Chapter 9
DIANA
Ican’t believe it as we actually approach this massive, moving object, observing through the windshield as the driver lines us up with something I can barely comprehend—a ginormous metal arm extends down from the Mirage's underbelly, ending in what looks like a platform with heavy clamps on either side.
"Hold onto something," the driver calls back, her voice casual like she's done this a thousand times as she adds an extra step across her body. "Hookups are always a little bumpy."
I grab the seat behind her, noticing that there’s actually a door right there, and sit next to it, continuing to hold on. The bus shudders, and there's a heavy clunk of metal meeting metal, then the groan of hydraulics engaging.
"Neutral," the driver mutters to herself, shifting gears. The engine dies to an idle, and suddenly we're not driving anymore—we're being lifted.
My stomach drops as the platform ascends, the bus swaying gently with the motion of the Mirage's massive legs. Through the windows, the ground falls away, the poorly maintained roads shrinking until the horses we left behind look like toys.
Rebecca's eyes are wide open now, watching the world tilt and shift outside the glass. Selene has gone pale, her knuckles white on the seat back. Even Jess looks a little unsteady, though she's trying to hide it.
"How long does this take?" I ask, my voice coming out higher than I'd like.
"Couple minutes," the driver says. "Relax. Hasn't dropped anyone in at least a month."
“Oh, fantastic.” My voice is heavy with sarcasm.
She grins to reveal stained teeth. “That’s the right attitude.”
The platform locks into place with a final, resonant clang, and the swaying settles into something more stable while still moving.
The driver unlatches herself and stands, stretching her back with an audible pop.
"Alright, ladies. End of the line for me.
" She gestures toward the door I’m sitting next to.
"Through there. They'll process you on the platform.
Don't lie to them—the Veilman always knows.
And don't stare at the tattoos. Makes you look a little too fresh.”
Warm air rushes in as the door opens, carrying smells I can't immediately place, other than metal and maybe rubber. It just connects to what appears to be an elevator shaft.
We help Rebecca to her feet, Jess taking one arm while I take the other. She's steadier now, the torch water still doing its work, but I can feel the tremor in her muscles, the effort it takes for her to stay upright.
One by one, we step through the door and onto the platform.
We all nearly scream and fall over when a man in the corner behind us says, “That it?”
“Just the four of us.”
The doors shut, a light flickering on above us to cast very long, dark shadows on the man’s face, which is covered in red tattoo lines. “Welcome aboard, ladies,” he says, looking us over. “First time?”
“It’s been a bit,” I reply quickly, staring him down, my heart pounding in my neck. “No, I’m so sorry. I just lied. We haven’t been here before. I didn’t mean to—”
“Thank you,” he says with sharp tone. “I’m not a Veilman, so don’t piss your pants.”
It's an enclosed space, maybe twenty feet across, and it starts rising up much like an elevator. I can hear a thick chain, so maybe no hydraulics? I honestly have no idea. When it stops and locks into place, a door opens behind us, and we’re greeted with the sound of music, a crowd, and just…
noise. I can see walkways and ladders, hanging gardens and jury-rigged balconies, and lights strung between buildings that shouldn't exist inside a walking machine but somehow do.
Another man stands waiting for us.
He's tall, lean, with the kind of stillness that makes you think of snakes before they strike.
His skin is dark, and across his face and neck are tattoos the color of fresh blood that nearly blend into his skin.
He wears a thick choker made of leather, a metal emblem of a spider in the middle.
He wears a hat with a perfectly round, flat rim.
I look him in the eyes. They're sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
“Let’s see your card,” he says with the heaviest, slow drawl.
Jess is quick to produce hers, and he smells it deeply before motioning for one of us to move forward. Selene steps forward immediately, and he sniffs her hair. “Alright,” he says, motioning for another.
We all do the same as he sniffs us, and just like that… we’re on the fucking Black Mirage. Somehow that feels completely normal for a place like this.
Everything in me stills one the door shuts behind us.
It's... beautiful. Well, I don't think this beauty would fit the traditional sense of the word.
It's not soft or pretty or the kind of thing you'd embroider on a pillow.
But I've never seen something so intricate, so alive.
