Chapter 6
I step out into the cool night air, feeling like a fucking vision of death and elegance.
I’ve traded my nakedness for a Victorian gothic dress that’s absolutely stunning—all heavy black silk and intricate lace that hugs my curves without choking the life out of me.
It’s designed for movement, a sweeping skirt that whispers against the pavement but doesn't trip me up, allowing me to move like a shadow.
On my feet are polished black leather boots with a sturdy heel, perfect for walking through blood or over rubble.
The black halo sits poised above my head, a dark crown of promise, and the necklace rests heavy against my collarbone. I feel powerful. I feel lethal. And in my grip, the weight of the two-sided axe is a comfort, the cold steel promising a very messy end for whoever crosses my path.
Rhys is beside me, looking every bit the predatory bastard he is. He’s dressed in sleek, dark attire that blends into the gloom, but the most important detail is the heavy handgun tucked securely under his belt, ready to be drawn in a heartbeat.
As he opens the car door for me, I glance up at the mask he’s still holding. The neon blue drips are striking, cutting through the darkness of the porcelain.
"Why the blue, then?" I ask, my voice playful but edged with a dark curiosity. "Why's your mask got blue over it?"
He pauses, his gaze lingering on me, the intensity of his obsession practically radiating off him. "Because your eyes are blue, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "I wanted a piece of you on my face while I watch you kill."
I can't help it; I giggle, the sound light and manic. God, he's absolutely mental, and I love every fucking second of it.
I guess that explains the blue in my mask, too?
I slide into the passenger seat, the axe resting across my lap like a prized possession. As he pulls away from the curb, the engine roaring as we dive into the midnight streets of Whitby, I lean back and look at him.
"Who's the first unlucky bastard on the list?" I ask.
"Andrew Griffin," Rhys answers, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
"And where the fuck do we find a piece of shit like him?"
Rhys lets out a cynical snort, a smirk playing on his lips. "Griffin's a pathetic waste of skin. Twice divorced, losing his house to the bank, and currently wallowing in a gambling house, praying to some god of luck to save his miserable arse. He thinks he can gamble his way out of debt."
I grip the handle of the axe, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Well, he's about to find out that his luck just fucking ran out.”
Rhys reaches over and flicks on the car stereo, and suddenly the air is filled with the haunting, frantic strings of Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saens.
I know exactly what it means—the Dance of Death.
It’s got this sinister, sweeping elegance to it, a wicked sort of grace that fits Rhys like a fucking glove.
It makes my skin prickle with anticipation, the music driving the adrenaline straight into my veins.
I glance at him and smile, a sharp, hungry thing. We pull up in front of The Gilded Cage, a shithole of a gambling den tucked away in a damp corner of Whitby. It’s a place where desperation smells stronger than the stale cigarettes and cheap gin, a haunt for losers and bottom-feeders.
I’ve got my mask on now—the pure design of the eyes and mouth making me look like some neon cracked porcelain doll nightmare. It glows ice-blue. I’m leaning against the cold brick wall of the alleyway, hidden in the shadows, listening. Then I hear him.
Andrew Griffin.
His footsteps are heavy, uneven. He’s muttering to himself, a pathetic stream of consciousness about his mounting debts, his ex-wives, and how his life has gone completely tits up. He sounds absolutely miserable, a broken little man wallowing in his own filth.
As he draws level with my hiding spot, I step out into the dim light. I’ve got the double-edged axe resting across my shoulders behind my head, both my forearms draped over the handle in a relaxed, predatory pose. I stand right in his fucking path.
Griffin jumps nearly a foot in the air, letting out a pathetic yelp. He stares at me, eyes wide with confusion and fear. "What the fuck is this?" he sputters, looking me up and down. "What type of circus freak show is this? Who the fuck are you?"
I tilt my head, my voice sounding distorted and cold behind the mask. "Didn't your daddy warn you not to walk the streets in the middle of the night alone, you pathetic prick? It's not safe for pieces of shit like you."
"Get out of my way, you mental slag!" he snaps, though his voice is shaking.
I let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Tell me, Andrew... do you remember nineteen years ago? Do you remember when you raped a woman in Thomas Sorrell’s basement?"
The change in his expression is instantaneous. The arrogance vanishes, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost.
I giggle, the sound manic and high. "It's time to pay, you cunt."
