Her Cruel Dahlias
Chapter One
A midnight black dahlia was a rarity, yet not rare enough for a murderous bastard to leave five behind on Cricket’s bloodied corpse. As her body lay dying, the last thing she remembered seeing were two obsidian dahlias coming down across her eyes. The gentle weight of two more pressed into each of her palms. And finally, as if offering the dead a bite of food, a flower was placed into her mouth, its flavor sharp and bitter against her tongue, the last thing she was sure she would ever taste.
Flexing her fingers, Cricket sighed. She tried not to think about that horrific day if she could help it. But ever since she’d been brought back to life by a necromancer, Cricket had been waiting for her inherited gift to manifest itself, a peculiarity unique to her—a curiosity to entertain the masses flocking to Mistress Eliza’s Carnival. She’d been told that her skin was supposed to become translucent at will, her skeleton to be seen beneath her layers of flesh, then bright crimson roses were meant to bloom across her skin. The necromancer had foreseen this before she’d restarted Cricket’s heart once more, and she’d never been wrong in the past. Only, each time Cricket practiced, struggling to discover her gift, nothing happened. No roses, no translucent skin, no skeleton. Her mortal body remained stubbornly normal.
Cricket’s curiosity needed to surface soon, as the necromancer, her mistress—Eliza—had demanded. But she tried . Every blasted day since she’d awoken. She wouldn’t ever take the stage in Mistress Eliza’s Carnival if she couldn’t call on her gift at will. Tonight was meant to be her second week to perform her hidden curiosity in front of an audience. To dance . But it wasn’t quite in the cards for her yet. Instead, she was helping the other performers or cleaning up rubbish left behind on the carnival grounds by visitors.
The fiddler’s music filled the air, his pace picking up to a delightful and quirky tune that was pleasant to her ears. Pulling back the thick black velvet curtain, Cricket peeked out toward the audience, who watched with mesmerized wide eyes as Wilder—the Wooden Man—removed his left foot, then his right hand by using his teeth. He waggled his eyebrows while his fingers and toes fluttered, bidding a hello to the crowd. Above him, two female acrobats, wearing tight, sparkling black costumes and silver masks covering their entire faces, spun within ivory silk fabric, forming a cocoon around themselves before dark leathery wings burst from their backs.
The audience oohed and aahed, clapping harder when Wilder balanced on the stump of one arm. His skin appeared wood-like, with lines etched into his brown flesh.
“So,” a deep voice purred from behind Cricket. “Have you been practicing?”
Her heart skipped a beat and she whirled around to find Zephyr leaning on a rail, his arms folded against his broad bare chest. “In my caravan,” she said with a frown, yet her gaze unintentionally swept up his lithe and muscular physique. The dark collar he always wore rested around his throat and black trousers slung low on his hips. Zephyr’s onyx hair was drawn back in a knot at his nape while his bright hazel eyes, lined in kohl, danced with playfulness as they studied her beneath long lashes.
“You should come out more often and stop hiding inside your caravan,” he said with a grin.
She pretended to observe her nails. “I’m out right now.”
Since joining the carnival, she’d remained in her caravan when practicing and only crept out to bathe or when Mistress Eliza required it. Before her murder, seeing Zephyr this close would’ve made her heart gallop, and even though she hadn’t truly known him at that time, in a way, she blamed him for her death, for everything she’d lost.
“For luck.” Zephyr reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull away as he pried open her fingers, then tucked something cool against her palm.
Cricket peered down at a silver coin, her frown deepening.
“Perhaps you can come to my caravan after I perform, and we can practice for the rest of the night,” he drawled, the edges of his lips curling up in amusement.
Frustration stormed inside her veins, and she clenched her jaw. “If you think I’ll spread my legs for you in return for one bloody coin, then you’d be wrong. It would take much more than that.”
“So it’s not a no, then?” He arched a brow, a low chuckle escaping his pouty mouth.
“You’re such a—”
With a grin, he pressed his finger over her lips, silencing her before she could curse him. “Now, now, children are out there.” He let his callused finger fall from her mouth. “Besides, it was only an invitation to talk . Get to know one another since you’ve been avoiding everyone as if they have a plague. I think it’ll help Mistress Eliza get off your back for a bit.”
