A Dance Macabre (Perverse City, #1)

by Naomi Loud

I give Claire the go-ahead with a wave of my hand before I stretch out my left arm across the back of the settee. I realize too late that my hand is now only inches away from Mercy’s shoulder, and I curl my fingers into a fist to widen the space between us.

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.

I break the tension by letting a warm chuckle roll off my lips while I smooth a hand over my trimmed beard and stand up. “Claire, darling. An insurrection?” I ask, my voice as sweet as honey. Straightening my suit jacket, I button it closed while my hard stare pins her to her seat. My power tingles up my nape. The tether between us tightens. My grasp on her psyche strengthens. Her expression turns soft. Malleable. “That would be a waste of everyone’s time, don’t you think?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gouge your eyes out and feed them to the dogs.”

“Oh, and Bartholomew?” “Yes sir?” he chirps, shoulders straightening. “If you ever withhold this kind of information from me again,” I grit through clenched teeth, “I’ll let Constantine debone you like a roast duck for her personal collection. Understood?”

“Do you hear yourself, Vainglory? You’re being paranoid. Pamphlets? Please. Don’t make me laugh.” She tries to give me a hard shove, but I snatch her wrist before she can even hit the mark. “Let me go,” she hisses. “Or what?” I taunt. With her free hand, she tries to go for the dagger on her left thigh but I slap her hand away. “You’ll try to threaten me with your little dagger?”

Mercy might be clever but she’s still weaker than me, and I take advantage of that fact by slamming us onto the table behind her. With my upper body, I force her backward, her dress bunching up and over her knees. Before she can react, I slide my free hand over the top of her left thigh trying to reach for her dagger.

“You insipid waste...

“Get of...

I snicker as I savor feeling her struggle under me, my anger morphing into something much wilder. A carnal metamorphosis pulsing full of lust. “I recall you declaring that I w...

She lets out an infuriated shriek before her hand flies to my throat. I laugh when she squeezes hard, lacking the strength with just one hand to do anything but give me a pleasurable shiver down my spine. Hiking her dress even higher...

“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 he...

“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.” My hand slides higher, and I allow one finger ...

Her breath hitches and my gaze flies to meet hers, her eyes wild with flames. She grows still under me, and my finger lingers over t...

my eyes dip to her red-painted lips. It’s a split second but it’s enough for my cock to twitch in my slacks, and suddenly her skin on mine burns worse than it did before.

I turn to leave, but Mercy’s icy voice freezes me mid-step. “One day soon you’ll wake from your precious beauty sleep in agony and realize that I’ve cut off both your hands for ever daring to touch me.”

So no matter who the gods chose between us six, you would try to steal their rule?”

“Yes,” I answer with no remorse

“Even you.”

“I always knew you were a cold-hearted bitch,”

“If I had to guess, Wolfie is getting under your skin,”

The mention of Wolfgang’s name has me stomping my heels like a child, kicking at the fallen whisks and large metal spoons just to tame some of the fire burning behind my chest.

My throat tightens recalling our last encounter, earlier today. I could have fought harder, kneed him in the groin at least. But something about his touch made me pause. His exploratory fingers between my legs felt almost … familiar. His hands on me should make me want to kill him. Instead, I was mortified that his touch had aroused me and that he could feel how wet I was.

“The gods are punishing me, Gem. That’s the only explanation as to why I would be stuck ruling with the man I hate most.” Gemini snickers. “Maybe start with owning up to your mistake.” He twirls his fork at my face. “Cunning Cee-Cee, thinking she could outplay the gods.”

“This all looks effortless to him. The endless meetings, interviews, photo ops,” I add with exasperation. “I’m not good with people.” I brace myself for another of Gemini’s flippant remarks but instead, he says, “I don’t know, love. Sounds to me like maybe the solution is as simple as actually becoming a team, instead of simply pretending to be one.” My laugh is bitter. “Don’t be so foolish. There won’t ever be a time when Wolfgang and I will be friends, let alone partners.”

The violin notes become clearer with every step I take. The slow realization that it must be Wolfgang playing makes my heart speed up in itchy anticipation. Still, I’m unwilling to believe that a Vainglory is capable of such raw beauty—such enrapturing melodies.

Wolfgang, wearing his customary silk pants low on his hips, has the violin tucked under his chin, eyes closed shut and eyebrows squeezed in concentration. A few strands of brown hair fall over his forehead as he plays with abandon, his torso swaying with the music, abs contracting with the movements as if the violin dictates what his body should do or go next. He looks … so unlike himself. Like a devotee kneeling at the steps of musical worship. As if the music itself has cracked through his perfect image to reveal something much, much deeper. As if his mask is missing. And all that is left is … Wolfgang. And he is breathtaking.

I was … dreaming. Nausea roils in my stomach when I realize I was dreaming of him. I can hardly bear the thought. Thankfully the dream is elusive. It fades the more I try to pick at the details. But oh—does my body ache with the invisible memories of his hungry touch. I let out a large sigh, trying to focus on anything but the tormenting throbbing in my clit.

Try as I might, my mind drifts quickly to the one thing I’m trying to avoid as if caught in the eye of a storm. The one memory that has been anything but elusive. Wolfgang playing the violin. It’s nearly been a week, yet I can trace the curves of his flexing muscles playing that blasted instrument with my eyes closed. I ache with the desire to feel his hard body under my fingertips.

