Excerpt
The Lies that Summon the Night
Chapter OneInanaThe first time I whispered a story to the wind, it was with the certainty that it would end in my death. I may have been a child then, but I understood the implications of the crime I was committing. To perform art is to lie, to lie is to sin, and to sin is to attract the shadows that haunt the dark. Still, instead of running from what I’d done, I waited with bated breath, safe in the sunlight, while my eyes were locked on the woods at the edge of my village. I hardly dared blink for fear I’d miss the telltale sign of movement darkening between the trees. Some indication that I’d stirred a shadow monster’s hunger.
When an hour passed and no such danger presented itself, I wasn’t relieved.
I was disappointed.
Not because I wanted to die; I wanted to feel alive. To quell the longing inside me, instilled not by sin but by holy scripture.
There is no lie greater than fiction,
No sin more beautiful than art.
Stray not unto these pleasures,
For the devil is their muse.
Gods, the way those lines moved me back then. Though they were meant to serve as a warning not to partake in the forbidden arts, they never sounded like one to me. They sounded like a calling. A challenge. Could I weave a tale so fascinating the devil would take notice? One so beautiful the Shades that plague humanity would seek my death?
That wasn’t the last time I breathed fiction into the world. It was only the beginning, and eventually storytelling spelled my doom. Twice I was caught for my crimes.
The first time, it cost me the man I loved.
The second time, my freedom.
Yet it’s funny how captivity is the place I’ve felt most free. On nights like tonight, at least.
A windowless room beckons me from up ahead. I keep my breathing steady as my companions and I proceed down the dim corridor toward it. We’re silent save for the soft padding of our slippered feet, the air between us buzzing with a palpable blend of terror and anticipation. We know what awaits us, for none of us are new to performing at the Wretched Lair.
There are more than a dozen of us tonight, all of us artists and outlaws. At age twenty-six, I am neither the youngest nor the oldest. My colleagues range from a girl in her teens to a man twice my years. Most, like me, are indentured to Mr. Rockefeller, the well-dressed gentleman who leads our entourage. The rest have already earned out their contracts and are here by choice to make a living. In two years I’ll be among them. Another year after that and I’ll have earned enough to buy safe passage off this f***ing continent.
I just have to survive until then.
A shiver crawls up my spine as the first strain of music reaches my ears, a lilting melody plucked on some stringed instrument. Such a chilling sound when all forms of imaginative art are forbidden. I should be used to it by now. After one year in Mr. Rockefeller’s custody, one year of performances at the Wretched Lair, I’ve heard my share of music. Yet I don’t think it will ever sound less haunting. Less enchanting.
The closer we draw to the doorway, the louder the melody grows, as do bursts of laughter and chatter. I brace myself for the sharp scent of liquor that floods my nostrils, hoping I don’t smell the iron tang of blood along with it. If there are any Sinless in attendance tonight . . .
I swallow the ball of fear that rises in my throat. Mr. Rockefeller may hold enough sway over his fellow aristocrats to keep us safe from them, but he cannot promise the same with the Sinless.
At least all of us are masked, our identities further obscured by identical garb: silk robes in deep scarlet with ribbon closures from waist to neck and matching veils over the backs of our heads. No one will see my red-blond hair or freckled cheeks. They’ll hardly notice my gray irises through the eye slits. All they’ll see are the different designs on our masks—the only things that set us apart, save for our varying heights and builds. My mask is embellished with an elegant floral filigree and a halo of narrow spikes that resemble sunbeams, all of which trail bronze beads that rustle and sway with my movements.
We cross the threshold at last, the transition from the dark corridor to the brightly lit room temporarily blinding me. I blink to adjust to the glow of the glittering crystal chandeliers suspended overhead, their golden light made even more brilliant by the gleam reflected off the silver walls, floor, and ceiling. It’s bright enough to send a throbbing ache to my temples, though I should be grateful. Silver and light are the two things that ward off Shades—shadow monsters that manifest from human sin.
