Preparation is my armor. Don it or die.
He inspects the token, handing it back with a gruff “No veils.”
I glance up at him from beneath a blaze of feather-tipped lashes. “Part of my act. I’m part of the scheduled entertainment.” I retrieve a roll of parchment from my pocket and nudge it toward him. “I was warned about the no veil rule, which is why I’ve only covered the bottom half of my face.”
Scowling, he unravels the scroll, his beady leer raking over my letter of hire so painfully slow I start to get a crick in my neck, impatience gnawing at me.
Finally, his eyes widen with recognition. “Oh, you’re the standin!”
I offer a shy, demure nod when all I really want to do is bang his head against the wall.
Hard.
He rerolls my scroll and hands it back, stepping aside to open the door. “Third level. Mind the waif. It’s always extra hungry this late in the aurora cycle.”
My shiver is far from fake.
I move into the Hungry Hollow’s warm, smoky embrace, attacked by a rush of dense musk and the undertow of sulfur, the door banging shut behind me and the flock of dispersing parchment larks. Through a dark tunnel, I emerge at the pinched mouth of a vast, lofty cavern the shape of a stony lung.
A swoop of steps leads me onto one of the many paths that web through a cluster of luminous springs, steam rising from their turquoise depths. Folk are draped against their steps, heads tipped while they languish in the lapping warmth. A pretty paradise for those who wield enough power or political sway to keep themselves on the cushioned side of The Crown.
I huff out a bitter laugh.
Here, it’s easy to pretend our colorful kingdom isn’t nesting on a bed of bones.
A freestanding staircase leads to the second floor supported by mossy pillars. I head for it, weaving along the labyrinth of paths when a waft of steam congeals into a pale, lanky creature with eyes like ebony jewels.
“Shit,” I mutter, pausing.
Head swiveling unnaturally, the waif looks right at me, sniffs the air, then releases a gluttonous gasp. “Well, well, well … isn’t your soul a plump, juicy thing?”
Ahh.
“How kind of you to say. I’ll just be on my wa—”
“There are screaming spirits desperate to speak with you. How about a small suckle of your soul?” the creature asks, and I swear it sounds like it’s salivating. “Then you can hear everything they have to say.”
No fucking thank you.
“I’ll pass.”
Heartily.
Seeming to ignore my objection, it flits forward, gathering wafts of steam it uses to stretch in my direction, vaporous fingers reaching.
I spin on my heel and hurry down another path, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Looking over my shoulder, I spot the creature, now hunched over a male lazing against a spring’s edge, sucking something shadowed from between his parted lips.
A shiver nettles my skin.
I quietly thank the Creators that waifs are rare, haunting only drapes of mist where they nibble souls in exchange for messages from obliging dead.
Can’t think of anything worse. I’m certain the spirits so desperate to speak with me have nothing nice to say.
Not that I can blame them.
Thankfully, the creepy soul-nibblers are easily distracted.
I dash up a staircase, rising well above the reaching fingers of steam. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses come to me as I emerge onto the second level scattered with Skripi tables.
Folk are gathered about, puffing smoke sticks, drinking sparkly spirits, game shards fanned close to their chests. Dice scatter, piles of dragon bloodstone shoved from hand to hand.
I cast my furtive gaze over their attire, some garbed in colorful, gem-encrusted gowns. Others wear finely tailored coats, feathered shapes barbered into shorn hairstyles, elemental beads hanging from their lobes. A boastful token of their ability to hear the different elemental songs:
Red for Ignos.
Blue for Rayne.
Brown for Bulder.
Clear for Clode.
Beads aside, you can usually pick a high-ranking Fade elemental from the other side of a room: those who boast more than ten colors on a single outfit, as if it’ll make them mighty like the vibrant dragons that lord this kingdom’s skies.
The great Moltenmaws.
Funny, since they’d be the first to bleed the beasts if the bloodstone mine ever ran dry.
I’m halfway up a thin staircase chipped into the back wall when somebody tall, broad, and cloaked charges down from above.
I pause, unable to see much of his face bar his strong jaw brushed in a dark, well-shaped beard, his cloak’s hood casting everything else in shadow.