Page 36 of Throne of Secrets

Butter knives are not universal tools.

Also, splinters were not fun.

The fastest way to the subway station was via the narrow alley up ahead. Star slowed her pace.

Nope. Not happening.

Her parents had drilled street smarts into her head early: Never go down alleyways alone.

She checked the time again. If she didn’t make it to the entrance on the next block, she’d have to wait for the next train—and she hated waiting. She glanced around, saw a crowd forming near the crosswalk, and veered toward the outer edge of the sidewalk.

That was when the heel of her right shoe caught on a crack in the concrete.

“Whoa—”

Her ankle twisted. Her bags swung wildly. She stumbled forward in a flailing, uncoordinated ballet of arms, legs, and groceries. Somehow, miraculously, she managed to keep hold of the bags.

Her shoe, however, did not survive the incident.

The slender heel jammed into the crack, anchoring the shoe while Star staggered out of it.

“Seriously?”She stepped forward, felt the cold pavement beneath her stockinged foot, and turned back to glare at the traitorous footwear. The red-soled heel stood upright, wedged like King Arthur's sword in the concrete.

Determined, she set her bags down and marched over to it. Gripping the shoe with both hands, she pulled. Nothing. She yanked harder, twisting it back and forth. The thing wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered, sweat prickling at her temples. “You're just a shoe. Not Thor's freaking hammer.”

A putrid odor drifted toward her. Star wrinkled her nose and glanced at the overflowing garbage cans lined up along the sidewalk. The stink of rotting food and who-knew-what-else turned her stomach.

“Fantastic.” She tightened her grip and gave the shoe one last, mighty tug. With a sharp crack, the heel snapped off in her hands. The sudden release sent her flying backward. She landed with a wet splat on the grimy sidewalk.“Oh, crap! Really!”

Stunned, she stared at the broken heel clutched in her hand. Her favorite shoes. Sure, they'd been third-hand Louboutins, but still.Expensive as heck—well, technically $62 at the consignment store, but they had the iconic red soles. And now? They were worthless.

Star inhaled deeply in an effort to contain her frustration—and instantly regretted it. The stench hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes watered as the sour, gag-inducing odor of decomposing trash filled her nose. Her stomach lurched. “Oh, gross.” She scrambled to her feet, but the damage was done. The back of her skirt was soaked with … something. Something black and sticky oozed from beneath one of the cans.

“Oh my God.Really?” Gagging, she twisted to look at the back of her skirt. The mystery substance clung like tar. “And here I thought butter knives and Mafia hits were the worst part of my week.”

Frustrated and mad at the loss of her shoe and the probable loss of her skirt, Star lifted the trash can lid to toss in her broken shoe. But the moment the lid cracked open, a metallic tang hit her nose—sharp, coppery, distinct. She squinted her eyes, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the plastic liner. It took a heartbeat. Two. Then she realized what she was looking at.

Her breath froze. Her stomach dropped to her knees.

Beneath the layers of trash, tangled limbs twisted unnaturally. Pale skin, marbled and lifeless, peeked through torn plastic. A hand—fingers stiff and curled—rested atop the heap like some grotesque mannequin limb. Except it wasn't plastic.

Her lungs convulsed, dragging in the putrid air. She screamed. The sound ripped from her throat, loud and raw, cutting through the street noise—everything after that blurred.

Sirens. Blue-and-red lights flashing. Uniformed officers peppering her with rapid-fire questions. A patrol officer guided her away from the trash can, away from the mangled corpse, and toward the cruiser parked at the curb.

She sat stiffly on the car’s vinyl seat, hands gripping the handles of her grocery bags like lifelines. Her skirt stuck wetly to her thighs, the stench of rot and blood saturating the fabric. Her phone was still in her hand. With numb fingers, she swiped the screen and called Ethan.

The line rang twice.

“Hey,” Ethan answered, his voice warm and familiar. “Are you back already?”

“No,” she said, voice shaky. “There’s … been a situation.”

The shift in his tone was immediate. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

“Manhattan,” she whispered, glancing around for street signs. “I was running to catch the Q. My heel got stuck in the concrete …”

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