That was the original purpose of this room, to serve as an underground emergency bunker. Sacred Cities like Nalheim are surrounded by towering silver walls as well as a dome of light cast by a Holy Brazier at the city’s center. Bunkers like this one provide a haven for the aristocracy to flee to should Nalheim’s primary protections be compromised. Yet instead of reserving his sanctuary for such a cataclysmic event, Mr. Rockefeller turned it into a social club for the upstanding city elite. A place to safely give his peers a taste of sin.
Rockefeller leads us to the center of the party, where we fan out to allow our audience a full view of tonight’s entertainment. Despite the lack of windows, the room is what I imagine a parlor in a palace would look like, with velvet-upholstered wingback chairs and tables laden with decadent food. The silver walls are etched in a damask pattern, the silver ceiling is coffered, and the silver floors are polished to a shine. Such an extravagant display of the continent’s most coveted metal.
A few sets of eyes dart our way, but most of our patrons are still engaged in conversation or deep in their drinks as they sprawl about on the furniture. They’re dressed in their finest frock coats, top hats, and ball gowns in bright silks, laces, and brocades. Like ours, their faces are hidden behind masks, but theirs are featureless porcelain where ours are works of art, proof that they are not sinners like we are. They don’t participate in the unlawful arts. They only watch. Judge. Bask in the splendor of the very thing they publicly condemn.
The melody shifts to a new tune, and I catch sight of the musician, seated in the lap of a slender male. She wears no mask, her eyelids heavy, pupils blown wide. Her fingers remain lithe and active on her harp despite her slumped posture, the bleeding punctures on her neck, and the roving pair of hands that climb up her petticoats and over her stockinged thighs.
My blood goes cold.
I recognize her. She only worked at the Wretched Lair on occasion, having earned out her contract with Mr. Rockefeller years ago. I haven’t seen her in months. Now I know why, just like I know what kind of man sits behind her, even without looking at his face. It’s written in the effortless grace that lines his posture, in how brightly he seems to shine, as radiant as the chandeliers and silver walls around him. But that’s merely because he’s the only person in the room who doesn’t cast a shadow.
For the Sinless have no shadows.
Absolved of sin, freed from aging and death, the Sinless reign over humanity as the purest of us all. Since they are the only beings who don’t attract Shades, they are above reproach.
My jaw tightens. I lift my gaze from the puncture wounds on the woman’s neck to the bloodstained lips of the Sinless male. Like the musician, he wears no mask, revealing his sharp cheekbones and empty blue eyes, his golden hair that falls over his forehead. He has no reason to hide who he is or what he does. No reason to feed from his sacrifice in private. He can claim who he wants as his blood source and force them to consume his blood in turn, making them his obedient thralls.
Mr. Rockefeller welcomes his guests and announces the start of tonight’s entertainment. Forcing my attention away from the Sinless and his thrall, I stride to an empty marble box, lifting the hem of my robe as I step up on it. Throughout the room, my companions do the same, some with musical instruments, others holding paintbrushes, sketchbooks, or other artistic tools. A few are empty-handed like me, though I won’t remain so for long.
Clasping my fingers at my waist, I stand tall. Pretend to be fearless as I make myself a target of interest. Despite the anonymity my mask provides, I always feel naked during this part. Too seen. Too vulnerable. But I refuse to let it show.
Mr. Rockefeller weaves through the crowd, whispering temptations to our patrons.
The Blade juggles knives without drawing a single bead of blood.
The Bard has the scarred hands of a killer yet the voice of an angel.
The Lover waltzes like a prince from the forgotten faerytales of old.
The Harlot has thighs as smooth as silk and a pen that will draw you between them.
The Seamstress stitches a tale of horror and hope that will tug on your heartstrings.
None of us go by our true names, not even with one another. Long gone is Inana Westwood, replaced by the Seamstress. Thanks to the gossip my master spreads, a small audience soon grows around me, hungry for the Seamstress’s fare.
