Dark Fates

Marked Heather Hambel Curley

Chapter 1

Awake.

I opened my eyes to darkness. My nostrils flared at the putrid stench, and I scrambled upward into a sitting position. Death. I knew that smell—the sweet coppery smell of blood, the tangy odor of rotted flesh.

And I knew... I remembered...

Nothing.

I groped my hands around me, fumbling through the dark until my fingertips brushed against cool stone. It was damp. A chill ran through my body and I shivered; my body trembled so violently that I almost lost my footing.

As I stood, half-hunched over and half-slumped against the wall, my eyes were drawn to a flicker of light across the stretch of dark in front of me. Fading fast; dying.

Dying.

It dawned on me that I wasn't bound or chained. But was I alone? How did I get here? I had no recollection of anything, where I was, who I was. Who I'd been.

I crept forward, edging my way across what I assumed was a room or a cell, until I drew closer to the light. Wrapping my arms around my body and hugging myself, I stopped .

A candle. It was burned down almost to a nub of off-color wax and crammed into a loosely soldered tin holder. I glanced down; it had been on a tall, wax-covered stool—it seemed familiar—and next to it was an empty box. Narrow. Wooden.

As I moved the candle downward to see the box better, I saw the bottom of a foot—dirty and bare, the skin calloused and flaked with dried blood.

The scream that bubbled up in my throat was choked and garbled. Pain seared from my windpipe to my chest. My knees buckled underneath me, and I sank to the floor. The candle dropped to the ground before me and rolled forward. Shit.

But the flame stayed lit.

I stayed still, immobile like a stone. The figure never moved. After I took a moment to gather my thoughts, I crawled forward. As I lifted the holder, the flame shimmied on what was left of the wick. I shook. I couldn't stop, I couldn't breathe.

I lowered the candle. The figure was slumped on the floor, dressed in a filthy blue skirt. It was torn away somewhat at her waist, and the bodice was gone, revealing a gold-hued corset. Her skin was mottled, her hair soaked with blood; a pistol was in her hand.

No more. I covered my mouth and nose with my hand, gagging at the stench of rot. God. What was left of her face was familiar. I'd seen her before, I knew it. She was dead and I was alive, but that fact brought more questions than answers.

I leaned over again, prying the pistol from her death grip. The gun was heavy, with a long barrel. I wasn't sure I actually knew how to shoot a gun or if this one was even loaded. It was better than nothing.

Swinging my arm outward as I turned, I slowly moved it in an arch, from one side of my body to the other. The candle was small and shone hardly enough light to illuminate the dead girl's corner, but it was enough. The room looked like a cellar. The ground was hard-pressed dirt and the walls stone; other than the stool and the corpse, it was empty.

And directly across from me was a staircase.

My body trembled. We'd been sent down here for a reason. My brain ached to remember. It was there, it was right at the forefront of my mind...but I couldn't grasp it. How long were we down here? The girl's body was well into decomposition, but the candle remained lit. She must have lit it right before she pulled the trigger.

Assuming we were the only two down here.

I bristled. I'd assumed I was alone before I found her, and I assumed we were the only two now. I could be wrong. My stomach turned; I had a sense of being wrong before, of something happening that I—that we'd—tried to stop. To shut out.