Cricket thought about it for a moment—that might be true. “You think it would?” she asked, biting her lip.
“One way to find out.” He shrugged, dipping toward her, his woodsy scent caressing her senses.
Cricket’s cheeks heated and she turned back to the stage before he could see. Wilder finished his act, the wood of his skin vanishing, leaving only a deep brown as he raked a hand through his hair. She focused on the next performer—Inara—as she made the crowd laugh by pulling a multitude of lacy hats from her head, one hidden beneath another and another. Long purple tentacles sprouted from Inara’s legs and arms, and she slowly crawled in a circle on the stage. Cricket desperately wished her curiosity would unfurl from within her so she could finally experience it, but perhaps Zephyr was right. Maybe talking to someone would help her hone in on her ability more easily. But as she turned around to take Zephyr up on his offer, a dark-haired female, maybe ten years older than him, wrapped her arm around his waist and whispered in his ear. Autumn, with her beautiful, cat-like golden eyes, who was able to contort her body into any position she wished. And Cricket was certain Autumn had been in Zephyr’s bed on more than one occasion.
Cricket slipped to the far back of the tent, brushing past two performers: Sylvia, a pepper-haired female who held the ability to expel fire beneath water, and Virgil, a middle-aged man who could tap nails anywhere along his body, including his eyes. She tucked herself into a corner, hidden away from everyone, then pressed her back against a rail and inhaled deeply. A little over a year ago, Mistress Eliza had brought her back from the dead—only things hadn’t gone as they had with the other performers. Instead of waking with a gifted curiosity that would bud and grow, Cricket had been asleep until a month ago. During that time, she’d performed as the Sleeping Darling, a woman who remained asleep, no matter how loud her surroundings became.
Everyone who worked at Mistress Eliza’s Carnival had once been dead like Cricket, only they’d awoken as soon as the necromancy magic restarted their hearts, and they were able to practice their gifts. Before her death, Cricket had ventured to the carnival, watched Zephyr touch leaves, then sprout vines from his bare back. She’d thought it the most beautiful thing in the world, even more so than the other talented performers. Over the years, every time the carnival came, he’d been the one she’d wanted to see the most, had wished to dance on the very stage where he and the others performed. However, fate decided to answer her prayer while whispering, Be careful what you wish for .
“Where’s Cricket at?” The snapping voice of Mistress Eliza interrupted her thoughts as the wood creaked beneath the woman’s limp. Cricket sighed, knowing Mistress Eliza was in a foul mood—as she’d been unable to raise anyone from death. Not since Cricket’s murder. The bodies of the deceased, including animals, would no more than twitch before falling dead once more. Sometimes, or on most days, Cricket wished the necromancer hadn’t ever brought her back.
Perspiration coated Cricket’s palms, and she wiped them against the waistband of her short tulle skirt. Cricket’s heart thundered in her chest as she watched Mistress Eliza limp out the back entrance, her long wool dress swishing and her graying hair loosely plaited down her back. The necromancer refused to use a cane, no matter how rough of a day she was having with her limp.
The crowd cheered for Inara’s performance, their clapping akin to the roar of a thousand doors slamming.
Cricket snuck a glance around the corner, cursing herself as Zephyr caught her, and a grin spread his lips. He winked at her while Autumn giggled, her finger trailing across his collar. Zephyr casually moved Autumn’s hand away, and Cricket drew back, realizing she was still holding his coin. Even though she wanted to toss it back at him, she slipped the coin into her bodice.
As violins started to play deep and lovely, signaling a new act was beginning, Cricket released a breath and pretended she was the one taking a step onto the stage. Cricket Wakefield .
Ever since she was a young child, she’d always wished to become a dancer. Each night, she used to perform in front of her mirror back home, knowing she wouldn’t be able to live out her dream and travel, not when her parents wanted nothing for her but a suitable man to take care of her.
Music poured from the instruments, the pace of the bows across the strings increasing, brushing exquisitely against her eardrums. Cricket stepped forward and closed her eyes before lifting an arm above her head. She pointed her toes as she elevated her leg to the side. Once, twice, she spun in a clockwise circle. On her third pirouette, she thought about the blade digging in between her collarbones, slashing toward her stomach, the hot blood spilling down her flesh. The dahlias against her eyes. She stumbled as she inhaled sharply, her lungs begging to drink in more air.
