Chapter 10
The air in the darkest corner of the graveyard is thick with the smell of damp earth, rotting lilies, and the metallic tang of old blood. It’s fucking oppressive, but I love it. I feel a dark, electric thrill humming under my skin, matching the heartbeat of the man standing beside me.
We look like nightmares brought to life.
I’m wearing a tight, black Victorian-inspired ensemble—corset cinching my tiny waist until I can barely breathe, a tattered lace skirt that swirls around my boots.
My face is hidden behind a haunting white mask, but the eyes are the kicker; large, doll eyes over my eyelids, making me look like a dead doll brought back from the pits of hell.
My weapon of choice, the heavy, blood-stained axe, rests comfortably across my shoulder.
Rhys is a vision of psychotic elegance. He’s dressed in a sharp, dark suit that fits his frame perfectly, but his face is the real masterpiece.
He wears his mask that looks like a melting blue face, with streaks of cerulean "tears" running down one cheek, giving him the appearance of a weeping, distorted demon.
In his hand, he grips his gun, the cold steel a promise of the violence to come.
This is our third time doing this with the masks and I am loving this.
I shift my weight, glancing around at the mist. "Why the fuck are we just standing here, Rhys? I thought we were hunting the bastard."
He doesn't even look at me, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, a predatory stillness in his posture. "Patience, love," he purrs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Our third target is a massive fan of the carnival. He’s coming to us. He can't resist the lure of the macabre."
I look past him. The graveyard is teeming with people, all of them laughing and screaming in delight as "corpses" crawl out of the dirt and stumble through the fog. It’s a fucking circus of the damned, and the tourists are eating it up, thinking the horror is just a show.
Then, I see him.
He’s about sixty, looking every bit the bloated, entitled prick. He’s got a young girl tucked under his arm, holding her so tight it looks uncomfortable. He’s grinning, his eyes glazed and pupils dilated—the man is clearly high on something, floating in a drug-induced haze of arrogance.
As he wanders deeper into the gloom, his eyes land on me. I’m standing at the edge of a crumbling tomb, the axe resting on my shoulder, my doll mask and cracked mouth, staring him down.
He stops, his gaze raking over my body with a disgusting, hungry intensity. "Well, fuck me," he wheezes, his voice raspy. "Doesn't this one have a sexy little body?"
He steps closer, ignoring the girl he's holding. "Are you part of the act, baby? The prize someone gets when they actually make it to the end of the graveyard?"
I don't say a word. I just tilt my head slowly, the movement mechanical and eerie. He takes it as a yes, a wide, sleazy smile spreading across his face. He roughly shoves the girl away from him.
"Get lost for a second," he snaps. The girl curses at him, looking humiliated and angry, but he just sneers. "Relax and behave, you little slag. You're still going back to the hotel with me."
He walks closer, his eyes locked onto my chest. "You don't look like a zombie," he mumbles, his voice dripping with lust. "And even if you were, I wouldn't give a toss. God, look at those tits. I can't fucking wait to squeeze them."
He’s almost within reach, standing by the last tombstone, when he suddenly freezes. He looks past me and sees Rhys.
"What's going on here?" the man asks, his confidence wavering. "Is she not the prize?"
Rhys steps forward, his melting blue face twisting into a mock-friendly expression. "Come closer, mate. Don't be shy," he says, his voice dripping with a psychotic sweetness. "You want her, right? Come and get her."
I remain silent, my ice-blue eyes watching the man through the slits of my mask. I can see the greed winning over the skepticism. He forgets the danger, his eyes snapping back to my breasts, his hands reaching out, trembling with anticipation to touch me.
The moment his fingers are inches away, Rhys moves with a blur of violent speed. He lunges, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him face-first into the dirt with a sickening thud.
Around us, people scream and cheer, thinking it's a choreographed fight. They're fucking loving the "realism."
Rhys pins him down, his knee digging into the man's spine. He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper that is absolutely freezing. "Shhh," Rhys breathes into his ear, the sound more terrifying than a scream. "Don't make a sound, you pathetic piece of shit. You're not in a show anymore."
The man panics, struggling beneath him. "What the fuck is this?! I didn't sign up for this! I came here for gothic chicks, not to be part of some fucking street act! Let me go!"
