Little Doll (Blackmoth House #1)

Chapter 3 Nova

Chapter 3

Nova

I had no idea how I got home or into my bed, but I woke up in pain.

I gasped and shot upright, feeling as though every nerve ending under my skin was activated.

My throat constricted as a vice grip lodged around my heart, squeezing the life out of it.

I clawed at my collar, desperate to get my clothes off, to let myself breathe. When I did, I noticed the pale skin of my long, thin fingers. Deathly white but riddled with an intricate web of black jagged veins, rising and pulsing beneath my flesh. It was like a thousand living cracks had blemished me, writhing and ruining my skin. I scrambled out of my bed and clamored to the floor. I crawled across my bedroom, wanting to look into the mirror, but having to battle against agonizing pain with every slight move my body made.

I made it to the wall, and I dragged myself up to peer into the looking glass.

Black jagged veins covered my face too, and they clawed down my neck. I ripped away my collar and tore open my bodice. The gruesome marks covered all of me. All the whites of my eyes were gone and now black. A pitch, bottomless, soulless black.

It felt as though a fire lit inside me, just beneath my skin, and I dropped to the floor. As my knees hit the hard floor, the cracking sound of my bones was drowned out by the intense burning sensation, which was unbearable.

I thought of the masked man then, of his skeleton mask pressing into my face.

Fane’s voice, whispering, calling me Little Doll, haunted me in my fever dreams.

I tipped my head back. My own screaming consumed me.

In seconds, my mother dashed into the room, with my father following close behind. My vision had blurred, but I could make her out as she caught sight of me and doubled over, bursting into explosive wailing sobs. Father darted into the room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. I saw him clap his hands over his eyes and turn his back to me.

It took all that I had to half crawl; half drag myself to Mother. I lunged for her and caught a weak hold on her nightgown’s skirt. The flimsy material tore and my body flung to the floor. A renewed wail emanated from some burning pit in my belly. I held fast to the hem of her nightgown.

“MOTHER!” I shrieked. “HELP ME!”

Her cries matched my own in intensity and volume. She sunk down next to me, scooped me into her arms, and crushed me against her. She stroked my hair frantically even as I squirmed and writhed, being driven mad by her touch. “Mother,” I wept. “Please, please, please, I need help. I need a doctor. I need to go to the hospital. Please, Mother.” I clawed at her, shaking her and caressing her cheeks, trying to get her to open her eyes. “Mother, PLEASE!”

A tortured moan escaped Father, and he raked his hands through his wild, black hair. He paced for one agitated second and then he left the room, slamming the door shut as he went.

“Is he going to get the carriage, Mother?” I pleaded. I continued to shake her, but she kept her eyes slammed shut, scream crying. Surely, she wouldn’t keep me here in this state, using one of her many maladies and excuses for why she couldn’t leave Blackmoth House. Certainly, this one time, Mother would set her unreasonable fears aside and TAKE ME TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL.

A renewed jolt of lightning shot through my veins, and I reeled backwards, pushing off my bereft mother and sprawling backwards onto the floor. My head crashed into the wood and blissful darkness swept in and took it all away.

Later I would learn that it took three days.

But at the time, I had no concept of that. I could no longer tell if I was dreaming or awake. I burned with fever, and I tossed and turned in violent pain. At times, memories replayed in my mind. Sunny afternoons in the Blackmoth House garden as a little child, and my beautiful brother Draven pushing me on the swing. My mother holding me in her arms, reading me books or singing me sweetly to sleep. My grandmother Cleo in the kitchen, shooing away the servants to fill it with her own incredible smells of baking, spices and creamy sauces.

Other times, memories came to me I thought were not my own. Images of an ornate trunk in an attic. A handsome and dark man, bending a lady backward and bending to sink his sharp teeth into her neck. A blonde curly-headed girl with empty terrible eyes.

Sometimes my eyes would struggle open, and I would see that I was no longer in my room, but in a bare room with a rough wood floor and stone walls. A room I didn’t recognize. And I would see my mother across from me, dressed in a plain black gown, on her knees and bent her face down, touching the rough wooden floor, weeping and praying. The only things in the room were the bed I lay on and three upside down crosses that hung on the wall above where Mother prayed.

In the quietest moments of the awful time, the masked man visited me. We relived the events of the night of the masquerade party and also, we did so much more together. In real life, in the sweat filled dirty bed where I lay, I arched my back and screamed in pain. But in my dreams, he drove into me to make me arch my back and scream in ecstasy. He came to me and dried my tears, undressed me slowly, undressed himself. He stood before me nude except for the frightful mask. I studied every curve and crevice of his flawless hard body. I ran my black veined fingers over his hot skin. He took me in every way imaginable.

Still, more images came to me. Nightmarish things. My brother’s malignant upside down smile when he stared at me while being fucked by the peacock woman. And more images, worse still. Of sharp fanged demons, dark and beautiful, hungry and evil. Fucking people who cried, who begged. Fucking them while biting them. Fucking them and feeding.

All of it ran together in one long feverish blur that sometimes was a beautiful daydream and other times was a hellish night terror.

And then, my eyes snapped open, and the pain was gone.