Page 28 of Tricked By Jack

I read the first one.

For every bride, a bloom must die,

Petal-black and blooded dry.

The vow begins before the ring,

You’re his now. Let the silence sing.

Then the second note, the one the stranger fought Caleb to give me.

He comes by dark, he comes by will,

The bloom you keep must now lie still.

A whisper bound in veil and thread,

Obey the hush, or join the dead.

Lastly, I re-read the third one.

One mask for silence, one vow for shame,

One ring for lust, one kiss to blame.

One game begun, no truth to guide,

One trick revealed when vows collide.

Turning it over, I read the handwritten note on the back.

Please make sure you’re on the ferry to Governors Island at six o’clock on September thirtieth.

Unsure what to make of it, I drain the last of the wine, but the warm fog of alcohol doesn’t offer up an answer to the myriad of questions swirling around my mind.

Well, I guess I’ll find out whatever all this means in two days. When the Sanctuary of Shadows opens with a launch event that has people all across social media guessing as to what it might be. And God help me, I’m looking forward to it.

I spin on the stool so I’m facing the living room, tipping my imaginary hat to my dad. “It seems you were right after all,” I grin. “You did raise a fool. Because I’m going.”

Chapter 10

The Trickster

The cemetery gate groans as I push it open, a sound like distant pain that suits my purpose. Like the world exhaling death.

I walk the familiar path, my boots leaving temporary impressions in the damp earth that will vanish with the coming rain. Thunder rumbles somewhere beyond the horizon—a promise, not a threat.

The air tastes of metal and decay, a combination that settles on my tongue like communion wine. Autumn mist clings to the ground, wrapping around the lower portions of the headstones like ghostly hands.

As usual, the cemetery is deserted. It’s not quite dark yet, but the place is caught in that liminal space between day visitors and whatever creatures claim the night.

I navigate the maze of markers with practiced ease, my steps slowing as I approach the headstone that bears my sister’s name. The dates beneath mock me with their proximity—twenty-eight years of existence compressed into a hyphen between birth and death.

The base of her headstone is littered with wilted red roses from my previous visits, their once-elegant forms now curled and blackened. I kneel before her grave, my knees sinking into the soil.

“Hey, Rubes,” I murmur, my voice strange in thecemetery’s hush.

The wind picks up, sending dead leaves skittering across nearby plots. As I do every time that happens, I imagine it’s her answering me, the only way she can now.