A Dance Macabre (Perverse City, #1)

by Naomi Loud

To my teenage self. The one who didn’t think she was going to make it … I’m so happy that you chose to fight instead. Because look at us now.

The only pain in pleasure is the pleasure of pain. ANNE RICE

The first death I ever experienced was my own.

Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end? No one ever sees it coming.

If I were one for whimsy, I’d keep jars full of all the dying breaths I’ve ever had the pleasure to bear witness to. I’m certain they would create a morbidly beautiful symphony, like seeking the sounds of the ocean inside a seashell.

I’d kill every Pravitian to cross my path if it meant I could seek out a single moment of peace in this damnable city.

know the curves and corners of every building, every street corner. This city is my birthright, every death within it belongs to me, and I have no doubt Pravitia will also bear witness to my death.

However, the decor is quickly forgotten when my eyes begrudgingly land on a naked lithe body amidst the steamy water. I sneer, my heartbeat rising. Wolfgang. Heir to Vainglory Media and its entire god-forsaken fortune. He faces me, wet brown hair slicked back, tanned arms sprawled out beside him as he leans against the edge of the bath.

As soon as she hears her name, she releases me, acting as if her name is god-like, imbued with any real power. Self-aggrandizing bitch.

Oh, how I wish I could just kill her—collect her blood in vials, trickle it into the bath water like an expensive oil, and soak in it. I’d take great joy in her death. Turn it into a holiday. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Lifetimes of tradition bind us together.

It’s past midnight when I stroll barefoot into the Hall of Mirrors, my hands in the pockets of my red velvet smoking jacket. The vast hall, with its vaulted ceilings, dozen bay windows, and matching arched gold mirrors on either side, is my favorite part of Vainglory Tower. It connects my living quarters to the public areas of my apartments. I come here when I need to think. Something about staring at my reflection calms me. I’d be remiss to pinpoint my favorite feature. Everything about me is eye-catching. Delightful even. It reminds me of my own excellence. The magnificence of Wolfgang Vainglory.

Playing the violin always manages to help with this itchy restlessness. Something about creating melodies appeases the chatter. I’ve never questioned it. Maybe the music connects me with something divine, a private conversation between me and the muses. Although, I’d be hard-pressed to find anything more divine than myself.

Placing the bow against the strings, I begin to play, keeping my eyes shut during the first few strikes of the cords. When I hear the haunting notes bounce off the windows and walls, vaulting straight back into my ears, I open my eyes and gaze directly into the mirror. It’s a powerful experience to gaze at one’s divinity. I study my reflection: Jaw clenched under a short trimmed beard, brown hair slicked back aside from a few strands falling onto my forehead due to the erratic movements of my arm.

My favorite painting has always been the one near the north-facing window. It’s of a naked figure gazing into a handheld ornate mirror. It reminds me of myself. Just like these frescoes, I provide beauty to a drab Pravitia.

“Omnia vanitas,”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” I finally say, with a raised eyebrow. His head falls back against the booth, slowly chuckling. “Trust me, they know who you are.” His snicker turns into a pleased groan, his hand disappearing under the table. “I can feel the tremble in their lips around my cock.” His eyes fall back on me. “Turns me on.”

“Did you want to partake?” he asks instead of answering my question. I stare at him some more, trying to wordlessly relay how annoying I think he’s being. Finally, I sigh. “Who is it?” Breaking eye contact, I take a peek under the table to satiate my curiosity. I wouldn’t agree to just anyone. Satisfied with who’s under the table, I give Aleksandr a quick nod. “They will do.”

“Sunt superis sua iura,”

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.

I hook my elbow around the blonde’s throat, slapping my other hand over her mouth as I drag her further into the alley and behind a dumpster. She tries to fight against my hold, but I’m stronger. I don’t need the privacy that this alleyway offers, it’s not as if anyone could stop me. It’s a preference. I like to keep the call of death intimate. Far from prying eyes. I slam her into the brick wall, collaring her throat, my arm fully extended to keep her in place. Her eyes widen in alarm when she realizes who is staring back at her, a shocked, breathy Mercy escaping her open mouth.

I might not be a narcissist like a Vainglory, but I can’t deny the flutter in my stomach during these short, sacred moments when my offerings recognize me.

“Mors omnia vincit,” I whisper against her lips. Death awaits.

“Why do I feel …” I say to no one in particular. My words trail off, my thoughts turning ephemeral. “Horny?” Gemini offers,

“That’s not what I—” I stop abruptly, letting his statement sink in, suddenly realizing that there’s truth to Gemini’s glibness. Constantine laughs, taking a sip of her Mojito as she trains her blue puppy eyes my way, her tone infuriatingly innocent when she finally says, “Oh that’s because I spiked our drinks.”

“Door number six, Mr. Vainglory,” she says with an assured tone, barely a glance my way.

Shrugging my suit jacket off, I throw it on the couch lining the wall. My attention zeroes in on the pair of naked legs to my left. I roll the sleeves of my dress shirt as I lick my lips, reveling in the anonymity of this type of service. I can’t see her face and upper body, hidden behind a glass divider and red curtain. The hole in the wall is only large enough for her waist to slide through, her legs strapped up with harnesses to keep her splayed open for my pleasure.

Using my free hand, I circle her entrance with two fingers, her cunt wet and quivering under my touch while I continue to devour her some more, my mouth watering at the taste of her heady arousal. Fuck. How can she taste this fucking … divine? It’s the drugs. It must be the drugs.

