The Crimson Spires.
My mouth is dry as dust. My heart stutters painfully in my chest. The longer I stare, the colder I feel, as though the tower itself is reaching across the distance, stealing the warmth from my body.
“That?” My voice cracks. “That’s where we’re going?”
“Indeed we are, my Curvy Queen.” Whistler’s grin flashes again. “To meet your Don. Your future husband.”
Husband.
The word hits me all over again like a slap.
Future husband. As if that place—the nightmare looming above the city—could hold anything but terror.
I dig my heels into the cobblestones, but Whistler just tightens his grip on my wrist, bony fingers unyielding.
The road stretches upward, a dark artery leading straight to the heart of something I know, deep down, I may never come back from.
And for the first time, I can’t even muster denial. I wonder if I’ll ever see my crappy little apartment again. If I’ll ever wake up with Mr. Mittens curled at my side.
My gut twists as the tower looms over me, its windows bleeding red light into the night.
And I think—no, I know—that whatever waits inside is watching me already.
11
Jules
I keep telling myself this has to be a dream. It has to be. My brain must’ve short-circuited somewhere between work and my shower. Maybe I slipped, cracked my head, and now I’m bleeding out on the tile while my subconscious serves me this twisted mash-up of True Blood and The Sopranos.
Any second now, I’ll wake up in my crappy little bed with Mr. Mittens kneading my stomach like dough, demanding breakfast at four a.m.
But the cobblestones bite into my bare feet, and the cold air cuts me straight to the bone. Dreams don’t usually hurt this much.
The street is a nightmare carnival of faces and figures. Shadows slip in and out of alleyways. The crimson light from the swollen moon paints everything with a sickly glow. Every time I think I’ve seen the worst of it, something else shambles past to prove me wrong.
A man with tattoos crawling across his face—actual tattoos that move, the spirals writhing like worms—leans against a wall, smoking something that glows faintly blue. A child holds a balloon shaped like a skull, except the balloon drips black liquid every few seconds, spattering on the cobblestones.
Nobody blinks at these weird sights—nobody even seems to notice.
Couples stroll past with porcelain masks hiding their faces, masks painted with red tears or laughing mouths. Their steps echo in unison, precise and eerie. A vendor with yellowed eyes and webbed fingers hawks roasted meat on sticks, but the smell coming from them isn’t chicken or pork or beef—it’s sweet…cloying…wrong.
I hug myself tighter and wish for my apartment with its water-stained tub and Mr. Mittens’s cheerful yowls. Hell, I’d take the drunk frat boy passed out in puke over this.
And then she appears.
“Pretty, pretty,” croons a voice like brittle paper.
I flinch as a stooped old woman hobbles straight into my path. She wears a ragged shawl that stinks of mildew and her gray hair is matted and snarled. Her eyes, peering up through the tangles, are milky and clouded, but when they lock on me I feel frozen in place.
Her fingers clamp around my wrist before I can move away. Her skin is cold and papery, but her grip is unbreakable.
“You’re not as you seem, my girl,” she rasps, and then she sings in a low, quavering voice:
“Blood as sweet as summer wine,
Bound to fangs and fate entwined.
Wed to crimson, dark, divine?—