Luckily, I’m saved from having to further dwell on such vexing feelings when suddenly every wayward sensation in my body shifts. A cold pleasurable chill ripples through my limbs, ending at the crown of my head. A sated smile slips over my lips as I push myself up in bed. The call. From the only god I will ever serve with abandon. My beloved god of death. It beckons me now to do its bidding. Inviting me to walk the line between this life and the next, my dagger collecting souls with every bleed of the blade.

Warmth settles over me, the promise of death like a calming balm over my frazzled nerves.

My gaze lands on a vase of black orchids on the small writing desk near the door. I stutter to a stop and study them from afar. They must have been delivered when I was in the shower, most likely because it’s my birthday today. Not that I celebrate such a thing. When I step closer, I notice the card attached to it and pick it up to read. My eyes trail over the handwritten note. It’s signed from Wolfgang. Offering his birthday wishes. When the words sink in, I fling the card across the room as if it had spontaneously combusted. A swarm of butterflies explodes in my stomach, my heart drumming loudly against my ribcage as blood rushes through my ears.

“Heading somewhere, Crèvecoeur?” Wolfgang’s baritone voice slithers out from somewhere behind me, and I’m grateful I manage to hide the shiver that hearing his voice creates.

My eyes travel up his aubergine pinstripe suit, pausing on his fingers fidgeting with his signet ring on his left hand. Finally, I meet his serious gaze, and my stomach dips. I’m mortified, unable to control the flash of heat burning up my body at the sight of him.

He lunges for me. He’s fast, but this time I’m faster. My adrenaline spikes when my dagger digs under his chin, the skin taut under my blade. This time his laugh is a little heartier and it skitters down my spine like a cold shiver.

We’re at arm's length, but even from this distance, I can smell the vanilla in his cologne. It muddles my head with desire and I swallow hard. I twist my wrist, my eyes glued to his as the blade softly pierces the skin. Wolfgang hisses, revealing his gold canine and incisor, but his grimace slowly turns into a leering grin as he keeps still, his blue-gray eyes swirling with unspoken threats.

“I’m starting to think,” I muse, tracking the small drop of his blood down the blade. “That damnatio memoriae is a lesser punishment than suffering nineteen execrable years with you.” Releasing him, I bring the blade to my mouth. I’m mystified as to why I even do it. Wolfgang’s darkened gaze widens, seeming just as surprised as I am. It doesn’t prevent me from slowly licking the blade, my tongue collecting his blood into my mouth.

His taste, inexplicably sweet and with a tang of iron, explodes on my taste buds. I suppress a moan, my body engulfed by a roaring ripple of flames. Wolfgang studies me intensely, his chest still rising quickly as he swallows hard, his mouth ...

Wolfgang’s voice comes out hoarse, the rise and fall of the words laced with a staggering amount of need. “Let me come with you.”

I am not sure how I got here. And I don’t believe Mercy knows either.

There’s a small twinge of pain on the underside of my chin that pulls me out of my thoughts and without taking my eyes off her, I bring my hand up to rub where she nicked me. Forbidden heat travels up my spine at the memory of her licking my blood off her blade. The throaty groan she thinks I didn’t hear. I don’t know how I resisted the urge to slam her against the wall and taste myself on her tongue. Bite her lips and taste her blood in turn.

My responses to her actions are becoming steadily more confounding. And asking to witness the private worship of her god might be the most bewildering to date. But the fact that she accepted perplexes me the most.

Mercy lets out a long, loud sigh. “Better than pruning in a bath while plebeians pay you compliments like a vain little wolf,” she snaps as she steps back to survey the results. My lips twitch into a side grin, amused with how easy it is to annoy her.

I study her while she focuses on putting in a fresh roll of film. Her long black hair is swept back over her bare shoulders, a diamond necklace resting delicately across her neck. The tattoo of her family sigil—an open palm holding a flame—takes up most of her back and disappears underneath her corset. We were all made to get our family sigils tattooed on our backs when we turned eighteen, the same year that we were officially eligible for the Lottery.

She turns to face me, and I’m struck by the absence of her usual stern expression. As if something about this ritual has softened her edges.

“There are layers to my relationship with death. I can sense when someone is about to die.” I nod, aware of that side of her powers. She puts the camera back into the armoire and shuts the door. “But some souls, my god asks me to deliver personally, like this one.” She finds my gaze, her face still soft and open. “Those are the ones I burn myself. The ones I keep pictures of. It’s also why I collect tithe all year round.”

Aside from Mercy, the rest of us collect tithe for our gods on specific occasions called Tithe Season. It occurs four times a year. The last one was during the autumn equinox, the next will be during the winter solstice. Mercy, on the other hand, is free to collect anytime, anywhere. Makes me wonder if this is partly why she carries herself with such superiority. Nonetheless, I can’t deny the warmth blooming in my chest hearing her share this private part of her with me.

Mercy’s nearness crackles against my skin while I keep my hands in tight fists inside my trouser pockets.

“I didn’t wear the right shoes for this,” I say with a haughty sniff. Mercy pulls her fur coat closer to her face, her expression looking pensive. “Do you even own shoes for this?” I purse my lips at her small dig but stew in silence because she’s right. I am not one for nature—or panting, slobbering dogs for that matter.

One of the two dogs chasing each other suddenly runs up to me and drops a bone at my feet. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a humerus. I stop in my tracks and give the dog a side-eye. It sits at my feet, peering up at me expectantly while its tongue lolls out of its mouth. “What does it want?” Mercy’s giggle is so soft that I almost miss it. My eyes snap to her, convinced I must have heard wrong. There’s an ephemeral smile on her lips as she stares down at the dog, gone as soon as she looks up and finds me staring.