City of Snakes (Legends of Henosis #2)

Prologue

Lark

T he glass marble rolled down the palace hall and veered left, slipping beneath the door Mama always told me never to open.

“Shucks!” The only frustrated expression Mama allowed me to say burst out of me. I slid my fingers under the door for my precious marble—it was my favorite from the set that my cousin had gifted me. Inside the glass, the thread of silver and royal blue reminded me of a waterfall.

I had no luck retrieving it. My prized possession seemed to have rolled too far.

The man behind that door—the one the adults tried so hard never to let me see—was quiet today. Some days, when I passed, I could feel the stir of his restless anger. I wasn’t afraid of him, though. His rage didn’t reach for me like it did for others, at least not always.

I glanced both ways down the hall. The usual guards who flanked the doors were not there.

It wouldn’t hurt to break the rules just this once, would it?

I was going to be ten soon, after all. Double-digits. I could retrieve one tiny marble without getting caught.

Before I could overthink, I turned the silver doorknob and pushed. I gasped quietly as the door hinges creaked, and it opened to unveil quarters fit for a King. Fresh shimmering roses stuck out from a vase on the vanity, and thick blue curtains were drawn back to let in the sun. The far wall’s fireplace was lit, and the bed was so abundant with pillows that it was hard to see whoever slept there.

I frantically searched the floor, my heart quickening.

“Lark! What are you doing here?”

Caught.

Aunty Lora sprang up from a chair by the other side of the bed, looking sad and startled. She held a black mirror. Instead of her reflection, the glass showed only a shining black swirl that seemed to sputter out as soon as I eyed it.

“I’m sorry…My marble.” I pointed to the shining orb next to her boot, and her posture softened. “Were you crying, Aunty?”

She wiped beneath her eyes. “Of course not. Run along. You should not come in here. Do you understand me?” She kicked the marble toward me.

I picked up my precious trinket as Aunty Lora approached, ushering me back to the door. My boots stuck in the floor’s wooden grooves. If only I could peek at the mysterious man over all those pillows.

“Is he sick?” I asked, rising to my tiptoes to catch a glimpse. Aunty stepped between me and the footboard.

“Lark. I mean it.”

She never used that tone with me.

“You are not to come in here.” She guided me away from the bed.

“Wait!” I whined. “Can I read to him? Can I please? I need my practice—you said so! He seems lonely, Aunty.”

She glanced back at the stoic figure, who was wrapped in sheets. Aunty wore an expression I did not understand.

Her hands landed on her hips, and she gave me a hard look.

“I think he would like to be read to,” I matter-of-factly stated. Who wouldn’t love to hear stories if they slept so much?

Aunty hesitated but finally said, “Fine. But this is our little secret, okay? Go get the blue leather-bound book from the library—the one your Papa reads you.”

Ugh. That dusty old thing always confused me.

I would not complain.

From that day on, whenever Aunty Lora visited, I sat beside her, behind the door that I was never meant to open, and read to the man who seemed never to wake.