The night streets are quieter now.
I move quickly, head down, cape pulled tight around me. I have no idea how long it will be before Lucian realizes I’m gone, and I want to put some distance between us before that happens.
The full red moon glares overhead, washing everything in its bloody light. The crowd I saw earlier has thinned—there’s nobody left but a few stragglers.
A pair of cloaked figures whisper in a doorway…a carriage rattles past, pulled by creatures that look like skeletal horses with glowing red eyes. A drunk stumbles into the gutter and pukes black sludge that steams on the cobblestones. Ugh.
I hurry on.
At least the creepy old woman isn’t here—the one who grabbed my hand earlier and muttered that strange rhyme about blood and fate. The thought of her still makes my skin crawl. Hopefully she’s tucked away in bed—I’ve had enough prophecies for one night.
The streets twist and curve, all shadows and sharp corners. The Crimson Spires loom behind me, high and black against the darkened sky. My boots scrape over uneven stones, my heart pounding with every step.
And then, I see them.
The gates.
They rise, tall and terrible, wrought iron wound with roses as big as dinner plates. Their petals are blood-red, their thorns long and gleaming. The sight of them makes my knees weak with relief. This is it—my way out. If I can bluff my way through.
Except…there are no guards—not a soul.
Which should be good news, but dread coils in my stomach. Then Whistler’s voice slithers through my memory— “The gates themselves are the guards.”
Oh, that’s right. Now how did he get through? I try to remember and copy his motions. I press my palms against the iron and push.
Nothing—not so much as a rattle.
“Come on,” I mutter, shoving harder. “Open, damn it!”
The roses tremble faintly, almost like they’re laughing at me.
My pulse speeds up. What else did Whistler do? He put his hand on the gate, didn’t he? Then he said something…some kind of rhyme.
I squeeze my eyes shut, reaching back. His thin voice, sing-song and smug finally comes to me.
“By the power of blood, I bid thee open.
By thorn and rose, by vow unspoken.
By pain and price, the way is shown.
Open the gate—let passage be known.”
The words slip from my mouth before I can second-guess myself.
For a long moment, nothing happens. I’m almost sure I’ve gotten it wrong. I’m about to try again, though I don’t know what to say when?—
“Ouch!” I jerk back, clutching my hand. One of the thorns has pierced my finger deep enough to draw a bead of blood.
The roses shiver. Their petals darken, drinking in the crimson drop. At last the iron groans.
And then, slowly, silently, the gates swing open.
Beyond them stretches the vast round hub I saw when Whistler first dragged me here—a massive circle like the spokes of a wheel, each segment ending in a different gate. They stand tall and gleaming, each marked with names I recognize now: The Carnal Bazaar…The Briar Court…The Gilded Warrens…The Hollow Necropolis. I also see one I didn’t notice before—The Savage Den.
And behind me, black and bristling with roses, are the gates I just passed through—The Bleeding Court.
The hub yawns before me, huge and echoing and as empty as it was crowded earlier. My throat goes dry.
