I just wasn't up for it. My mouth was dry. My heart was going like a drum being hit by a lunatic. The thing in front of me, this Threadborn, was watching me with hollow eyes, stitched mouth twitching like it wanted to scream but couldn't. It was shaking. No, shivering. But not from fear.
From hunger!
And the tooth in my hand was warm now. Not just warm, hot. It pulsed like a heart. The blood leaking from it was thick and dark and smelled sweet, like burnt sugar and roses and something rotting beneath it all. It whispered louder now, clearer. Not just humming or moaning.
Words!
"Let me out, little thief. Let me dance again."
Etta's voice was tight behind me. "Jake, you have ten seconds before that thing rips your face off."
The Threadborn took a step. Its bones cracked. A string uncoiled from its arm and slithered toward my ankle like a living threadworm.
"Say it," the Queen whispered. "You know my name. You saw it in the blood."
I didn't think. I just spoke.
A name slipped out of my mouth like it had always been there. A name that didn't come from memory, but from marrow.
"Marcelline D'Arceneaux."
The world stopped. The Threadborn froze mid-step. The blood on the tooth lit up. Flames, red and black, ignited in the air around me. They twisted, bent, took shape. And then she was there.
Mama Marcelline!!
Not in my mind. Not as a voice. But in flesh. She stepped out of me. I mean that literally. Like peeling off a second skin.
One moment I was whole, next, I was gasping and half-collapsed, and she stood where I had been, tall and regal, wrapped in silk made of shadow. Her hair coiled like ink alive, and her eyes were white with red centers that spun like whirlpools.
Her tattoos were alive too. I counted at least nine on her arms. All faces. All screaming.
"Bonjour, baby," she said in a sing-song voice. "Missed me?"
Etta backed away fast. "You let her out?!"
"I didn't mean to..." I choked, still half on the ground. "She pulled herself out!"
Marcelline turned to the Threadborn and smiled.
"Poor, poor boy. No soul left. No name left. Just another puppet in the weave."
She walked toward it, slow, graceful. The Threadborn didn't move.
Couldn't.
She knelt beside it and kissed its stitched forehead. And then she snapped its spine with one hand. No effort, no noise, just bones folding like twigs. The body dropped, strings unraveling into the wind. She turned back to me, licking blood from her fingers, and smiled.
"You gave me breath, little thief," she said. "Now let me return the favor."
She stepped toward me again. And I felt it, her power. Her presence.
It wasn't just a person standing over me. It was a force. Like gravity, like time, like death, dressed up in elegance. Etta threw a card at her. It burned in midair before it got close.
Marcelline didn't even look.
"I should crush you both," she said softly. "But you're useful."
I blinked. "Useful how?"
"You brought me to London. To him." Her smile curved. "Alistair. The boy who thinks he's a king."
"You want him dead?"
"No," she said. "I want his mark. I want to wear it on my chest and command the bones of this rotting empire."
Etta raised a shaking hand. "You can't. That mark binds the soul."
Marcelline's eyes gleamed. "So I'll take his soul, too."
I stood up slowly, still shaking. "Why me?"
"Because you're a blank page," she said. "You haven't unraveled yet. You're still soft. I can stitch you up however I want."
"I'm not your puppet."
"No," she said. "You're my needle."
She stepped close again.
I could feel her breath on my face. Smelled flowers, blood, smoke.
"Alistair is unravelling faster than he knows," she whispered. "When his threads snap, the Royal Curse will spill into the world. Unless I wear it first."
"And if I say no?" I asked.
She smiled like a knife.
"You already said yes. When you took my eye."
Then she pressed a finger to my forehead...and I dropped. Everything went black. But before I passed out, I heard her whisper again:
"Get me the King's blood, baby. Or next time… I'll wear your skin instead."
I woke up choking. My throat was dry, my body soaked in cold sweat, and my skin...my skin felt wrong. Like it didn't quite belong to me anymore.
I sat up fast. We were in a hotel room. Bare, old, smelled like mothballs and lemon bleach. Pale yellow wallpaper peeling off the corners. Etta sat in the chair across from the bed, staring at me like I was a ticking bomb.
"Good," she said flatly. "You're up."
"What happened?"
