidly beautiful symphony, like seeking the sounds of the ocean inside a seashell.
With a sigh, I walk over and turn on the cremator.
The giant stainless steel cube was an eye-sore until I had a custom carved stone covering made for it. Now it matches the muted tones of the room, the dark space, vast in size, but hidden underground.
I value my privacy.
Walking back to the gurney, my eye snags on the flickering candlelight reflecting on the dead man’s signet ring. The sound of my heels echoes as I speed up to reach for his cold hand. The sigil engraved into the gold is a symbol I recognize immediately: A hand, palm facing down, with strings tied and hanging from the tips of the fingers.
I groan out loud, pinching the bridge of my nose.
This is the last thing I need.
I clench my fists, stiletto nails digging into my palm, bristling at the thought of who must be behind this. With impatient jerks, I try to tug the ring off of the man’s pinky finger but it’s stuck. With a huff, I stalk to the drawer full of surgical instruments and pull out an autopsy bone saw, then press the blade to his skin just below the ring, cutting through the bone. Placing the finger to the side, I wheel the body into the cremator, the flames catching onto the clothes in seconds.
I usually take pleasure in watching them burn. I savor death with pride and reverence.
But today, I barely glance at the flames. My mind seethes with irritation as I throw the severed finger into my purse and exit the room, texting Jeremial, my valet, to ready the town car.
The city of Pravitia is bustling with glimmers of life, the stars above overshadowed by a plethora of artificial lights. Thankfully, the town car windows are tinted and soundproof, otherwise I’d also hear the relentless existence of life. Loud, grating, and never ceasing to aggravate me. I’d kill every Pravitian to cross my path if it meant I could seek out a single moment of peace in this damnable city.
From beneath my large fringe-rimmed hat, I barely glance at the passing landscape. I know the curves and corners of every building, every street corner.
This city is my birthright, every death within it belongs to me, and I have no doubt Pravitia will also bear witness to my death.
The vehicle finally stops in front of Vainglory Tower and I roll my eyes, my temper spiking now that we’ve arrived. The building is as gaudy as the man himself. With its gold-trimmed facade, it pierces into the dark sky, flourished with garish statues of long-dead ancestors flanking the entrance.
The car door opens, and Jeremial appears. I’ve never seen him out of a black suit, blond curls framing his face. He offers his hand, assisting me onto the dirty streets. With a defeated sigh, I smooth out my black sheath dress and readjust my leather gloves up my elbows before taking my first step toward the building.
The guards spring up when they see me enter. I don’t bother announcing myself and they know better than to stop me. As I cut through the expansive lobby, with its imposing chandelier hanging above me and elaborate murals depicting the Vainglory family history, I pass a trickle of his most devoted followers exiting the building. My lip lifts in a disdainful snarl.
Peasants.
Thankfully, this must mean I've missed the last of their adoration.
And it means I know exactly where to find the vile creature.
If I had the patience for beauty, I’d describe the Vainglory bathhouse as breathtaking. Rows of Corinthian columns on either side disappear into the water, fresco paintings of intricate celestial depictions sprawl the entire ceiling. Three large chandeliers hang above the body of water, and hundreds of candles line the walls, bathing the room with warm light.
However, the decor is quickly forgotten when my eyes begrudgingly land on a naked lithe body amidst the steamy water. I sneer, my heartbeat rising.
Wolfgang.
Heir to Vainglory Media and its entire god-forsaken fortune.
He faces me, wet brown hair slicked back, tanned arms sprawled out beside him as he leans against the edge of the bath. Luckily, he hasn’t noticed me yet, eyes closed while his head falls backward between his shoulders. Approaching him, I remove my hat and set it down on one of the small tables that I pass, the soft classical music muffling the click of my steps.
When I’m at a close enough distance, I pull out the severed finger that I’ve carelessly shoved into my purse and whip it at his face, hitting him square between the eyes.
That certainly catches his attention.
I find a sliver of satisfaction at seeing that blood from the finger has left a smear on his forehead. He looks ridiculous as he sputters like a dying fish, his gray-blue eyes finally landing on me. His gaze turns cold, as a sneer similar to mine pulls at his lip, revealing a gold canine and incisor to the right of his mouth.
I don’t allow him the pleasure to speak first.
“One of your lackeys broke into the Grounds.”
Silence coils between us like a living, breathing thing.
“Is that an accusation, Crèvecoeur?” he finally drawls, his voice rough with ire.
I cross my arms. “It’s a fact.”
Breaking our stare, his eyes dip to the finger now bobbing in the water in front of him. He retrieves it with only his index and thumb as if genuinely repulsed. I puff out an annoyed breath. It’s not as if he hasn’t touched a dead appendage countless times before. Peering at his family sigil clearly carved on the signet ring, he shrugs and throws the finger over his shoulder. It lands with a thunk against the back wall.
His expression morphs into boredom, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he resumes his relaxed pose, still naked and unbothered, arms outstretched. “I can’t be held responsible for what my employees are caught doing on their own time.” He yawns.
I scoff at his response.
“Oh? And it wouldn’t have anything to do with what’s coming up next month?” My hands land firmly on my hips. “Is this your dimwitted attempt at keeping the peace?”
My anger spikes knowing we’ve been warned to stay civil in the months leading up to the Lottery. That imbecilic rule. I wish I could kill him instead.
His deep laugh is so condescending that my fingers twitch, itching to pull out my dagger and stab him in the eye with it.
“Please,” he says, his eyes lazily sliding to find mine. His grin turns sinister. “Why would I care about your silly little secrets,” he says while his eyelids flutter closed, head tilted back as if dismissing me.
The rage that engulfs me feels like tapping into an ancient bottomless well. I blindly let it dictate my actions like a puppet on strings. It only takes a split second for me to scan the room, noticing his robe draped over a chair nearby. I lurch for it, quickly wrenching the satin belt out of its loops and twisting it around my hands.
Right as he cracks an eye to see what I’m up to, I wrap the sash around his neck from behind, and jam one of my heels between his shoulder blades, pulling him backward. His choked gasp is almost as delicious as the sound of a dying breath. I’ve caught him by surprise, his legs thrashing in the water while his fingers claw at his throat, eyes widening in shock.
I smile down at him, tightening the belt. “I pray when death beckons you home, I am there to witness it,” I rasp tauntingly. He’s choking. It’s beautiful. “I will be the first to dance on your grave.”
Finally getting a finger between the sash and his neck, Wolfgang manages to push one croaked word out of his full lips.
“ Mercy .”