Raucous laughter spilled from the crowd. The sound wasn’t aimed at Cricket, but it felt as though they could see through the curtain to where she’d hidden herself, that they were all laughing because they could see her fears, her grief. Cricket’s wretched heart thrummed faster, aching to shatter her rib cage.
She peered at her hands and squinted to focus on her curiosity. A bead of perspiration slid down the back of her neck, and for the first time, fluttering wings seemed to caress her arms. She watched as her hands turned translucent, the ivory bones beneath her skin exposed in the dim lighting.
“Come on, Cricket,” she pleaded, a small smile tugging the edges of her lips. “You can do this.” Even though Mistress Eliza had foreseen her curiosity, Cricket hadn’t entirely believed it to be true. Yet now she was unearthing it.
Something clawed beneath her skin, as if insects were begging to make their way from the deepest depths of her being. Cricket’s lower lip wobbled when she studied her arms, where not red spots dotted them, but black. She glanced down at her stomach, her legs, finding the same dark-shaded spots there too. Black roses?
A flower bud broke free from her bicep before its petals burst open—a dahlia, black as night. Cricket gasped, her body shaking as fright spread through her. More dahlias tore through her flesh, and she couldn’t stop her trembling. She was unable to halt the tormented thoughts that rushed forth at the sight of them—so like the dahlias placed along her dying body.
“Stop,” Cricket whispered to herself while balling her hands into tight fists to draw the devilish things somewhere else. But they wouldn’t disappear from her sight. She stared in horror as she grasped a velvety one at her wrist and attempted to rip it away. Pain shot through her, and she clenched her teeth while the flower remained.
With shallow breaths, she let her feet carry her forward as the clawing beneath her skin continued. She looked up, and her gaze locked onto Zephyr, who was now alone, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Cricket?” he rasped.
“I don’t know what’s happening!” she shrieked. And she knew he couldn’t help her—she needed to find Mistress Eliza.
Cricket spun on her heel and fled out the back entrance of the tent to find Mistress Eliza. But the necromancer was already gone. The cool breeze tickled Cricket’s flesh, and the torches flickered against the starry night.
The clawing turned painful as if thorns were buried inside her muscle and sinew. Zephyr rushed out of the tent, searching the night for her, and Cricket ran, not wanting him to see her as a monstrous garden of dahlias, a reminder of a murderer who had once left the same flower behind.
Cricket remained in the shadows behind the carnival tents, avoiding the crowds as she bolted toward Mistress Eliza’s caravan, all the while pleading with the flowers to go back to the depths from which they came. But the dahlias’ only answer was to ignore her. For more to unleash their heinous selves as the wind wrapped its delicate hands around her.
The world surrounding her spun when she entered the caravan area, where a few performers laughed while she darted past them, seeming to believe this was all a jest, a performance .
“Cricket, just stop!” Zephyr shouted, his voice inching nearer.
She skirted between the painted caravans, when her foot caught on a rope and she toppled forward. Cricket caught herself just as she was about to strike her head against the ground. Sharp pain radiated up her arms, and she couldn’t see a single sliver of her pale skin. Another flower bloomed inside her mouth, on her tongue, tasting of death.
A whimper tore from her throat as she pushed herself up from the ground, but she fell again, her eyelids fluttering from exhaustion. Pressure ignited on her lungs where yet more flowers bloomed, consuming her. She could feel the torturous things everywhere . When she attempted to scream, only a hoarse sound escaped her mouth.
A shadow knelt beside her, and she looked up to find Zephyr looping an arm around her to scoop her up.
As Cricket turned her head toward a caravan, an oval stage mirror propped against its side caught her attention. But not the object itself—her image reflected in the glass. She gasped, her lungs weighted. Large black petals unfurled from her skull, covering her entirely, all but her eyes, which were wide and full of panic.
“Breathe,” Zephyr said, his voice steady as he held her close.
I can’t , she tried to get out, but the words were trapped in her mouth, her chest tightening. The crackling flames of the torches dimmed as dahlias slipped out from her eyes, darkening the carnival. Her body slumped against Zephyr’s firm chest, and she was too tired to fight, her oxygen stolen away by the vicious flowers.