"You passed out after Marcelline popped out of your chest and murdered a Threadborn with a kiss."
"Right. That. And then?"
"She touched your mind," Etta said, voice cold. "Did something to you. You've been out for ten hours."
I rubbed my temples. "Feels like my skull's full of broken glass."
"You should be grateful," she said, standing. "She could've turned you into a puppet."
I didn't feel grateful at all; I felt hollow. The Eye on my wrist burned hotter than ever. The tattoo shimmered faintly, the lines curling, shifting, like it was awake. Not just alive, aware.
"You ever seen her like that before?" I asked.
Etta shook her head. "I've seen ghosts, curses, skinwalkers. But that… Marcelline's not just a voice anymore. She's a living mark. That's new."
"She said she wants Alistair's curse."
"She wants the Royal Crown," Etta corrected. "And if she gets it… she becomes Queen of every marked soul in Europe."
"What happens if we stop her?"
"She guts you and finds another host," Etta said. "She's already halfway inside your blood. And trust me, if she finishes the stitching, there's no more Jake Carter. Just a shell in a suit."
I sat back, tried to breathe. But something moved under my skin. Not a metaphor. A literal crawl. Like thread pulling itself across bone.
"Etta," I whispered. "She left something in me."
"I know."
I yanked my shirt off, and saw it. A new tattoo, small, right over my heart. Not like the Eye. This one was faint, silver ink. A needle, threaded, dipped in blood.
"That's her claim mark," Etta said quietly. "She marked you as hers."
"She's not gonna take me."
Etta didn't answer, she didn't need to.
That night, we broke into the Registry again. It wasn't smart. But we weren't looking for smart. We were looking for Alistair's blood.
If Marcelline wanted the Royal Crown, and if we wanted a shot at stopping her, or killing her, then we needed leverage. And nothing says leverage like fresh royal blood.
The Registry was darker this time, empty. No doorman, no guards. Just silence, too silent. We moved through the long hallway of skin-covered panels. Each one stared at me. Each tattoo on those walls twitched as I passed. As if they recognized something.
Maybe Marcelline. Maybe the new mark. Maybe just the scent of threaded flesh. We reached the back chamber. The throne was empty. But a trail of blood led from it. Fresh, still wet.
Etta pointed. "He's hurt."
"Thought he couldn't be."
"Guess something cracked."
We followed the trail down a side hall that wasn't there last time. A secret passage behind a skin-draped curtain. And there, collapsed on the floor, was Alistair Grey. Bleeding from his chest. Clutching his own shoulder with one hand. The other was gone. Torn clean off.
His suit was ripped. His crown tattoo flickered, weak, unstable, like a candle in wind. He looked up at me, dazed.
"You…" he croaked. "She's awake, isn't she?"
I didn't answer.
He coughed blood. "She tore it. My control. Ripped the thread right out of me."
"She marked me," I said.
Alistair's black eye twitched. "Then it's too late."
"She wants your curse," Etta said flatly. "And you're too weak to stop her."
Alistair tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke. "Then kill me."
"What?!"
He looked at me, dead serious.
"She won't get it unless you take it. But it won't survive in her unless you wear it first."
"That doesn't make sense."
"She marked you as a vessel. That makes you her needle. But if you wear the crown, even for a second… she won't be able to."
I blinked. "You want me to take the Royal Curse?"
He nodded once.
"And then die with it."
My stomach turned.
"No," Etta said. "There has to be another way."
Alistair grabbed my wrist. His touch was ice. His blood stained my hand.
"You don't understand," he rasped. "She isn't just a Weaver. She's the first stitch. The one who tied the world to death."
I panicked.
"What?!?"
"She created the Weave."
"Impossible."
"Ask her," he whispered. "She wrote the first mark. The one that bound souls to ink."
Etta backed away slowly. "If that's true…"
Alistair gripped harder. "She doesn't want to rule. She wants to unravel the world."
"And you want me to wear the mark to stop her."
"Just long enough to trap her inside."
"And if I can't?"
His eyes were glassy now. Breath shallow.
"Then the world screams."
Then he passed out. I looked at Etta. She looked back, and said: "We're screwed."
But I didn't hear her. Because the Royal Mark on Alistair's chest… was glowing, and it was calling to me.
.........