My mind sounded like a battIefield, too loud to sleep that night. After Claudius told me to skin a man alive, something in me cracked. Like a thread being tugged too hard from the inside.
Etta didn't push. She just handed me dry clothes, let me sit in the quiet corner of the cave, and kept watch. The humming faces on the wall went silent after Claudius vanished into whatever stitched hole he crawled from.
I stared at the tooth again. Still bleeding. Still whispering.
"You sure about this?" Etta asked softly. "You could walk away. Leave the Weave behind."
I looked at her. "Can I?"
She didn't answer. We both knew the truth. Once the Weave touches you, you don't walk away. You unravel. We flew to London the next day.
Fake passports. Shady cargo plane. A man with a glass eye who didn't ask questions. Etta had contacts everywhere, she said once you carry a tattoo from the dead, borders don't mean much anymore.
London was gray, wet. Angry-looking clouds squatted over the skyline like they owned it. The air smelled like cold metal and bad decisions.
"This city's different," Etta warned as we stepped off the underground train near Whitechapel. "The marks here behave strange, look old. British ones whisper in rhyme. They don't burn, they tattle. And you never know who's carrying."
I tugged my sleeve down over my wrist. The Eye pulsed faintly.
"Where's Alistair Grey?" I asked.
She pointed up the street. "Tattoo Registry. Looks like a library. Smells like a coffin. He'll be inside, probably reading skin."
"Reading… skin."
"Yeah. He peels off tattoos and binds them into books."
"…I hate this job."
"I told you not to take it."
We walked.
And the further we went, the colder it got. Not just weather-cold. But bone cold. Like something was breathing against your spine.
Then I saw it. The building was tall. Victorian. Black iron fence. Windows like eyes too tired to blink. A plaque read:
THE TATTOO REGISTRY – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
But the door was open. That was the first red flag. The second? The doorman had no skin. Just muscle. Wrapped in velvet. His eyes were sewn shut.
"Name?" he asked, voice gurgling.
Etta didn't flinch. "We're expected."
The doorman tilted his head like he was listening to something behind his own skull. Then stepped aside. We walked into a hallway lined with framed human backs. Yeah! Human backs. Each one covered in tattoos. Preserved. Labeled.
One said "Jack the Ripper's Last Sin."
Another: "Elizabeth Bathory – Vanity Mark."
Etta whispered, "Keep your eyes forward. The walls watch."
I did as she said. But then I felt it, pressure behind my eyes. The Eye of Tomorrow blinked. Five seconds ahead...
I saw myself choking, gasping, on my knees. A hand gripping my throat, with velvet glove, whispered a word.
"Kneel."
Back to now.
I stopped walking.
"He has a command mark, doesn't he?"
Etta nodded.
"Royal blood. Hidden history. No one knows who he took it from. Some say it's from the last queen. Others say it's from something older."
"Like what?"
She didn't answer.
We stepped into the main hall. It was a dome tall ceiling like a stained glass eye. Hundreds of Weavers sat quietly at long tables, studying skin-bound tomes, whispering. Some drooled. Some bled ink.
And at the far end...Alistair Grey.
Sitting in a throne carved from a thousand needle tips. He was young. That shocked me. Maybe thirty, pale, blond hair brushed back. Sharp suit. White gloves. One eye red. The other ink-black. He looked up as we approached, and smiled.
"Jake Carter," he said. "I've been expecting you."
My mouth dried. "How?"
He tapped a journal beside him. "I collect rumors, and voices; and I've had Mama Marcelline whispering in my dreams for three nights now. She's quite loud."
The Eye burned on my wrist.
"She's in there," he added casually. "Not whole. But loud enough."
I stepped closer. "I didn't come for a chat."
"No. You came to kill me."
He didn't sound mad, he sounded amused. Etta stiffened beside me. I saw her hand twitch toward her cards. But Alistair raised one gloved hand, and the entire hall froze. People stopped moving. Mid-breath. Mid-sentence. Statues.
He stood, and walked toward me.
"I'm not your enemy, Jake," he said. "In fact, I think we're on the same side."
"Funny," I said. "You've got a bounty on my head at the Auction."
He smirked. "Necessary politics. But I didn't bid. I waited. Because I knew you'd come."
"Why?"
He stopped inches from me, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Revealing the tattoo. It shimmered. Gold. Elegant. Royal.
A crown of thorned lilies. It pulsed once. And my knees hit the floor. Not because I chose to. But because it told me to.
"Kneel," he said softly. And I had to.
My bones bent like paper. My body folded. My mind screamed. I heard Etta curse behind me. But she couldn't move either. Alistair leaned down.
"Let me make this very, very clear," he whispered.
"I don't want to wear your queen. I want to kill her."
He tapped my forehead.
"And you, my stitched little friend... you're going to help me do it."
.......