Page 37 of Cursebreaker

“Watch your step,” he says, leading me up onto a plateau of rock.

I stare at my feet as we drag Will onto the overlook, but when I lift my gaze…

I gasp. “Is this—”

Owen’s smirk doesn’t reach his eyes. “The Lake of Eternal Fire.”

I struggle to catch my breath. Heat radiates from the vast chasm, black smoke billowing into the sky. The cloud reflects the light of the fire, flames lapping at the walls of the blackened gorge, a mesmerizing, centuries-long dance.

The entrance to Havok, the realm below.

“Do we… jump?”

Owen’s laughter seems genuine. “No.” He shakes his head, angling his body toward the base of the mountain. “Nothing quite that exciting.”

He places his hand on the charred rock, chanting something too low for me to hear. Stone scrapes stone, opening to reveal a dark stairwell.

Owen halts at the first step, his brow furrowed. “It was always going to be this way,” he says quietly.

I hold his gaze. “I know.”

He lifts his foot, as if to take a step, but—

“Wait,” I say, my heart beating painfully against my rib cage. “We go together, right?”

He presses his lips in a tight line, his expression somber. “We go together.”

And it’s my brother’s presence that gives me the strength I need to take the first step down into darkness.

Instantly, the rocks seal us inside, and we’re plunged into pitch-blackness. The air turns to ice, as if the flames that rage beyond the door have all been extinguished. But rather than stepping down, following the path of the staircase, we emerge, dreamlike, into a long stone hallway, illuminated by torches lit with blue flames.

The stench of death and decay causes me to retch, and Will groans as Owen leads us down the passageway. I hardly register the sadness in Owen’s eyes when we reach the end of the hall and he knocks, just once, on an unremarkable iron door.

Will’s hand squeezes my shoulder, his grip feeble. Still, a feeling of calm passes through me.

It doesn’t last.

The door opens, and that’s when I hear the screams.

Following Owen through the doorway feels like falling into a nightmare. Darkness consumes the throne room, broken only by the occasional blue torch. When I look up, it’s as if every star in the heavens had burned out of existence, leaving only an endless void that presses down on us, as oppressive as the Stalker’s hold, curling around my heart. I glance back at the doorway to find it’s gone. There are no doors. Only shadows.

And in those shadows, thousands of red eyes. There are more than just the five types of Underlings I know of—Gores and Stalkers and Sylks, Shifters and Changelings. Figures take shape—gruesome beasts with sharp teeth, sinister beings with sallow skin that appears to melt from their bones, giant insectoid creatures, and tiny, hunched things with long, claw-tipped fingers that shriek with laughter. Wolves with skin like stone and wings like bats.

The metallic bite of iron assaults my senses.

Blood chants, the staccato drumming of a death knell.

I blink, willing my sight to adjust to the darkness, but smoke stings my eyes, blurring my vision. Everywhere I look, I’m met with some new horror, because what I had not thought to prepare for is that I am not the only human in Havok, and Will is not the only Nightweaver.

It’s easy to spot which humans and Nightweavers work for the Underlings, all marked with the crest of Deimos, the three-headed dog—Morana’s insignia—in some way or another, whether it’s tattooed on their face, carved into their skin, or embroidered onto their coats. That, and they’re not strung up like butchered cattle to be tortured like those who are not here of their own free will.

I look away from the corpse of a human man in an iron cage, picked over by tiny Underling creatures, attempting to orient myself within the throne room. I locate the dais, composed of what appears to be jagged shards of frozen blood. And there, sitting on one of the two thrones composed entirely of bones, is Annie, wearing a ruffled black dress, her dark curls adorned with a crown of iron spikes, her smug, haughty expression giving her the appearance of having lived hundreds of lifetimes.

My heart sinks, and I cover my mouth to stifle a sob as Owen drops Will, and he slides to the ground with a dull thud.

Annie—Morana—smiles. It’s a broad, eerie smile that doesn’t belong on Annie’s childlike face, and it fills me with such rage—the smile, the torture taking place around me, the screams and the laughter—that I reach for my daggers. But the instant I unsheathe them, a familiar feeling seizes my bones, freezing me midmovement. I grit my teeth as I’m forced to my knees, my forehead pressed against the rough stone floor. The Shifter must be here.

“I have to admit, I’m pleasantly surprised,” comes Annie’s clear, sweet voice. “I thought it would take a bit more coaxing to persuade her to draw those abominations.”