The man starts backing away, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
I don't rush; I just move closer, slow and steady. I slide the axe off my shoulders, the steel catching the faint light. Panicked, he turns to bolt, but he’s so fucking clumsy he trips over his own feet and slams hard onto the pavement.
I stop a few feet from him, tilting my head curiously. "Run," I whisper.
He doesn't need telling twice. He scrambles onto all fours, scratching at the asphalt like a frightened animal, before finding his footing and sprinting away. He doesn't get far. He stops dead in his tracks, a strangled scream dying in his throat as he sees Rhys.
Rhys is standing there, blocking the exit, his porcelain mask glowing blue with those neon drips, the handgun leveled straight at Griffin's head.
Griffin spins around, seeing me closing the gap behind him. He’s trapped. "It was a long time ago!" he wails, his voice cracking. "I thought... I thought she was consenting! Thomas invited me! I thought she wanted it!"
I can see the lie in the way he trembles. He helped kidnap my mother. He knew she was a prisoner, a broken thing in a basement, and he didn't give a flying fuck. And I know he’s spent the last two decades hurting other women just because he could.
"Please!" he begs, sinking to his knees. "Please, just let me go! I'll give you money, I'll do anything!"
Rhys’s voice is a low, dangerous snarl. "The only thing you're giving us, you piece of filth, is the satisfaction of watching you bleed."
BANG.
Rhys fires a shot straight into Griffin's leg.
The man screams—a raw, guttural sound that echoes through the empty street—as he collapses back onto his knees.
Rhys steps forward and delivers a brutal kick to his ribs, sending him sprawling.
He presses the hot muzzle of the gun against the back of Griffin's neck, pinning him to the dirty ground.
I stand over him, looking down at the sobbing wreck of a man. "You're going to die remembering Marguerite Hansburg," I tell him, my voice dripping with venom. "And you're going to spend your last breath wishing you'd never once laid a fucking finger on her."
I swing.
The axe comes down with a sickening thwack, burying itself deep into his shoulder. Griffin lets out a scream that rips through the night, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. I don't stop. I yank the blade out with a wet schlick and swing again, this time catching him in the ribs.
Blood sprays everywhere—hot, metallic, and thick.
It splashes across my dress, my boots, and my mask.
I lose myself in it. I hack at him, over and over, the axe splitting skin, crushing bone, and tearing through muscle.
He tries to scream, but it turns into a gurgling choke as I bring the blade down across his throat, carving a deep, jagged ruin into his neck.
I keep going long after he stops screaming, long after his eyes go dull and his body stops twitching. I beat him into a pulp of red meat and shattered bone until my arms ache and the street is stained a deep, glistening crimson.
When it's finally quiet, I stop. I stand there, chest heaving, the axe dripping blood onto the pavement. I can feel the warmth of the spray on my skin. I look over at Rhys; he’s got droplets of red splattered across his white porcelain mask, matching the stains on mine.
"My little doll's first murder," Rhys murmurs, his voice thick with pride. "I'm fucking impressed, Ophelia."
I look up at him, the adrenaline still humming in my blood. "He didn't even taste as good as I thought he would," I reply, a dark smirk under my mask. "Too much cowardice in the meat."
Rhys chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. "You're a natural, sweetheart. A fucking masterpiece."
I drop the axe and pull him into a tight hug with my free hand, leaning into his chest. "Does the body stay here, or do you have people to come scrub the street?" I ask.
"Don't worry your pretty head about it," he whispers, his hand gripping my waist. "I've got cleaners who make things vanish like they never existed. This street will be spotless by dawn."
He reaches up and pulls his mask off, tossing it aside. I follow suit, stripping the neon mask from my face. I look at him—his eyes burning with that psychotic, obsessive love—and I lean in. We kiss, sealing the night in blood and madness.
I step out of the shower, the steam clinging to my skin like a damp shroud. I’m dripping wet, the water trailing down my thighs, and for the first time in my fucking life, I don't immediately recoil from the mirror.
I stand there, staring. It’s not comfortable—not by a long shot—but the panic isn't a screaming siren in my head anymore. I can tolerate it. I look at my ice-blue eyes, wide and shimmering with a lingering, dark electricity. I look at my hair, plastered to my neck, and I think about tonight.
I killed a man.