The Little Intruder: Anatomy of Fear (Book 1)

The rain in Edinburgh doesn’t fall. It scratches. I sat on the windowsill of my cramped room, listening to the sharp drops hitting the glass like icy nails. But the darkness outside was nothing compared to the one constricting my throat.

My papers, hundreds of pages of research on Dr. Knox, were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Lost scholarship. Lost visa. Lost life.

“You’re scaring me, Maeve,” Clara whispered from her bed. “You look like a ghost waiting for her own execution.”

“I don’t have time to sleep, Clara,” I replied, my voice sounding dry, like scratching paper. “The committee is tomorrow. Tomorrow I go before him. The new professor. An executioner who revels in the ashes of other people’s dreams.”

“Why don’t you just let go of this morbid story about Knox?” she sighed. “That diary burned, Maeve. It doesn’t exist.”

My lips stretched into a slow, dark smile. “That’s what everyone thinks.”

I pulled a black box from under the bed. Inside lay an elegant mask that covered the upper half of the face, and an invitation bearing the symbol of a crown of thorns.

“Elias left it for me before he took his own life,” I whispered, touching the cold plastic of the mask. “The diary didn’t burn, Clara. It was stolen. And tonight, it’s being sold in the Vaults. Beneath the city. At an auction for people whose desires are darker than their bank accounts.”

“They’ll kill you if they catch you!” Clara stood up, her eyes wide with panic. “You have no money, you have no protection!”

“I’m not going to buy the book,” I said as I put on a long black coat. “I’m going to photograph it. Three pages. That’s all I need to prove my mentor wasn’t crazy.”

I stepped out into the dark, while the sound of the rain called me into the depths.

The subterranean vaults of Edinburgh smelled of damp, rust, and absurd luxury. The stone steps were slippery as I descended into the bowels of the city, my face hidden behind the black mask. The guard at the entrance merely glanced at my invitation and stepped aside.

I entered. The main hall was grotesque. Men in tuxedos wearing wolf and demon masks drank champagne, waiting to bid on stolen sins.

I didn’t waste time. I slipped into the VIP sector, where the items were on display. My heart hammered against my ribs as I entered a small, isolated room.

There it was. The Diary of the Physiology of Fear.

Dr. Knox’s handwriting was manic. Sketches of faces twisted in a scream. Text about how pure terror breaks bones from the inside. I pulled out my camera.

Click. First page. Click. Second.

And then I made a mistake. My silver ring grazed the glass of the display case. The sound echoed in the silence like a gunshot.

“Hey! Who’s in there?!” The guard’s voice struck me like a whip.

Adrenaline exploded. I shoved the camera into my pocket and threw myself toward the service door. I ran through a labyrinth of dark corridors as the guards’ shouts echoed from all sides. They were closing in on me.

I spotted a heavy velvet curtain in an alcove. A dead end. My only chance. I slipped behind it, squeezing into the narrow, stifling space.

I was in absolute darkness. I tried to quiet my breathing as the heavy footsteps of the guards thundered right past me and began to fade away.

I closed my eyes beneath the mask, letting out a long sigh of relief.

And then the air changed.

This narrow alcove no longer smelled of mold. I smelled him. The scent of expensive tobacco, rain, and old whiskey. My body paralyzed. I wasn’t alone.

Someone had been here, in the dark, before me.

I tried to turn, but before I could even draw a breath, a large, ruthless hand emerged from the shadows.

Leather. He was wearing a leather glove. Its cold surface pressed brutally against my lips, smothering every scream. Another hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me onto my toes and pinning my back roughly against the stone wall.

I was trapped in a cage of flesh and stone.

His head slowly lowered. I felt the heat of his breath right next to my ear, while the tip of his nose lightly grazed the edge of my mask.

And then he spoke. His voice was a quiet, slow whisper. Deep, hoarse, and dark, it vibrated straight through my bones.

“Are you running from monsters, little intruder...” he whispered, his leather-clad thumb slowly tracing my lower lip, “...or did you just run right into the arms of one?”