A Dance Macabre (Perverse City, #1)

by Naomi Loud

fishing out my favorite fountain pen from my vest pocket,

I stalk toward him because he doesn’t move an inch before I have the sharp tip of my pen lodged in his cheek.

While Marcus is still frozen in his seat, I use the leverage of my shoe against his chest to forcibly pull the pen out of his bleeding face.

Don't disrespect Wolfgang!

His screams turn into a wet gurgled gasp when my second blow sinks into his carotid.

He’s hella dead now. 😂

Throwing my bloody pen on the table, it rolls toward her. She stops it with her own pen.

“Clean this for me, will you?”

“I can feel the tremble in their lips around my cock.” His eyes fall back on me. “Turns me on.”

The weather is dreary tonight, the sky darkened by clouds pregnant with rain. If I were fanciful enough to have a favorite kind of weather—this would be it.

Same!

There is peace in death, and silence is a true friend to where death lies sleeping.

Walking onto the consecrated grounds feels like walking through a thick veil. It’s as if the spirits cloak the cemetery with an invisible barrier, and the draining noise of Pravitia is divinely left behind.

There is beauty in decay, in letting nature take its course.

At the very least, they are much better companions than humans.

3 dobermans. Dogs are, in fact, better than humans!

Crèvecoeur sigil—an open hand holding a flame—engraved

“Mors omnia vincit,”

Death awaits.

I feel a raindrop fall on my cheek. I peer skyward while a few more drops land on my face. The timing almost feels deliberate. Like the clouds are craving a similar release to the one I just experienced.

Pandaemonium has a way of leaving whoever sets their eyes on it feeling unsettled, like staring straight into an illusion.

The message is clear: No one and nothing can be trusted—not even the naked eye.

the Foley sigil—a hand with a snake coiling around its fingers—branded

Mercy’s glare flares before she turns sharply around, reaches for one of the throwing stars, and launches it at Gemini’s head.

Omg, I LOVE HER!!!!

“See how entertaining this already is?” Gemini says with a debonair wave of his hand.

Lmao! Gemini ain't fased AT ALL! He's having a blast!

People can’t help but fall to their knees and worship him.

I’d rather be hated and left alone.

Walking through the rowdy hordes of bodies as I try to make my way through the crowded street is equal to getting my skin slowly flayed with tweezers.

Damn, Mercy! Lol!

“Boo,” Gemini says with a sneer.

Hella me! Lol!

“I suggest,” I say with a slow drawl, “you run.”

Oh shit! The real fun begins!

I caught my little rodent within ten minutes of the chase. But it was much too fast. I wanted to prolong the kill.

So I let him go. But not before biting half his ear off and slicing my knife through his right eye as punishment for being such an easy catch.

I can...

the echo of his screams like a delicious, hau...

I tackle him from behind and he goes down hard.

Taking his left arm, I lift it above his head and jam my knife straight through his wrist, the blade burrowing into the earth underneath.

Pinning his other arm under my leg, I grab his face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks together.

Leaning over, I pull the knife out of his wrist, his screams only intensifying. Tugging his shirt up, I slowly dig the blade into his soft stomach, carving a W with the sharp tip.

I bury my blade in his gut. His eyes grow wide, his shocked gasp dying on his lip as I pull the serrated blade up to his ribs.

God damn!

Pulling it out, I slam it back down, this time through his heart, breaking through the sternum.

I stab him rep...

I don’t stop when his eyes turn glassy and lifeless, only when my arm grows heavy and tired.

Overkill.

Oracle. The adjudicator of the Lottery.

“The gods have chosen,” she says in an even tone. “Idolatry shall rule next.”

“Vainglory,” the Oracle says, calling my attention back to her. “By your hand, a Vorovsky must die. Please declare your sacrifice.”

“Boris Vorovsky,” I declare loudly.

The last vowel has barely passed my lips when Boris’ head whips backward, Mercy’s dagger lodged deep into his left eye.

Even from across the room, my aim is perfect. My trusted dagger, which I refused to take off even here, sinks into Boris Vorovsky’s eye like warm butter. I can feel death’s cold embrace wrap itself around his body even before he has time to collapse to the floor.

“You shall rule together,” she declares, her voice slightly disembodied.

“Needs to be said,” he drawls, his words sharp and pointed. “You look like a whore in that dress.” I don’t have time to react before he shoves me hard in the chest. I lose my footing, my body pitching backward as I fall straight into the pit.

Omg! I bet she wished she killed him now. Lol!

revenge never expires. Revenge never forgets.

Claire’s gaze lingers on mine, then moves to Mercy whose facial expression doesn’t betray any of her inner thoughts.

The only small tell in her cool exterior is the twisting of one of her rings around her finger. I have a knee-jerk reaction to place my hand over hers, and I’m thankful I’m just far enough away not to follow through.

Aww he thought about soothing her anxiety. How sweet!

“I wonder,” I muse, my finger tracing the leather harness over to her inner thigh, “if your dagger has ever marred that perfect skin of yours.” Mercy continues to struggle against me, baring her teeth. It only makes me grip her wrist even harder, my body pinning her to the table as I shove a knee against her thigh, widening her legs. “I wonder,” I continue slowly, trying to keep my voice controlled, but now much more serious than before, “if that blade has ever tasted the life force of a cold-blooded Crèvecoeur.”