Rhys lets out a low, guttural chuckle that sends shivers down my spine.
"You're not an actor, you cunt. You're the sacrifice.
" Rhys’s voice turns cold, devoid of any humanity.
"I'm going to dismantle you piece by piece.
I'm going to take everything from you until there's nothing left but a screaming heap of meat. "
The man gasps, "I don't know what you're talking about! Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the man who remembers what you did to Marguerite Hansburg," Rhys snarls.
The man freezes. He starts shaking, his voice cracking. "Marguerite? I—I have no idea who that is! You've got the wrong guy! Please, I don't know her!"
He’s lying through his teeth. The terror in his voice is a confession. I just watch, my grip tightening on the axe.
Rhys leans in closer, his voice a psychotic, loving caress. "That was the mother of the woman I love. And I can still see it... I can see these filthy hands of yours pinning her down while you raped the life out of her."
Rhys grabs the man's wrists, pinning them flat against the cold earth with a crushing grip. The man begins to scream, a raw, guttural sound of pure panic.
I look at Rhys, and he gives me a small, dark nod.
"Go ahead, love," he whispers.
I don't hesitate. I slide the axe from my shoulder and raise it high above my head, the moonlight catching the steel. The man thrashes, trying to break free from Rhys’s grip, but it’s useless. He’s trapped.
CRUNCH.
I bring the axe down with everything I have. The blade bites deep into his wrist, severing the hand in one brutal stroke. He lets out a scream that could wake the dead, a high-pitched, agonizing wail.
CRUNCH.
I swing again, taking the other hand. Blood sprays everywhere—hot, crimson droplets splashing across my mask and my dress. He’s shrieking, looking down at the bloody stumps where his hands used to be.
Rhys lets him go and stands up straight, looking down at the broken man with utter indifference. The man is rolling in the dirt, sobbing and screaming, his blood soaking into the graveyard soil.
The crowd around us erupts in applause. They're smiling, cheering, absolutely thrilled by the "gore" and the "special effects." They think it's the most realistic act they've ever seen.
The man, delirious with pain, manages to scramble up, pointing a bloody stump at us. "Help me! Help me!" he screams, his voice breaking. "The man with the melting blue face and the porcelain doll woman! They did this! They're trying to kill me! Get me to a hospital! Please!"
The people just laugh. "Brilliant acting!" someone shouts. "The commitment to the role is insane!"
Rhys doesn't give him another second. He raises his gun, the barrel steady. BANG.
A single shot rings out, hitting the man square in the back of the head. His skull shatters, and he drops like a stone, dead before he even hits the ground. A spray of blood and brain matter hits the front row of the audience.
The crowd goes wild. They clap and cheer, shouting that tonight's graveyard was the best one yet because it "featured actual death."
"Did you see that?" a woman whispers nearby. "The porcelain doll woman and the man with the blue tears... they must be the new attraction of The Midnight Menagerie. Absolutely stunning!"
Rhys’s men move in quickly, efficiently hauling the corpse away as if it were nothing more than a piece of discarded scenery.
Rhys turns to me, a look of possessive pride in his eyes.
He scoops me up into his arms, carrying me away from the carnage.
I lean my head against his chest, the bloody axe still in my hand, dragging behind us in the dirt, leaving a long, red streak across the graveyard path as we disappear back into the mist.
The clock on the dashboard reads 3:00 AM.
The air is freezing, a sharp, biting wind that cuts through my clothes, but I can still feel the phantom heat of that bastard’s blood on my skin.
With Rhys on the wheel, the same song played.
Danse Macabre. I sat in the front with him, and the succubus occupied the back seat.
We’ve pulled up in front of a casino—a gaudy, neon-lit monstrosity that screams new money and desperation. It’s a palace of sin, all gold trim and flashing lights, standing in stark contrast to the gothic gloom we just left behind.
I turn to the succubus, my grip tightening on the handle of my axe. The blade is still stained, a dark, crusty crimson that I haven't bothered to wipe off. "You ready for this, then?" I ask, my voice raspy.
She looks at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "I think you're the one who should be asking that, darling," she purrs.