The Blood Moon Ritual (Rites of the Blood Moon #3)

Chapter One

Chapter

One

SAGE HOLLOWAY

The fluorescent lights above the circulation desk hum faintly, casting a clinical glow over the polished wood counter.

The New York Public Library's vast reading room stretches before me, its rows of books and golden chandeliers exuding a charm that feels lost on most of the patrons these days.

I've always found solace in these walls, where the scent of aged paper and ink blends into something comforting.

It's one of the few places in this city where I feel at ease.

"Hey, Sage!"

Beth leans over the front desk, her too-bright smile practically bouncing off the laminated surface. “A group of us are heading out for lunch. You wanna come?”

I glance up from the stack of books I’ve been re-shelving, pausing with one hand still on the spine of a hardcover. Her tone is casual, practiced—friendly but performative—and there's that familiar gleam in her eyes. The one that says this is more invitation-as-formality than genuine offer.

Still, I smile politely. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stay in today. Got a new book I’m dying to get back to.”

Beth’s grin falters, just for a second, before she recovers. “Suit yourself,” she chirps, already turning.

I nod and return to the cart, pretending like that didn’t sting. Like I didn’t just rehearse that exact rejection a hundred times in my head so it wouldn’t come out sounding as awkward as it felt.

The group gathers by the elevator, laughing too loudly, tossing their hair, tapping their phones. I don’t look, but I listen—I always listen.

“She’s so weird,” someone murmurs, low and sharp, like they think I can’t hear. “No wonder she never has any friends,” another adds, half-laughing. “She probably talks to her books.” “She’s sweet, just... you know. Kinda sad.”

I press my lips together, spine rigid, eyes locked on the cart even though the titles blur.

There it is.

Like clockwork.

The words don’t surprise me. Not really.

The teasing started in middle school. It wasn't that I didn't want friends—it's just that I didn't fit into their world.

While everyone else huddled in groups before class, giggling and gossiping, I would pull out a book and lose myself in its pages.

Stories were safer than people. Predictable. Kind.

That decision—one I thought so small at the time—made me a target.

"Weird book girl," they called me. At first, it was just words, little barbs I could ignore.

But words have a way of growing teeth. By high school, the whispers had turned into pranks, stolen notebooks, mocking laughter whenever I answered a question in class.

I tried to ignore them, but the laughter followed me, growing louder with every year. By the time I graduated, I'd learned to avoid people altogether.

I thought things would change when I started working at the library.

I pictured myself surrounded by people who shared my love for books, for the quiet magic of the written word.

But even here, I'm an outsider. I keep to myself, and that seems to be enough to make me different.

Different, in their eyes, is just another word for wrong.

It turns out the whispers don't stop. They just change their tone. Now they're quieter, masked by polite smiles and small talk. But I still hear them. I always do.

I duck my head and shuffle toward the break room, clutching the worn paperback I brought from home like a lifeline.

The edges of the cover are soft from years of being dog-eared, the spine creased just enough to fall open to my favorite parts.

If I can just get through the next thirty minutes, I'll be fine.

That's all I need—a little time to myself, away from the whispers, the fake smiles, the endless feeling that I don't belong.

The break room is as uninspired as ever—grey linoleum floors, mismatched chairs around a scuffed table, and the faint hum of the ancient vending machine.

But it's quiet, and quiet is enough. I drop into my usual seat, tucked into the farthest corner, and open my book, eager to disappear into a world that makes sense.

The heroine, Lyria, is standing on the edge of a dark forest, her fingers brushing the petals of a flower that will lead her to a hidden portal.

The portal will whisk her away to a land filled with magic and danger, where she'll discover her true power and fight to save a kingdom she didn't know existed.

I've read this story a dozen times before, but it never loses its magic.

Lyria is everything I'm not—bold, confident, brave.

When the villagers mocked her for believing in magic, she didn't shrink away or let the words sink into her bones like I do.

She stood tall, and now she's about to step into a world that will change her forever.

I trace the worn edges of the page with my thumb, my heart aching for something I can't quite name.

It's not just that I admire Lyria; it's that, deep down, I wish I could be her.

I wish I could find my own portal and escape into a world where things make sense, where the rules are clear and the whispers don't follow me wherever I go.

But real life doesn't work that way. There are no magical kingdoms waiting to be saved, no hidden portals tucked behind wildflowers. There's just this break room, this book, and the faint laughter echoing down the hallway outside.

I exhale slowly, brushing my fingers over the page again.

Lyria is stepping through the portal now, her face lit with determination.

I close my eyes and let myself imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to be swept away like her.

To leave behind the whispers and the stares, to find a world where I matter.

The knot in my chest tightens. I don't cry—I haven't cried over things like this in years—but the ache is there all the same. I bury it the only way I know how: by focusing on the book in front of me.

