The demons enjoyed feeding on us, sucking our souls from our bodies, stealing marrow from our bones, and draining our life force—blood. Which was why I danced. To keep them away.
Tonight, the thumping of the drums pulsed in rhythm with the beating of my heart, the rising crescendo welcoming the crowd to the moonlight ritual. They arrived at the vaulted atrium with great fanfare, the men wearing fine suits, the women in their best dresses, children clad in pristine white, all bearing witness to a rite as ancient as the city itself.
The crisp mountain air left me shivering as I poised on the fringe of the amphitheater with my fellow Rift Dancers, watching the surge of bodies take their seats, waiting for the welcoming drums to complete their rhythm.
Platters of fruit and goblets of wine were passed out, refreshments for those who watched. After the performance, all the dancers would be invited to take part.
Above me, white columns shot up to the night sky, and among them rose marble statues, carved in the likeness of old gods who had created this haven. To the left lay the wide stairs that led to the Sacred Palace, which perched just above, overlooking the amphitheater. Pale moonlight glimmered over the mountain peak, making the palace appear like a hunched monster. My throat went dry, my ears ringing as the past threatened to destroy my self-control. For a breath the amphitheater seemed to tilt, the torchlight smearing at the edges of my vision, before it steadied.
The drummers swayed, the thrumming beat slowing to a murmur.
A hand touched the bare skin of my lower back.
I flinched.
The Rift Mother’s voice came low and urgent in my ear. “Gazelle, it’s your time to dance.”
“I’m ready,” I said, pushing away the twinge of annoyance at her reminder.
I’d done this every full moon for the past five years. Of course I was ready.
Lifting my red silk skirt, I stepped out into the moonlight.
Silence suffused the amphitheater as every eye fell on me. My skin prickled at being watched so closely, scrutinized, as though they feared I would make a mistake. As the Lead Rift Dancer, I was the one they depended on. All I had to do was dance the steps of the sacred ritual, elegantly, perfectly, and renew the magic that kept us safe from the demons.
I took my place in the center, toes pointed, arms lifted, head bowed. The sheer material hung around my body, clinging like a whisper against my skin, but when I danced it would feel like water. The stones were warm from a day’s sun, cooling under the velvet wings of night.
The music began with strings—mournful, heart-wrenching. The drums came later, followed by chimes, the vibration of wind and water threaded between each note. I moved, eyes closed, acting out the ritual of life and love, of sacrifice and sorrow, drifting to each of the four statues, body bowed in reverence, honoring them.
I leaped and twirled, arms thrown wide, giving my body over to the familiar movements. Power surged through me as though the air understood my request, and a humming began deep in the bones of the mountain as magic rippled forth.
My heart clenched, as though a fist had reached inside my chest and squeezed it. My bare feet scraped against rock, hard enough to draw blood. I stumbled, breaking the rhythm of the dance, gasping for breath.
Pain lanced through me, tightening as it seized my throat. Heat fired in my head, accompanied by a throbbing so fierce I thought I might faint. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it released me.
I bent forward, chest heaving, the cough barely suppressed.
By sheer force of will, I pushed myself back into the dance and finished.
Darkness gathered at the edges of my vision as I dragged myself from the amphitheater. I stopped to lean on a column while another great cough wracked me. It always felt like this: fingers reaching inside me, the magic taking, ripping something away. But it had never been this bad before. Never made me lose my footing and falter out of the movements.
The thunder of applause filled the air, but a hollow ringing began in my ears as I stumbled away. A hand brushed my shoulder, but I recoiled, not wanting anyone to see me like this.
The drums started up again, and the rest of the Rift Dancers flitted into the amphitheater. I was the opening act, a night of revelry would follow.
My time, though, was over. Trailing one hand along the wall, I followed the path that went around the amphitheater so I could be alone. I coughed the entire time, something rising in my throat, tickling, itching, refusing to rest. When I took my hand away, a smear of red caught my blurred vision.
Red. Blood.
This was what happened to the last Lead Dancer. She danced until the magic consumed her. Memories of her coughing, stumbling, unable to walk, and eventually becoming bedridden flashed through my mind. I assumed it was because she’d fallen ill, but now real fear took me. What if I had the same symptoms, the same affliction? I was too young to taste death on the back of my tongue.
Come to me.
A whisper nudged me as the ringing in my ears grew louder. Ignoring it, I quickened my pace, wanting to get away, to be unseen. Then, at the last moment, instead of continuing to the Sacred Palace where the Rift Dancers lived, I pivoted to the catacombs where others were afraid to go, claiming evil spirits lingered. My feet seemed to choose the turn before I did. But I wasn’t afraid. I’d closed the rift. The magic was potent. It would hold this night and many nights to come.
An object loomed in my path. I tripped and hit my shin. A curse escaped my lips as I lost my footing, tumbling to the ground and rolling. I smacked my head against something hard and lay stunned, breathing raggedly.
When I regained my senses, I opened my eyes and pushed to my feet. Nothing but blackness in every direction. Quiet pressed around me, the thump of music far away. I did not kno how long I had lain there.
