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)
In the center of it all is the table—a vast oval dining table, long enough to seat a small army, carved from dark wood so glossy it reflects the chandelier light. It’s set with silver—so much silver. Candlesticks and serving trays gleam in the reddish-gold light and forks and knives are lined up on either side of each vast plate like weapons.
Each place setting is immaculate. White napkins are folded into severe, perfect shapes. Crystal goblets that I’m sure would make that perfect note—ping—if I tapped them with a fork are to the right of every plate. And speaking of plates—each one is rimmed with silver filigree.
Seriously, I’ve been to formal weddings that are less fancy than this. I don’t think I’ve ever attended a dinner this grand and I haven’t even seen the food yet.
I can’t help feeling like I don’t belong here—it’s too posh—too elegant for me. I’m just a mid-level accountant with a crappy apartment and an ancient car and a bank account that constantly hovers near zero, no matter how much I try to scrimp and save. What am I doing in this luxurious, dangerous, frightening world?
I swallow, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Lucian… do you host banquets often?” I ask.
His hand tightens slightly on my arm.
“Not often. I am not on friendly terms with most of the other Shadow Realm Dons. But that is not usual. We all mostly keep to our own regions. However, I wanted to thank the Don of the Ossuary Circle for ridding us of your predatory coworker.”
His lip curls slightly as he speaks, revealing a flash of fangs. I feel a shiver go through my bones when I remember Donald Pugh’s gruesome fate. Am I really going to meet the man—or creature—responsible for those many-jointed shadow hands that dragged him to his grave?
I guess I am. We approach the table, but Lucian doesn’t sit. Instead, he pauses at the head of the table, standing with the stillness of someone used to being obeyed.
“We wait,” he says quietly.
“For who?” I ask, even though I already know.
His gaze lifts toward the far doors.
“The Don of the Ossuary Circle who rules the Hollow Necropolis,” he murmurs. “He is the Head Necromancer of the Shadow Realm. We must not sit before our guest arrives.”
A chill runs through me—part fear and part curiosity. What is this guy going to look like?
Then the air around us changes.
It’s subtle at first—the temperature drops a few degrees, as though somehow the fire’s warmth is suddenly less effective. The candle flames flicker and the shadows in the corners seem to deepen, pooling like ink.
Then the double doors opposite us open and something—or someone—glides in.
My mouth goes dry as I watch the person coming towards us—or at least I think it’s a person.
The Necro Don is… not what I expected. Or maybe he’s exactly what I expected, and that’s the problem.
He wears a mask fashioned from an animal skull—long and narrow, with bone teeth that show in a permanent grin. Antlers rise from the top, branching like dead trees. Shadowy robes swirl around him, moving as if they have their own wind, their own breath. His hands—when he lifts them—are skeletal, bone-white, and too long. Their joints are sharp and wrong, and I’m reminded of the shadow hands that dragged Donald to his doom.
Yet beneath the shifting darkness of his robes, I can see the outline of his body and it’s absolutely freaking huge.
Broad shoulders and a thick chest lead down to a narrow waist and powerful thighs. His body looks muscular. Built. Almost like Lucian’s—if Lucian were wrapped in death and winter instead of tailored suits and blood-red accents.
The Necro Don moves toward us with a smooth, predatory grace, like a nightmare who has decided to be polite. Or maybe a sleep paralysis demon who just wants to say hello. I feel another shiver go down my spine. This man—if he is a man—is death incarnate. I’m reminded of my own mortality when I look at him.
Lucian, however, doesn’t seem to be disturbed by his guest at all. Or else, he’s hiding it better than I am. He inclines his head towards the other Don.
“Don Malthus Veyl. You are most welcome to the Bleeding Court.”
The skull tilts slightly, as if the Don is studying me through the seemingly empty sockets of his skull mask. But is it a mask? Or is that his real face? I don’t know and I’m sure it would be rude to ask.
Then his voice pours out—low, and velvet-dark, with an odd echo beneath it, like something speaking from a crypt.
“Don Lucien Draxos,” he says. “And this must be the human.”
I bristle automatically. The human. Like I’m a rare houseplant or some strange and delightful oddity that Lucian wants to show off.
Lucian’s hand slides to my lower back—subtle and possessive—before I can open my mouth to complain.