The Hollow Ball

Chapter 9

When I opened my eyes, I was underwater. It was the same waters that choked me the night I found the woman in Hannover Forest—when the man took her life and I felt every moment of it.

This time, the water did not pour down my throat and strangle me like a scorned lover's betraying embrace. Instead, I floated in the near-total darkness in serenity. I did not breathe but did not choke. The fluttering sensation of weightlessness eased my nerves. I felt... safe.

Why did my dreams bring me back?

The water was warm against my skin and sweetness settled onto the tip of my tongue when the white shimmer of scales rippled in the corner of my eye.

Or at least, I thought they were scales.

The iridescent colors undulated in and out of the darkness, circling me with the same sweet curiosity. I felt it touch my arm, and then my hair and a foreign force danced across the barriers of my mind, pushing and prodding me to find a way in.

Don't be afraid, it coaxed in a gentle whisper. Let me in. Please, let me in.

Whereas the Shadow in the forest felt cold and dangerous, this force was tender and careful. How could I say no?

I'm not going to hurt you, it ensured me with another push against my mind. The next push was stronger. My chest ached. I need to know something. Please, let me in and find it.

Tell me, I thought back. Maybe I can help you.

I need to know... it replied gently.

Know what? I pressed.

If it's you. If you've returned to me at last.

* * *

I enjoyed storms. Ever since I was a little girl, the cracks of white lightning across the cloud-filled sky enthralled me. I envied the way storms controlled and commanded the sky—unmatched—bending all to their will—-even if only for a short time.

Storms had the power to bring kingdoms to their knees, to turn the mightiest harbors into splinters, and, with one crack of lightning and enough vengeance, burn a forest to the ground.

    If I offered my soul to the storms, would they take it? If only to free others from my fate?

Standing at the gates of Hunting Hollow Cementary, I was thankful for the numbness the icy rain brought. I'd dealt with too many emotions today: one fitting with Mother and the seamstress; a grueling hour arguing with my father, refusing to sit pretty for a portrait where they'd paint a coy smile on my face even as I bared my teeth; looks filled with pity or awe or both.

And that damn tickle on the back of my neck from invisible eyes.

I needed to feel nothing for a little while.

Situated on the cliffside overlooking the marina, Hunting Hollow Cementary waited patiently for our recurring appointment. The frothy black sea below was as gaunt as the sky above it—boats of every size scattered across the crescent-shaped bay, the choppy waters restless and turbulent.

Another week of storms.

More bodies burned on the beach.

Only three weeks until the Ball. Until everything was over.

Sensing my presence, the rusted metal gate groaned open, and I scurried under the covers of the willows that draped themselves over the graveyard. There were no gravestones for the recent deaths. For many of the First Families, their dead were housed in ornate mausoleums or clustered in specific plots separated by smaller fencing. For more recent deaths, graves were marked with small flags scrawled with their names.