Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
He shudders theatrically.
“Scary fuckers, they are. I’d steer clear if I was you, my Curvy Queen. Then there’s the Shifters—they call their territory the Savage Den, and it’s rightly named for a more savage lot of fuckers you’ll never see. And of course…” He spreads his arms wide, his coat billowing. “The place I’m taking you—The Bleeding Court.”
I stop dead, appalled.
“The Bleeding Court?”
“Yes indeed. Got to get through the Nocturne Gates and the Central Hub first, but we’ll manage. Old Whistler can smuggle anyone through.”
“Whistler?”
He nods, tapping his chest proudly.
“That’s me, girly. Whistler the Realm Hopper, at your service.”
“This is insane.” My voice comes out breathless. “These places you’re naming—they sound like something I’d read in a paranormal romance novel!”
“Well, I guess you could call us paranormies if you like.” He shrugs his bony shoulders, leather duster creaking with the motion. “But we’re real enough. You humans just forgot us. Legends and tales, that’s what you think we are—but we’ve been here all along. It’s just harder for us to get to your world since the Magistrate took control and locked the Realms down.”
I’m only absorbing about half of what he says. My head is spinning while my stomach twists. A bad dream—this has to be a bad dream.
“So—the, uh, the Bleeding Court.” My voice wobbles. “What kind of place is that? And why are you taking me there? Can’t I just go home?”
“Afraid not, girly.” He shakes his head firmly, his long gray-brown hair swinging. “You see, I’ve been paid a king’s ransom to bring you to the Don of the Crimson Syndicate and I don’t intend on giving a single bit of that gold back.”
“What?” My voice jumps an octave. “There must be some mistake! Why would some… some weird supernatural Mafia Don want me? You must have grabbed the wrong woman!”
“Oh no—you’re the right one.” His grin gleams, golden teeth flashing in the firelight. “The Don has been watching you for ages in his little magic mirror. You’re the one, my Curvy Queen.”
I open my mouth to demand more answers—to ask who this Don is, why he’s spying on me, what the hell any of this means—but before I can, we reach the end of the corridor.
A wooden door looms before us, bound in black iron, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a medieval dungeon.
Whistler raises a bony finger to his lips. “Now hush. We’ve arrived at the Nocturne Gates. Before we pass through, you’ll need a disguise.”
“A disguise? As what?”
“Why, as anything that won’t catch the Magistrate’s eye, girly. For if he notices old Whistler sneakin’ in a Curvy Queen, all Hell will break loose—and not in a good way, like at the Carnal Bazaar.” He grins. “Hell’s kind of fun over there. But not here—here we must be safe and secret and silent.”
He sweeps open one side of his long coat, revealing pockets upon pockets, bulging with strange things. Poking out of the various pockets I glimpse a shriveled bird’s claw…a vial of black sand…a string of teeth…and a knife made of blue glass. In another pocket, a clockwork mouse ticks and whirs in place on a spring. I also see a jar of something pulsing faintly red. The smell of mildew, incense, and burnt hair wafts out in a sickly mix.
Whistler digs through the pockets, muttering to himself, until he pulls out… a plain paper envelope.
“Ah-ha!”
“What’s tha—” I start, but my words cut off in a shriek as he suddenly yanks my towel away.
“Hey!” I cry, clutching myself, outrage and shame burning my cheeks. “Give that back you pervert!”
He ignores me completely, tipping the envelope into his palm. Glitter—silver and gold—spills out in a sparkling heap.
Whistler puffs out his cheeks and blows.
The glitter whirls toward me in a shimmering cloud. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to get it in my eyes. For a moment I feel nothing—then a million icy pinpricks scatter across my skin…sinking in…melting into my bare flesh all at once.
“There now,” Whistler says smugly. “That’s better. Nobody will guess you’re a Curvy Queen with that glamour on you. In fact, nobody will even guess you’re human. Well then—open your eyes, girly.”
I blink, look down at myself—and scream!
8
Jules
I’m blue. Blue!
Not just cold-blue, shivering-in-a-towel blue. My skin is blue. My hands shimmer in the torchlight, the same shade as the night sky just before it goes black.
“What have you done to me?” My voice comes out a high, shaky whisper.
“Why, made you look like an elf maiden, that’s all, my queen.” Whistler grins, gold teeth flashing. “Would you like to see?”
Before I can answer, he digs around in the folds of his leather duster again.
His coat rattles and jingles with whatever strange junk he’s carrying—chains, bones, a tiny brass bell that tinkles eerily. Finally, with a triumphant grunt, he pulls out what looks like a scroll of parchment.