Chapter 1 #2
“Because you released them.” He leans closer, and I catch the scent of him.
Ozone, darkness, and something older. Something that does not belong to this world.
The worst part is that some traitorous, panicked part of me wants to lean closer before the sane part remembers how he just killed that creature moments ago.
“Every death tonight is on your hands, Morgana Bellamy.”
He knows my real name.
Of course he does. He’s been paying me for five years.
Panic claws up my throat. I do what I always do when I am terrified. I get mean.
“How was I supposed to know? You sent cryptic instructions and wire transfers. You never explained.”
“Would you have cared?” His eyes lock onto mine. “Would the bored heiress playing at danger have taken the job if I had told you the truth? Or would you have found it too real?”
The words hit like a slap. Mostly because he is right.
Another crash sounds from outside, closer this time. The building shudders.
One of his soldiers appears beside us, a man with white-blonde hair and a scar cutting across his face.
“My lord, the rift is expanding. We need to evacuate the area.”
“Agreed.” He does not look away from me. “Kieran, secure the mirror pieces. We are taking them and the thief.”
“Wait, what?” I try to pull back, but his grip tightens. “I am not going anywhere with you. I didn’t know what those artifacts were. This isn’t my fault.”
“It is entirely your fault.” His voice remains controlled, cold, but something flickers beneath it. Something darker. “And you are going to fix it.”
“I don’t even know what it is. Or what any of this is.” I am practically screaming now, waving my hands like a madwoman. Maybe I am one at this point.
“Then you will learn.”
The shadows around him shift. Writhe. Like they are alive.
For a split second, my brain tries to reject it.
Could I be dreaming?
The shadows reach for me.
I have done reckless things in my twenty-eight years.
Jumped out of planes. Climbed buildings without ropes.
Stolen from people who would have killed me if they had caught me.
But I have never felt terror like this. Watching living darkness coil around my wrists and ankles, tightening like restraints.
I fight. I thrash.
It’s like fighting the ocean.
Oh, God. This isn’t a dream.
The realization hits hard.
“Let me go!” My voice cracks, real fear finally breaking through the bravado.
He turns and starts walking, dragging me with him. The shadows force me forward, whether or not I cooperate. We head toward the museum’s entrance.
Through the shattered doors, Prague is unravelling.
Not burning. Worse.
The city is drowning in shadows.
Creatures scale buildings, crash through windows, hunt through the streets. Sirens wail in the distance. Screams echo everywhere. Gunfire cracks, useless against things made of darkness.
“Please.” I hate how small my voice sounds. “Just let me go. I will disappear. You’ll never see me again.”
“You do not understand.” He pauses at the entrance and turns to face me. The fury in his expression is so cold it burns. “There is nowhere in this world or any other where you can hide from me. You broke it. You will fix it. Or I will kill you myself.”
The surrounding shadows pulse, feeding off something deep and volatile.
Behind him, the rift tears wider. Beyond it, I catch a glimpse of another sky. Purple. Black. Wrong in a way that makes my stomach twist.
One of his soldiers shouts a warning.
Three creatures dive toward us.
Azrael lifts his hand. The shadows explode outward, a violent wave of darkness that catches the creatures mid-air and tears them apart. Efficient. Brutal. Effortless.
He lowers his hand and looks at me.
“Coming willingly, or do I drag you?”
I want to fight. To spit in his face. To refuse.
But Prague is collapsing around us, and I know it’s my fault.
Every scream. Every death.
Because I needed the thrill.
“I...” My voice breaks.
He does not wait for an answer.
The shadows surge up around us, wrapping tight, swallowing everything. I cannot see. Cannot breathe. Cannot think.
The last thing I glimpse is the Prague skyline, fractured and falling.
Then we are moving.
Not walking. Not flying.
Something else.
It feels like being dragged through ice and fire at the same time. My stomach twists violently. My head spins.
Then, just as suddenly, the darkness releases us.
I collapse onto cold stone, gasping for air.
The air here tastes different. Heavier. Charged with something sharp and electric.
Slowly, I look up.
I know expensive rooms. I was raised in them. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, art selected by consultants who use words like provenance and restraint.
This is not expensive.
This is ancient.
The room around me is enormous, all black marble and velvet darkness, lit by silver flames that burn without heat.
Shadows cling to the walls like living things, curling around pillars, slipping across the floor, watching me with the patience of predators.
At the far end, an obsidian throne sits beneath a canopy of living shadow, elegant enough for a king and cruel enough for an executioner.
We’re not in Prague anymore.
Where the hell is this?