The tooth wouldn't stop bleeding. I wrapped it in a rag, shoved it into my pocket, and told myself it was just a normal tooth. Nothing weird. Just ignore the whispering.
Spoiler: I couldn't ignore it.
It mumbled to me the whole way as we walked. Things like, "Deeper, deeper," and "Red beneath the skin," and my personal favorite: "You're already unraveling, little thief."
Yeah. Super chill.
Etta said nothing most of the walk. Just led me through the cracked backstreets of New Orleans, deeper into places I didn't know existed. Past buildings with boarded-up windows and stairwells that led into fog. Past a mural of a man whose mouth had been painted over in fresh blood. Past a blind woman sitting in a rocking chair, humming something that sounded like a funeral.
And finally, down. Down stone steps. Down a spiral tunnel. Down into the dark. No lights. No torches. Just the glow from Etta's card spells, flickering in her hands like moths made of fire.
"You ever gonna tell me what we're walking into?" I asked.
She didn't stop. "The Stitcher. Name's Claudius. Nobody knows where he came from, but rumor says he's older than the Weave itself."
"So why are we looking for him?"
"Because he tattooed Mama Marcelline. Her first mark. If anyone knows how to get her spirit out of you without ripping your soul in half, it's him."
"Right. And if he doesn't?"
She looked back, eyes dead serious.
"Then you better get used to hearing her scream."
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and the world opened up.
It was… a cavern. Massive. Hollowed from red stone. But stitched.
Yeah. Stitched.
The walls were skin. Or something like it. Sewn together with giant black threads. It pulsed, faintly. Like breathing. And at the center, a figure sat on a throne of bones.
Claudius.
He was thin, scarecrow-thin, with needles stuck in his neck like jewelry. His skin was patchy. Tattooed over and over with faces. Not drawings, faces. With tiny mouths, tiny eyes, all whispering. I couldn't stop staring. One of the faces opened its mouth and said my name.
"Jake."
I flinched. "Nope. Nope. That's not normal."
Etta stepped forward. "Claudius. We seek help."
The Stitcher didn't move. But the faces on his arms grinned.
"You brought him," one arm said.
"The thief," whispered the left elbow.
"The one with her inside," crooned the chest.
Claudius finally blinked; once, slow.
"You should be dead," he said in a voice like thread scraping bone.
"Not yet," I said.
"You stole her mark."
"I didn't know..."
"Don't lie. The Weave knows lies. The Weave feeds on them."
He stood, and the cave groaned. Every stitch on the walls tightened. Every face opened its mouth and started humming, a low, deep tune that made my guts twist. Claudius walked toward me, barefoot, his steps leaving bloody prints.
"You have the Eye. But you do not own it."
"I'm trying to..."
He raised a hand, and the world stopped. Literally, everything froze. The humming, Etta, even my breath. Claudius moved, slowly. He reached toward my wrist.
"You are unraveling," he whispered. "Let me show you how far."
He touched the Eye, and I screamed. Because suddenly, I wasn't in my body anymore. I was somewhere else. It was night. A different night. Rain fell like needles. I was inside a house, not mine, blood on the floor.
A body, my body, on a table. Skin peeled open. Tattoos crawling. Screaming. Mama Marcelline stood beside it, her face calm.
"You took my sight," she said. "But I see still."
I tried to move. Couldn't.
She turned, looked straight at me.
"I live in you now, Jake Carter."
Then she reached out, and shoved her hand through my chest. I woke up gasping. Back in the cave. Claudius stepped back, licking blood from his fingers.
"She's awake," he said softly.
Etta caught me as I collapsed. "What did you see?"
"I saw her," I whispered. "I saw my body. And her hand. Inside me."
Claudius nodded.
"She's not just in your mind. She's stitching herself into your being. If she finishes the work, your soul unravels. She wears your skin. And you become a whisper in someone else's head."
I stared at him. "How do I stop it?"
Claudius tilted his head. "You don't. Not alone."
"Then help me."
He turned, and walked back to his throne.
"You want help?" he said, sitting down. "Then bring me a skin."
"…WWWhat?"
"A Weaver. Marked. Still breathing. Their skin."
"You mean, kill someone!?!"
Claudius smiled.
"No. Not just someone."
He leaned forward. His tattoos giggled.
"I want Alistair Grey."
I blinked. "Who?!"
Etta looked at me, pale.
"Jake," she whispered. "You don't understand."
"Who is he?"
She grabbed my arm, voice trembling.
"Alistair Grey runs the Tattoo Registry in London. He doesn't just collect marks. He makes them. And he wears a royal one, one that commands anyone who sees it."
My blood ran cold, solidifying in my veins.
"What the heck…And you want me to skin him?"
Claudius didn't answer. He just smiled.
And the tattoos on his arms whispered all at once: "Tic-tec-tic, you little thief. The queen is hungry."
..........