Page 34 of Tricked By Jack
My black and orange hair is hanging loosely down my back, with just a few seemingly casual braids throughout the mane. Dark liner and shadow frame my eyes, making the gray look almost metallic, while my lips are painted in a matte black color.
The dress is all contrast and control, tight where it needs to be, sheer where it shouldn’t be. It pushes my body into a sharp silhouette; the neckline plunges deep enough to feel like a threat.
Black tulle floats over my skin, layered over a corseted frame that doesn’t yield when I breathe. High slits part with every tentative step I take, but the fabric moves just enough to tease, not expose.
Beading traces across the structure like constellations sewn in shadow. The gradient shifts from solid to sheer, revealing slices of skin as if the dress is studying me back—learning what to hide, what to weaponize.
“Oh, and put these on.” She hands me a pair of flat shoes that I wordlessly accept.
I sit back down and put them on, tying the laces tight.
“You’re going to love what comes next,” she beams.
“And what’s that?” I ask, already knowing I won’t get a straight answer from her.
Shelby opens her mouth, but the words never come as the curtain is pulled back.
My heartbeat kicks harder as the masked courier steps into view. I know that shape now. The silence he wears like a second skin. The way the air changes around him—sharper, charged, as if the atmosphere itself is bracing for something I can’t quite name.
For a moment, he just watches. Then he lifts one gloved hand and points at me. “Run.”
I blink, confusion gripping me. “What?”
He steps forward with deliberate menace, lowering his hand to his side like a signal of impending doom. “Run. Now.” My brain seizes, thoughts crashing and spiraling out of control. I can’t comprehend the urgency.
He remains still, a looming shadow, not reaching out, not pursuing. His presence is a silent threat, and he drills that single command into my mind with a chilling insistence.
“Run.”
I tear past him, bursting through the flap into the night—and it’s no longer empty. People are everywhere, their sudden presence like the opening of a grand scene I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.
“Run, Little Bride.” His projected voice is everywhere, probably thanks to some fancy technology.
I race forward with reckless abandon, my lungs screaming in protest against the vise-like grip of the corset, my heart pounding violently in my throat like a war drum. My hair clings to my flushed face in damp, tangled strands. Somewhere behind me, I hear the steady rhythm of boots on stone—measured, unhurried, as if he knows I’ll come to him in the end.
As I burst into an open courtyard, I slam to a stop, my breath hitching in my throat. Flickering jack-o’-lanterns cluster near the perimeter like sentinels—leering faces dancing in and out of the fog.
People are swarming everywhere; dozens, no, hundreds of robed figures. They stand eerily still at first, like statues frozen in time. I stagger backward, soles sliding on damp flagstones veiled in fog and scattered petals, my laugh catching in my throat at how real it all feels.
They chant as they come for me. “One vow. One offering. One trick you’ll never forget.” The voices overlap and blend, perfectly timed, the kind of sound design that makes your skin prickle even when you know it’s part of the show.
I spin around and sprint once more, my breath comes in ragged gasps, my vision closing in around me. The chant swells, but beneath it I swear I can hear the low rasp of filtered breathing, steady and inescapable.
Then, my foot catches on something slick beneath the fog. “Shit,” I gasp as I catch myself on my hands, the jolt of impact startling but not enough to kill the rush.
Now that I’m down here, I get a good look at the ground and what’s making it so slippery. Black roses litter the stones—torn and scattered, like the remains of a prop from a scene that ended just before I arrived.
With no time to waste, I grit my teeth, pushing the agony aside, and scramble back to my feet. The fog thickens, closing in like a living thing as I weave through clusters of silent, shrouded figures that seem to materialize out of nowhere.
The air is filled with haunting whispers, and grasping hands reach out—not quite touching, just close enough to make the chase feel deliciously dangerous.
“One vow. One offering. One trick.”
A hand catches my wrist, making me scream as I wrench free. Blood pounds in my ears. I don’t stop until I see light ahead, a break in the mist. Something looms in silhouette.
The voices grow louder as I reach the end of my path. “One vow. One offering. One trick.”
A stage comes into view, rising a couple of feet above the ground. Upon it stands an altar of black stone. Black candles surround it, flames flickering in the soft wind like they’ve been waiting just for me.
