Page 1 of Mud

Chapter 1

Rosabel La Rouge

Present day

I sleep like the dead. On my back, limbs straight, mind empty and dark—so dark not a single color can exist to paint dreams for me when I’m sleeping. At least not in the past few months.

But even so, I was always half awake. Always listening to the silence of my bedroom. Always aware, even when I wasn’t.

The vibration of my phone was perfectly familiar to me. I could tell whether it was a text or a call, an email or another app notification by the intensity and length of the vibrations alone.

That’s how I knew thatthisone atthishour was…wrong.

Consciousness pulled at me, like a drop of water falling in the middle of an abyss, making the darkness ripple. I heard the sound of it in my mind—a bell ringing for my ears only.

My eyes opened, and though they were directed at the ceiling, I stillsawmy room—the nightstand lamps that were still on, the dark sky outside my window, the half-moon just visible in the far-right corner, which meant it wasn’t even two in the morning yet.

Two in the morning was nota time when I received texts—which was what the vibration of my phone just now announced. Phone calls, yes—I’d been called in for emergencies plenty of times before. Never by text, though. Not ever by text.

I didn’t allow myself to think. My mind was still dark, still processing my surroundings through my ears and my magic as I reached for the phone on my nightstand. I focused on the feel of the soft silk of the red sheets against my skin instead of the way my hand was shaking. My body knew something was wrong even if my mind didn’t want to catch upyet.

Until the phone, cold and lifeless, was between my fingers. Until I, with my breath still held, brought the screen in front of me and looked.

A text, indeed. And once my phone recognized my face, it showed me the name of the sender—Private Number.It showed me the text, too.

Two words. Only two words, but they were so big.So intense. So…final.

he escaped

My eyes closed. I put the phone against my chest and forced air into my lungs. Held it there. Let it go slowly.

He escaped.

As absurd as it sounds, I always knew I was going to read those words on a screen one day. It’s the reason why I had that prison guard on a payroll—to send me this very text.

But I thought I’d have more time. I thought I’d have more years. It hadn’t even been two—I thought I’d havefive.

Except life didn’t give a shit about what I thought or didn’t. Nobody cared about how much time I thought I’d have before my end. This was really happening, and I wasalmostsurprisedto realize it when I jumped off the bed and scanned my bedroom to make sure I was alone.

When I rushed to the closet, put on a pair of jeans and a shirt, my favorite leather boots that stopped just below my knees, and my thickest leather jacket to match.

When I grabbed a backpack hidden deep behind the fancy dresses my grandmother had had made for me in the past two years to attend events she didn’t even want me in, but had to tolerate to put up the perfect appearance for the people.

Almostsurprised.

There was a tiny compartment underneath my jewelry box—again, filled with silver and gold pieces I despised with my whole being, but my grandmother decided that I needed to own and wear whenever she pleased. In that compartment I’d hidden a creme-colored envelope that had only one word written on the back—Poppy,my cousin. The only person in the world I considered family,even if we hated each other just as much as we sometimes loved and sometimes tolerated one another’s company.

Her name was on the envelope because the letter inside was for her.

One year and eight months ago I’d written down every word, right after I’d prepared the run-away bag.

One year and eight months ago, when I knew for a fact that this day was going to come. My past was going to catch up with me, and I would no longer be safe even in my grandmother’s mansion.

There were no tears in my eyes, though the feeling of impending doomhung over my head and my heart beat loudly in my ears, the mix of fear and excitement so thick it coated my throat like honey. But my face remained perfectly neutral through it all. No expression on it whatsoever when I caught my reflection in the tall mirror I kept next to my door—as per Poppy’s instructions, so I could always see what I looked like just before going out.

I saw now—I looked exactly like I taught myself to look when showing emotions got me into more trouble than I could handle with my grandmother. Perfectly neutral on the outside until I sorted out the chaos in my head.

He escaped.

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