Page 1 of Bloodgrove

Chapter 1

It hardly surprised Will that the train ticket to Bloodgrove bore a bloody fingerprint. Last night, when doubts about his plan had troubled him, he had lifted the card to his mouth, cautiously put out his tongue, and licked the stain. People said there were mages in Bloodgrove who could read any person’s identity from only a few drops of blood.

Will had tasted nothing but paper.

He quickly stuffed the ticket deep into his breast pocket. Merely possessing it felt like forbidden magic. He glanced over his shoulder, down the deserted platform, and froze. The rush of commuters had long since passed, yet a group of men gathered on the opposite track. His pulse quickened when he recognized the sharp cut of their uniforms. The letter and ticket burned against his chest like hot coals.

Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to calm. The city watch was not here for him—he was leaving willingly. Of his own accord, he had accepted the commission as an interior designer in a city shrouded in myth.

Only then did he notice the golden insignia on their shoulders and the ceremonial rapiers at their hips, gleaming in the autumn morning sun. The young officers’ cheerful laughter drifted to him.

Will sighed and shook the tension from his shoulders. Why did it feel so much like fleeing? The fact that everything he owned was crammed into the five suitcases at his feet did little to help, nor did the knowledge that he had sold half his clothes and sample books. There were still pieces he mourned.

“Sir, are you sure this is the right place?” The luggage boy tugged idly at his knitted cap. He was still rather small for fourteen, his thin arms gangling.

Will suppressed the urge to take out the ticket again. “I’ll give you another shilling if you wait,” he offered.

The boy held out his hand.

A piercing squeal filled the station hall. The rails trembled, and the gravel danced. Black smoke rose beneath the high dome as a procession of dark carriages pounded, clattered, and groaned along the platform, until at last the train shuddered to a halt before them.

The luggage boy and a railway attendant who had hurried over for the arrival both gave Will uneasy looks, as though they meant to ask him once more: Are you sure?

Will swallowed. The ground still vibrated beneath his feet.

Even on the other platforms, people had stopped. A mother drew her children against her wide skirts, and the young officers reached for their rapiers as though they could do anything against the monster of steel and coal smoke.

The commotion faded. The puffing locomotive slowly settled.

Only then did Will realize that he had been holding his breath, waiting to see who might disembark. The train ran only once a month between the Capitol and the secluded city-state of Bloodgrove. Whenever its black clouds rose above the capital’s viaducts, people whispered. It was a relic from another age, nothing like the advanced blue-and-gold trains of the Capitol and their white steam.

No one stepped off.

“Young sir…” The railway attendant twisted his mustache and nodded toward the passenger carriage.

With an air of confidence he did not feel, Will swept his long, silver-white hair over his shoulder and took a step toward the train. Perhaps it simply wasn’t a busy day for travel. Perhaps more passengers were still coming.

The luggage boy pushed the cart behind him, though he already looked as if he regretted accepting the job.

At least they had that in common, Will thought.

Just as he reached for the door, it swung open, and from the darkness of the carriage a gaunt face stared back at him, its cheeks hollow and sunken. The cap of a conductor’s livery sat upon strawy hair.

A skeletal hand shot out, palm open and waiting.

“The ticket,” the boy whispered, half-hidden behind Will.

Will quickly obeyed. For days, he had run his fingers along the card’s punched edges, committing the dark-red lettering and the bloody fingerprint above the cross to memory.

Though he was the last person entitled to doubt magic, he still found blood-magic difficult to believe in. It sounded suspiciously like propaganda and fairy tales, much like all the other horrors people told one another about mysterious Bloodgrove.

Even so, he felt a flicker of disappointment when the conductor tore the ticket and handed back the unstained remainder.

With a suitcase in each hand and his leather bag clamped beneath one arm, Will boarded and followed the conductor down the corridor to his compartment. Dark mahogany paneling covered every inch of the walls, polished and unmarked where luggage and boots would usually have left their scars.

“Your compartment, Mr. Frank,” the conductor said, stepping aside.

Will frowned as he squeezed past him. Something about the man’s stiff movements and empty eyes felt wrong.