It's like how a stormfront is beautiful—the kind of beauty that makes your chest tight and your gut scream that you should probably run, but you can't stop staring because your dumbass is too busy being impressed to save itself.
The air is perfumed with floral scents I've never smelled before, sweet and heavy and somehow old, like the scent has been steeping in this place for decades.
When I spot the flowers, I realize they’re all black.
Because of course they are. Nothing on this nightmare contraption could just be normal, could it?
No cheerful daisies. No sunny marigolds.
Just black roses, black begonias, black everything, growing out of the walls where their roots dig deep into packed dirt like they're feeding on something—oh god, it better not be human bodies. It’s dead people, isn’t it?
Just keep focusing, Diana.
Dark lanterns cast amber halos that sway in the shadows.
Silks hang from the ceiling in cascading waves of burgundy and black, some brushing our shoulders as we pass.
The fabric makes me think it’s real silk, not the synthetic crap traders try to pass off in the markets while swearing on their grandmother's grave that it's authentic.
Selene clutches my arm hard enough to leave marks, her nails digging into my skin through my jacket. "Holy hell," she breathes, her voice barely audible. "This is nothing like the stories."
"Yeah, no kidding," I mutter back. "The stories made it sound like a tuberculosis ward. This is..." I gesture vaguely at the silk, the flowers, the people, the general atmosphere of the place. "This is a lot."
We weave through, stepping up and then down thin, steep stairs that twist like they were an afterthought.
We pass alcoves draped in more silk, where figures sit, recline, or speak in hushed tones.
Some of them look up as we pass. Most don't. I catch glimpses of faces—scarred, tattooed in the same red ink as Scorch—before they blur back into shadow. One woman is knitting something long and skinny, and I don’t bother trying to figure out what it is.
Once we finally seem to reach a more private sector, a man wearing a shimmering black veil over his face materializes out of the dim lighting, as if he’s been waiting for us specifically.
Because apparently we're just doing that now.
Appearing out of nowhere. Very normal. Very cool. Not unsettling at all.
And yet, I feel so alive in here.
Hopeful, even.
"Looking for the Witch Doctor?" he asks, his chest exposed with a red skull tattooed in the middle, decorative hexagons spreading out like netting.
We all look at each other like we might back out, until Selene verbally confirms it for us.
The man seems like he’s possibly looking at me, and I just can’t get myself to move or look away.
So I hold my ground, only for the man to gesture that we should follow, his palm flattening when we all move.
His index finger slowly lowers to point at me, and then gives it a little crook to indicate only me.
Selene's grip becomes a vice. "Diana—"
"It's fine," I say, even though "fine" is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. My heart is beating so hard I may pass out, but adrenaline is a hell of a drug to keep me awake. "Wait here. I'll be back."
What other choice do I have? I made it this fucking far. I should at least meet— “Wait, you are with the Witch Doctor, correct?” I ask.
The head tilts. “Obviously, darling. Now let’s go.”
"If you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm coming in after you," Selene says, her jaw set in that stubborn way that means she's not bluffing.
“Yeah, good idea.”
The man in black is already trudging forward like he’s certain I’m a starving, lost puppy and eager to see what food he has.
My stomach is vibrating with so many nerves that I have to clench my butt cheeks so I don’t lose myself all over the place.
It’s made worse that I can feel Judge at the center of my chest, but it’s also somehow comforting.
Comforting?
Numb it.
The others linger where I left them, and this stranger and I round a corner so they’re officially behind me.
The corridor narrows and the aesthetic shifts to a bunch of walls covered in those same black flowers, growing out of moss and dirt held within frames, their roots crawling across the surface like veins.
Oh, these are not happy thoughts that are coursing through me.
The lanterns grow sparser, the light dimming until I'm navigating more by feel than sight. We stop at a door that looks like it was salvaged from a pre-war bank vault, surrounded by melted candles. The man knocks in three short taps, then two long, and the door swings open on silent hinges.
He gestures me forward, and when I step in like consequences don’t matter anymore, he doesn't follow.
Cool. Great. Love this for me.
And yet I don’t turn around. I just feel like I’m in a dream I’ve always turned to when in my deepest lows, and I finally get to cross a threshold to actualizing it.