Page 47 of The Blood we Crave

“No more scary movies after mid—”

The stiff, bone-chilling whine of a door opening cuts me off.

The darkness and the unknown things that lurk there have never scared me. I’ve never been afraid of the bumps in the night or half-opened closet doors because I’d been face-to-face with my worst nightmare and survived. I’d seen the worst of humanity, what true evil looked like, and had walked out alive.

When I look into the mirror, the darkness everyone is terrified of stares right back at me. I have nothing to be afraid of when I am fear itself. Outside, I stayed the same girl, but the inside had turned into obscurity and death.

So I’m not surprised by myself when I turn back to face the door with little regard to what could be standing in the open doorway. My imagination conjures up all the horror movie villains and ghouls I’d ever seen, preparing itself for whatever demon or slasher awaits me.

The door is open barely an inch, cracked enough that I notice it’s ajar, but nothing beyond it makes a move to burst through. I sit there staring for a moment longer, patiently waiting for the inevitable jump scare, and when nothing comes out, I release a breath.

Could the wind have been strong enough to blow the weight of this door open? Even if it had been, how did it unlock? I had tugged and tugged on that handle when I first came up here. There was no way it was opened without the use of a key.

The logistics of how it stands there cracked open, spilling darkness, is only a brief thought. I stand up, dusting my pants off with the backs of my hands, careful not to rub my open wounds against the jeans.

There’s only the wind for a beat more before a metallic jingle echoes from behind the door. Its silvery harmony makes the hairs on my arms dance and my eyebrows lift.

It leaks from the exposed crevice, floating and tangling with the whistling of the wind. The music makes me think of the night I’d danced with Thatcher at the All Hallows Eve ball during our first semester.

The waltz had been stiff, one that we’d used as a distraction for Alistair and Briar to slip away undetected, he’d said once the last note was plucked. But even though we barely spoke, the feeling of spinning around on a waxed dance floor with him holding me had been a night I’d dreamed of for months.

The whimsical plucked melody does the opposite of its possible intended purpose. I’m not scared at all; I’m intrigued by whatever it is behind this door playing music that reminds me so much of how it felt to be held in Thatcher’s arms.

How it felt to waltz with death.

And walk away unharmed.

When I pull the door open further, feeling it resist my force, I pull a little harder until it’s open far enough that I can see inside. One single candle lies on the top of the first stair. I’d been right about the stone steps, identical to the material that makes up the walls around it.

The candle flickers, only reaching a short radius. I can barely see the second step down, and everything below it seems to just be obsidian darkness that swallows all the light.

Beside the golden candle holder that’s now covered in white wax sits the source of the melody—a square-based music box. I squat down, picking it up as the tune finishes playing. The dark wooden base is decorated with delicate white swirls that wrap around the entire surface. Every detail looks hand-painted.

My fingers trace the top, where a small silver cage sits. The shiny bars encase a faux death’s-head hawkmoth. It’s the most common in pop culture, due to the famousTheSilence of the Lambsand also for the notorious skull-shaped patterning on its thorax.

I turn the lever on the back, releasing it once the tension is tight enough, and I watch the moth inside the cage spin. It twirls in a circle, and for a second, I’m mesmerized by how beautiful it is.

Whether it was from Tabitha Flëur, who really did haunt the tower and had started to enjoy my company, or maybe someone more living, I don’t really care. The gift is appreciated.

“Thank you,” I whisper into the void, peering down into the lightless stairway with bated breath.

No voice returns the sentiment, but—

I can feel them.

The presence of someone skulking in the shadows just beyond the candle’s reach.

“Lyra!”

My name is whisper yelled in a soft voice from where I’d ventured into this room. I give one more glance to the dark before hurriedly sliding back into the room and shoving the door closed behind me.

I press my back against it, looking at the plywood on the floor moving before Briar’s blonde hair pokes through. Her eyes search the room before finding me.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Briar mutters from the hole in the floor, looking up at me with furrowed eyebrows. “You alright?”

I rub my sternum with my fist, trying to pet my heart into a steady rhythm again. There has to be a rational explanation for the music box, but right now, all my brain can come up with is that it had been a gift from someone.

If they meant me harm, they had their chance.

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