"Shut up!" I scream. "What the fuck is wrong with you people?!"
I yank harder at the ropes, my heart beating against my ribs. "Let. Me. Go!"
The Phantom King lowers his hands and the chanting stops.
There's a moment of silence and all I can hear is my own ragged breathing.
"When death comes to you, Keira Killaney," he says, cutting through the quiet, "may the faces of all the victims your family claimed be shown to you."
"I didn't do anything!" I yell back, my voice raw. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, you fucking psycho!"
He laughs. It's low, and the sound makes my skin crawl.
"Even now," he says, "you show no remorse."
"Coward!" I yell, thrashing against the ropes. "Hiding behind a hood so I can't even see you!"
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he steps closer to the railing, his hands rising to the edge of his hood.
He pulls it back.
The candlelight catches his face. It's old, weathered, with deep lines carved into his skin. On the left side of his face, just below his cheekbone, is some type of mark or scar. I can't tell.
The only thing I know for sure as I stare at him is that I do not recognize the man staring down at me.
"I don't know who the hell you are," I say, doing my best to hide the tremble in my voice.
"My name is Cormac Donoghue," he says. "Known to my followers as the Phantom King."
He then reaches into the folds of his robe and pulls out a blade. It's long, the edge catching the candlelight.
"I am the one," he continues, his eyes locked on mine, "who will soon spill your blood for the Morrígan."
My throat closes up and I can't swallow, can't breathe, can't think beyond the cold, sharp fear slicing through me.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then tucks the blade back inside his robe and pulls his hood up again.
"But first," he says, arms outstretched once more, "you must be prepared for the sacrifice. Your body must be marked by the Morrígan, so death may find you."
The chanting resumes, now faster. The robed figures move forward all at once, tightening the circle around me. Their red robes rustle with every step.
I thrash, yanking at the ropes with everything I have. My wrists and ankles burn from the friction, and my shoulders scream in protest, but I don't stop.
I twist, pulling harder. "I'm here with someone! He will come for me!"
Cormac starts laughing again, the sound echoing off the walls.
"The one you came with tonight?" he says, his voice laced with amusement. "What's his name? Ah, yes. Octavian Voinea."
I freeze.
My blood runs cold.
How the fuck does he know his name?
"Did you know," Cormac continues, his tone conversational now, almost friendly, "that his mother's maiden name is Ionescu? Do you know who they are?"
I don't answer.