I set one hand on the wall and took a step, then another, wondering if, in my disorientation, I’d passed out. Eventually, I’d find my way out. I simply needed to follow the corridor back to the moonlight.
Faint light appeared, and I moved toward it, stumbling. My feet were raw, my body still recovering from the weakness that flooded it. I needed to sink into the heated pools in the palace and let myself heal. Why hadn’t I gone there, instead of being drawn into the darkness?
A shadow moved past the light.
My breath hitched, and I stopped.
The shadow shifted, revealing the shape of a man rising from a red velvet chair. Of all impossible things.
Startled, I cried out and pressed myself against the wall. He came no farther, holding still, until I wondered if I’d seen what I thought I’d seen. I took another step toward the pale light. Instead of moonlight, it was lamplight, sconces glowing on either side of the passage as though someone had recently lit them.
Understanding dawned, and with it, horror. I’d walked in the wrong direction. Down into the bowels of the labyrinth, where the tunnels eventually led to hell. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I shifted, and there, in a shallow alcove, the shadow waited.
It was a man. Arms crossed, leaning against the stone, watching me with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world. Black hair curled around his ears and collar, his shirt open at the throat, loose and half-laced, baring pale skin my eyes caught on before I could stop them. A citrus-edged scent wafted from his direction. He looked as though he’d just come from bed, rumpled, unbothered and half-dressed. Demons were said to shift their shape, to seem attractive to the one who beheld them. It was the only reason I could name for the pull already tightening low in my belly.
“You can’t be here,” I whispered. “I sealed the barrier against demons.”
He shrugged. “I’m not a demon.”
I licked my lips, the back of my neck itching with a warning. Demons were notorious liars too. “But you’re not one of us.”
“No.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” A pause. “You’re one of the Rift Dancers, aren’t you?”
Dread coiled. I should have fled, but I was sore and wanted nothing more than to lie down. “Yes. How do you know?”
He straightened, and his shadow crawled down the wall. A distinct sound, like the clicking of claws, came as he took one step closer. “I know because I’ve been waiting for a dancer to make a mistake. For the bonds to loosen. It’s not as secure as you might think.”
A cough built up in my chest. “So you are a demon.”
“No. I’m trapped here, between the land of the living and the dead.”
The irony of what he was trying to make me believe forced a bitter laugh, which only set my throat tickling again. I pressed a hand to my chest, but the cough ripped through me anyway, my eyes stinging, the taste of iron in my mouth. When it ceased, I was scraped hollow, my vision blurring again. I slumped to the floor, leaning my head against the wall to catch my breath.
“That doesn’t sound good,” he said.
“It’s never been like this before,” I rasped.
“You need to stop dancing.”
“I can’t.” The pain in my chest faded to a dull throb. “The demons will come in.”
The man made a sound in his throat. “They won’t. You need a new dance, a new ritual to seal the rift without sacrificing your soul.”
I stared into the shadows, studying him in the low light. “How do you know about the ritual? The rift? The dance?”
“I know because I’ve always been here.”
I squinted at him, the pit of dread rising, closing my throat. It wasn’t possible. He must be passing through this city. “Why are you here?”
“I felt the magic of the dance go wrong, and then I sensed your presence. I can’t explain it, but I felt you and I knew to come here.”
My body coiled at the possessiveness of his words. He had no right to feel my presence, as though we were connected. I pushed to my feet, every muscle drawn tight as I held his gaze. “Come into the light.”
When he moved toward me, the sound of clicking came again. He was tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in clothing that moved with him as if it were also alive. Black hair fell over his forehead, and his jaw carried faint stubble as though he hadn’t had the time to shave. Unlike my people, his skin was pale, a contrast to my honey-brown. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart.
Green. Vivid. Piercing. Like emeralds lit from within. They fixated on me with a force like a punch to my chest, as though he could see through flesh and bone to the trembling soul beneath.
I recognized him, somehow, as though meeting a twin for the first time, my own reflection thrown back. A jolt of connection hummed between us, and something low and uninvited moved through me, making me want to step forward, run my fingers through his hair, trace the shape of his mouth, and feel the spread of his palm against my bare skin. I wanted it with a suddenness that appalled me.
I backed away. “Who are you?”
“I am the Hollow King,” he said. “Ruler of the spaces between, master of forgotten places and forsaken things.”
He leaned closer, so that I caught his scent. Something rich like wine, bold like spices, and dark like tobacco smoke with that same citrus undercurrent. I had to brace myself not to sway into him. My body answered before my mind could refuse it. It made my head swim, and warmth moved low through my belly.
“And perhaps,” he said, “in time, something far more dangerous than any of that.”
Every instinct screamed for me to close the distance between us, when I should have been running away. For one heartbeat, my body refused to obey, every nerve angled toward him. It took sheer determination for me to gather my failing strength. Gritting my teeth, I spun around and fled, telling myself the pull would fade with distance. Telling myself I believed it.
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