I settle deeper into my chair, trying to lose myself in Lyria's story again. But when I turn the page, my fingers brush against something unexpected—smooth, stiff, and entirely out of place. I pull it free, my brow furrowing as I study the cream-colored envelope nestled between the pages.

It's thick and expensive-looking, sealed with a golden emblem that gleams faintly under the harsh fluorescent light. My name is written in looping, elegant script across the front: Sage Holloway.

I glance around the empty break room, half-expecting someone to burst in and yell, "Gotcha!" But the room stays silent.

Curiosity burns through my hesitation. I break the seal and pull out the contents—a single, embossed card with gilded edges.

You are cordially invited to an exclusive masquerade ball.

Below that, in smaller, flowing script: Tonight, 8 PM. Transportation, attire, and all other necessities will be provided.

I stare at the card, my mind racing. This has to be a joke. Or a mistake. There's no way an ordinary librarian in Brooklyn would get invited to something like this.

"Probably just some marketing stunt," I mumble, slipping the card back into the envelope. Still, the mystery of it lingers in my mind like an unsolved puzzle.

The rest of the day drags. My usual comfort in the library's routines feels off-kilter, the invitation gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. By the time I lock up for the night, I'm exhausted and more than ready to curl up in my tiny studio apartment with a cup of tea and a book.

But when I step through the door and toss my bag onto the couch, a sharp knock startles me.

I hesitate. The only people who knock on my door are the occasional neighbor asking to borrow sugar—or the building superintendent. Warily, I open it to find a sharply dressed courier holding a large white box wrapped with a black satin ribbon.

"This is for Ms. Sage Holloway," he says crisply, handing it to me before I can respond.

I mutter a stunned "thank-you," shutting the door as he strides off. The box is heavier than I expected, and I set it down on the small table in my kitchenette. The ribbon slides off easily, and I lift the lid.

My breath catches. Inside is the most stunning gown I've ever seen.

It's an emerald green that shimmers under the dim light of my apartment, the kind of dress that belongs in a fashion magazine.

The fabric is soft and flowing, the bodice delicately embroidered with gold threads that catch the light like tiny stars.

There's also a matching mask, an intricate creation of gold filigree that looks both regal and otherworldly.

At the bottom of the box, a pair of gold heels glint like treasure.

"This... can't be real," I whisper.

I can't stop myself. My fingers brush the fabric, and something stirs inside me—a pull I can't explain. I should call the courier service, figure out who sent this. But instead, I find myself slipping into the dress.

It fits perfectly, the material hugging my curves in all the right places.

I catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser and barely recognize myself.

The deep green of the gown sets off the reddish undertones in my wavy chestnut hair, which I let loose over my shoulders.

My pale skin glows against the fabric, and my blue-grey eyes look brighter, almost luminous beneath the mask.

I look... beautiful. For the first time in a long time, I feel it, too.

Another knock startles me. I glance down at the gown, smoothing the fabric nervously.

It's ridiculous, but the thought of someone seeing me like this—a version of myself I barely recognize—makes my chest tighten.

I hesitate, debating whether to ignore it, but the knock sounds again, more insistent this time.

Swallowing hard, I shuffle to the door, heels clicking on the hardwood.

This time, a man in a tailored black suit stands on the other side. His dark hair is slicked back, and his expression is unreadable.

"Miss Holloway," he says with a slight bow. "Your car is waiting."

I blink. "My car?"

"Yes. To take you to the ball."

This is insane. Absolutely insane. None of this feels real—an invitation that appeared out of nowhere, a dress that fits like it was made for me, and now a driver at my door?

My life isn't the kind where things like this happen.

It feels like I've stepped into one of the novels I love, the kind where the heroine is whisked away to an extraordinary world.

Maybe that's it—maybe this is all just a dream.

And if it is, what's the harm in seeing where it goes?

Something about the surreal absurdity of the situation makes it impossible to say no. Or maybe, deep down, there's a part of me that wants to believe it's real. A part of me that wants to see where this night will lead.

I grab the small clutch and follow him outside to the waiting black town car. The city blurs past the windows as we drive, lights flickering against the darkened skyline. The streets grow quieter as we pull up to a grand mansion, its fa?ade illuminated by golden lights.

The driver opens the door, and I step out, my heels clicking against the cobblestone driveway. A red carpet leads up the wide marble steps, where other masked figures are disappearing through towering double doors.

My heart pounds as I approach. This isn't just a party—it's something else entirely. I pause at the base of the stairs, taking a deep breath before ascending.

The doors swing open as I step inside, revealing a glittering ballroom bathed in golden light. The hum of conversation and laughter fills the air, mingling with the faint strains of classical music.

For a moment, I'm frozen, standing at the threshold of a world I never imagined myself in.

And then I step inside.