The woman behind this curtain is like no one I’ve ever experienced before. She’s the best thing I’ve ever fucking felt. It’s otherworldly. Hard to grasp or describe with any earth-bound word. Suddenly I don’t care if it is the drugs in my system. I need to feel her bare cunt around my cock—it’s a matter of life or death.

I rip myself away from the wall, almost falling backward with the speed of my action. It can’t be. I feel sick, realizing how close I came to breaking one of our divine laws.

She smells like cherry and burnt almonds. The smell wafts around me as Mercy climbs into the limousine, and it makes me practically salivate. I have half a mind to shove her back out with my wingtip shoe to the middle of the chest just so I don’t have to ingest any more of her essence. She’s repulsive. Offensive. Downright distasteful. Everything I am not.

A few yards away, Mercy appears at the mouth of the path, cloaked in moonlight and gore. She takes a few steps and then stops, her dagger loosely clutched in her hand. Her dress is ripped, uncovering the swell of one of her breasts, strands of her black hair, wet with blood, sticking to her face. My breathing slows as I silently take her in, reluctant to alert her of my presence. I’ve never seen her so … at peace before.

“Mercy Crèvecoeur, servant of the god of death, and conduit to the afterlife.”

“Wolfang Vainglory, servant of the god of idolatry, and wielder of persuasion and worship.”

I might have not known which family was next in line, but one thing I did know was who would be sacrificed. I felt the call as soon as I walked into the grand hall. Death swam around my head, whispering the fate of the Vorovsky cousin, like it had done my entire life. His death didn’t need to be by my hand—I answer the call as I please—but Boris’ fate was as inevitable as the Lottery.

Although this particular defeat hurts worse than having every bone in my body pulverized, I must accept my fate: For the next nineteen years, Wolfgang and I are linked together, whether I want to accept it or not.

Chuckling dryly, he rolls off the bed. “And what makes you think that?” He slips into a crushed velvet smoking jacket but leaves it open as if purposefully wanting to showcase his toned chest with a dusting of hair and the defined muscles disappearing into his silk pants.

“Do you forget that the Vainglorys once ruled Pravitia from these very rooms?” he asks. His gaze trails down my body, then back up. “How could you? It’s how our feud started in the first place.” Pushing himself off the doorway, he gives me one last peeved look before walking away. “Only now, I have a legitimate reason to hate you.”

His assessment of me is quick, but I do notice the dip of his gaze to my open robe. I cross my arms, but his eyes still linger a second too long on my short nightgown before he tilts his head to the side of his chair where both Éclair and Truffles are sitting, tails wagging.

Smoothing his hand over his short beard, he takes a long sip of tea, and my eyes can’t help but dip—again—to his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Standing up, his silk pajamas hang low on his hips as he presses his curled fists onto the table.

“I cannot wait for your downfall, Crèvecoeur. The day your god finally comes to retrieve you, to humble you through the one thing you love more than yourself—death, oh,” Wolfgang says with a cold laugh, gold canine appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I will spend my days dancing on your despicable grave.”

If I were to concede the ruler’s chambers to Mercy, I’d at least have some comforts from home. The mirror was one of them. A pinch of irritation flares behind my ribcage. I shouldn’t have let her have the rooms so easily. Not after what she did to me. I somehow got caught in a moment of atrocious human weakness. When I held her arm and she flinched, I could tell she was injured. The fall into the sacrificial pit must have been the root cause of her wound. Although every part of me, down to the very last atom, wanted to see her suffer, I let go. As if pulled by an invisible force. What was it about her pain that made me sway?

My mouth contorts with disgust as I take a small step back, continuing to study myself in the mirror. My gaze finds the fading scratch marks on my cheek just above where my beard begins. I’d have someone killed for much less, let alone disfiguring my image like Mercy did. Ineffable barbaric creature.

She might have craved the power attached to such an eminent title but the woman is a misanthrope at heart.

Admittedly, the feel of her warm, tight cunt around my fingers might have blurred the edges of my feelings toward her—if only for a few days. An infatuation that was hard to stomach and lined with a healthy dose of self-loathing.

Still, I’m much too close to Mercy for my liking. And my loafers are getting wet. Cherry and burnt almonds. I can almost taste it. It’s as if the rain has created a barrier between us and everything else and Mercy’s scent has nowhere to go but up my nose. I can’t stand it.

She might not enjoy the attention, but at least she dressed the part. Never in anything but black, she looks impeccable in a sleek dress that falls just below her knee. The only color on her pale white skin is a hint of blush on her cheekbones and pouty red lips. I nearly choked on my breath when I noticed she was wearing the same pearled stilettos as the night of Constantine’s little psycho soiree. I’ve been avoiding looking at her feet since.

“Ready?” the photographer mumbles from behind his camera. Simply having the lens pointed at me has me falling into a pose like second nature, my hand effortlessly landing on the small of Mercy’s back like I’ve done countless times before with other women. I feel her stiffen and I flinch, realizing my mistake.

By Mercy’s lack of reaction, I realize she’s heeding my warning—we must look like a team, not enemies. A part of me wants to take advantage of this moment, to taunt her like a cat to a dying mouse. How far could I take it before she snaps? It’s a fleeting thought. Because my palm burns as if my skin itself knows I shouldn’t be touching her.

My eyes can’t help but watch her disappear inside as I gingerly bring my palm up to the rain. It practically sizzles with relief when the drops hit my skin.

I’m uncertain if it’s the change of scenery or the implicit safety of knowing the answers to the questions before they are even asked, but Mercy has been considerably warmer in attitude since the interview began. An untrained eye could hardly tell she lacks any media training by how she’s answering Claire’s questions. I just might have underestimated her yet again.