Chapters (42)
- TITLE PAGE
- COPYRIGHT PAGE
- DEDICATION PAGE
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I froze when I heard clonking footsteps on the stairs to the second floor. The ceiling above me creaked, and then came soft, hooting laughter. Maybe the Mazikin had gone upstairs to join his brothers and sisters. Luckily for me—it meant I wouldn’t have to find a way to kill him quietly before I rescued the boy. After a few moments, the laughter quieted and the creaking stopped. I continued my slow progression toward the front of the house.
I tiptoed my way up the hall, careful not to touch the walls, some of which dripped with what I was pretty sure were various bodily fluids, viscous and cloudy, drying in raised beads and thin smears. A row of holes had been punched in the plaster, and at the end of the hall lay a clump of brown, curly hair, held together by a black-crusted, shriveled hunk of flesh. I swallowed my disgust and turned the corner to the parlor.
My stomach dropped.
There, illuminated by the light filtering in through tattered lacy curtains from one of the unboarded windows, sat a low, heavy table.
Four pots full of ashy, smoking incense surrounded it. To each of its legs was tied a length of rope. The frayed ends of each rope were stained reddish brown. This was their altar, the place where they tied their victims to perform their possession ritual. “My God,” I muttered.
“Who are you?” someone whispered.
He was close. I blinked, venturing past the stairs that led to the second floor. My knife at the ready, I glanced up to see nothing but darkness at the top of the steps, and so I returned my attention to the parlor. Crouched by the window, his hands tied to the radiator, was the boy, maybe a year or so younger than me. He was trembling, stripped to a filthy, formerly white T-shirt in the cold air of the unheated house. His arms were covered in claw marks, nasty, oozing red gashes. His bright-green eyes, round with terror, peeked out from under matted dark-blond hair. Tears streamed down his cheeks and cut narrow paths through the grime on his face.
A voice from my past echoed in my ears: Ana, a Guard in the dark city, telling me how she knew Nadia hadn’t been possessed by the Mazikin yet: Nadia had been crying.