Chapter 1: Waking Up Dead

EMBER

Bones ache. Like cracked ice. Cold. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. Stench chokes. What ... oh. Iron. Rust. Wet? No. No. Blood. Sticky. On hands. Face. Teeth. 

Alive. Still.

So, breathe. 

Breathe. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Inhale. 

Don't be afraid, sprite. It does you no good and it makes you stupid. Swallow that fear. Even if it tastes like shit. Even if it cuts like razor blades. Swallow. It. 

Brother's voice echoes in my mind. Cough, cough, cough. Blood thick. Tastes awful. Ethan. I'm dying. You're waiting for me, right? 

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale. 

Noise. Door opens. Boots on concrete. 

Pain crackles. Lightning in belly. In heart. 

Breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

"I hate the Oublie. It stinks like rotten meat. Fucking torture chamber."

"Look. There she is." Pause. "Huh. I don't think she's dead yet. This bitch is tough."

"Don't let Becca hear you say that. She'll give you the hundred-cut punishment, too."

"Brutal. I didn't think the Wraiths did that old-school shit anymore."

"Haven't done it awhile. But Becca don't play."

"Damn. What did she do to piss off Becca?"

"She ... she told her she was gonna die today."

"Like a threat?"

"Like a predication. Becca straight-up asked for her Pitch Day. And Ember don't ever lie."

"Holy shit. This is Ember?" 

"Yeah. Haven't you ever---hey! What are you doing?"

"Bailing. I ain't touching her. Becca wants her gone, she can do it."

"She's just a corpse now, dude. But Becca's alive and she'll kill us, too, if we don't get rid of this body."

"But ghost girl ain't dead. She's breathing."

"So what? You think anyone can survive what happened to her? She'll die on the way to the Pitch."

"No. No way." Boots clomp. Door opens. 

New sounds. More people. Lots of footsteps. Then slow, heavy thuds. Metal clinks. Leather skreaks.

Then.

Wait.

Silence so heavy it crushes.

Is it him?

"What the fuck is going on?"

Shit, shit, shit. It really is him. Ryder. Fear thickens throat. 

Hurry.

Die.

Escape. 

"We didn't do it, man. Becca ganked her. We're just the clean-up crew."

"Now you're meat for the Pitch."

Scream. Crunch. Gurgle. Thump. Meat for the Pitch.

Ryder's raspy voice wakes me from the stupor. I manage to open my swollen eyes, but I can't see much. I smell him before he crouches down. Cigarette smoke. Sandalwood. Oily smell of worn leather. My stomach curdles. He draws his fingers across my bloody cheek. "Ember. My little moon flower." He stands up. "Get Becca. We're going to Judgment Hall."

You're special, sprite. What you can do ... it's a gift. And it's curse. Most people will hate you for it. A few will want you. Want what you can do for them. It's better to be hated than wanted. Understand?

Yes, Ethan. Big brother, I understand. 

"Get every single healer you can find. If they can't save her, they can't save themselves, either. And bring Mama Tear, too."

Cold. Feels like sharp ice ribboning under my skin. The same cruel chill scrapes my lungs. Presses my heart like twirled razor-wire.

Ghosts.

And death.

***|***|***

The ghosts whisper to me. In the endless. Endless. Endless. Dark.

HelpmehelpmecanIseehimagainjustoncepleasehelpmeIdontwannadiewhyamIdeadnotfairhelpmehelpmeshedoesntknowIlovehertellhertellhernonohelpmehelpmehelpme.

I can't help you. You're dead.

Heishereheishereheishereredsoulredsoulredsoulmoonflowerandredsoulheissearchingsearchingsearchingforyoumoonflowerheishere

Who?

Youwillseeyouwillseeyouwillseedemonkingdemonkingdemonking

Demon king? You mean Ryder.

Nothimnothimnothimredsoulandmoonflower

Cold.

Have I ever been warm?

Have I?

The dead have no warmth. 

So I have none, either. 

Cold.

I swim to consciousness. People surround me. Fingers on wounds. Pressing. Pressing. It hurts.

Can't stay here. Pain. Too much agony. Cold. So cold. 

Sink sink sinking.

Float float floating.

The ghosts whisper to me. In the endless. Endless. Endless. Dark.

***|***|***

EMBER

When I wake up, the pain is worse. I'm sitting up in a cushioned chair, my bloody body aching and itching. My eyes aren't swollen anymore, so I can see that we're in Judgment Hall. 

Next to me, Mama Tear with unsteady hands and missing teeth and rheumy blue eyes sews the cuts on my arms. Behind her, bodies. Healers, no doubt. Men and women who failed Ryder. 

I always avoid Judgment Hall because there are too many ghosts. Everywhere. Watching from dark corners. Slipping through the crowd, pale hands dragging across living flesh. Others, too broken by violent death to manifest fully, are piles. Arms. Legs. Heads. Mismatched puzzle pieces. I am not sure if ghosts feel pain, but these torn-up spirits moan and weep pitifully. 

I'm so cold my teeth chatter. I looked down at my lap. Shredded pants gone. Now, just bare legs with dozens and dozens of stitched lines. I'm wearing one of Ryder's T-shirts, but I feel the irritation of more stitches on my chest. Torso. Back. 

"My little moon flower," Ryder says from the throne next to my makeshift resting place. "Mama Tear is almost done tending your wounds."

I hear her now. Whispered prayers as the silver needle pierces my skin. She's scared. She wants the gods to protect her. They won't, I want to tell her. They don't care. I don't feel the poke of the needle or the slide of the thread. Too much hurts already. 

I hate it here. Hate him. Ryder. He's been waiting for the moon flower on my inner wrist to bloom.

Ryder didn't wait because he treasured my innocence.

He waited because Mama Tear said my ghost-whispering ability would be fully realized only after the tattoo took its final form ... and that would only happen if I remained virginal and pure.

Later, she told me: Let Ryder think your tattoo is a heavenly gift. He don't believe in much, but he won't offend the gods.

I didn't want stronger or better abilities. Isn't living half in this world and half in the next enough of a power? But it's not like I ever had a choice. And Ryder likes power more than anything else, so he cultivates patience while he guards me from everyone else.

I never wanted my mark to change. Because when the moon flower bloomed, nothing would stop Ryder from claiming me. The idea of his rough hands and chapped lips and filthy body writhing on mine made me want to puke. 

But this morning...