Chapter 16
The air in the woods is thick and damp, smelling of rotting pine and wet earth. I’m standing perfectly still, a shadow among shadows, a few yards away from a dilapidated cabin that looks like it’s one strong breeze away from collapsing into the dirt.
Then I hear him.
The sound of frantic, wheezing breath and the clumsy thud of boots hitting mud.
He bursts through the treeline, stumbling out of the brush, running for his fucking life from Rhys.
He’s a pathetic sight—an old, bloated sack of a man with a beer belly so massive it looks like it’s trying to escape his strained trousers.
He’s gasping, his face a mottled purple, lungs screaming for air that won't come fast enough.
He doesn't see me until he's practically on top of me. He skids to a halt, his boots sliding in the muck, and he recoils so violently that he loses his balance and lands hard on his fat arse with a wet thwack.
I look down at him, my expression hidden, but I know I’m smiling.
I’m wearing a tight, black velvet dress that hugs every curve, the hem ending mid-thigh to give me room to move, paired with heavy combat boots that are already splattered with mud.
Over it all, the mask. A porcelain nightmare with a frozen, vacant stare, the eyes and the mouth glowing with a sinister, ice-blue light that cuts through the gloom of the forest.
Behind him, Rhys emerges from the trees.
He isn't even winded. He’s dressed in a sharp, black tactical coat and dark trousers, looking every bit the predatory aristocrat.
His mask is a haunting contrast to mine—white porcelain streaked with permanent, crystalline blue tears that look like they’re frozen in time.
In his hand, he holds his gun, the matte black metal absorbing what little light is left in the sky.
I shift my weight, the heavy, two-sided axe in my grip feeling like an extension of my own arm. The blade glints, hungry for a taste.
The man looks from me to Rhys, his eyes wide with a primal, shaking terror. He lets out a whimpering sound, his voice a cracked whisper.
"It... it's the same two again..." he stammers, his chest heaving. "The porcelain doll woman... and the man with the blue tears..."
I tilt my head, the blue glow of my mask casting eerie shadows across his terrified face. I glance back at Rhys, a playful, psychotic little thrill running down my spine.
"Oh, look at that, my love," I purr, my voice sounding distorted and otherworldly behind the mask. "Did we turn into urban folklore? We're fucking legends, Rhys."
Rhys doesn't even look at me, his gaze locked on the prey. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. "Better to be a legend than a corpse, love. Though for this piece of shit, the two are about to become one and the same."
The man begins to shake violently, his hands fluttering in the air. "Why?! Why do you want to kill me? I didn't do anything wrong! I'm a good man!"
Rhys takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the gun held steady. "A good man? That's a fucking laugh. Let's talk about Marguerite Hansburg. Let's talk about how you helped trap her in Thomas Sorrell's basement and tore her world apart while you took whatever you wanted from her."
The man goes instantly still. The color drains from his face, leaving him a ghostly, sickly grey. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically.
"I... I regretted it!" he wails, his voice rising into a pathetic screech. "I'm a changed man! I've spent years repenting! I confessed to a priest, I said my Hail Marys every single night until God forgave me! I'm saved!"
With trembling fingers, he reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small, silver cross necklace, clutching it to his chest as if the piece of metal could shield him from the monsters standing before him. "God has forgiven me! Please! I'm a new man!"
I let out a sharp, cold laugh that echoes through the trees. I step closer, the head of my axe grazing the mud.
"God might have forgiven you, you slimy cunt," I hiss, leaning down so the glowing blue eyes of my mask are inches from his. "But we aren't God. And we don't give a flying fuck about your prayers."
Rhys doesn't waste another word. He steps forward and kicks the man squarely in the face, the sound of a breaking nose echoing through the woods. As the man screams, clutching his face, Rhys pins his arm down with a heavy boot, grinding it into the dirt.
"My turn," I whisper.
I swing the axe with a guttural scream of pure, unadulterated rage. The blade bites deep into his thigh, slicing through the fat and muscle with a sickening squelch. He lets out a blood-curdling shriek, a sound of absolute agony that makes the birds scatter from the trees.
"Please! Stop! Forgive me!" he bellows, blood spraying across the dead leaves.
I don't stop. I can't stop. The darkness in me is screaming for more. I bring the axe down again, this time hacking into his shoulder, the blade lodging in the bone with a dull thud. He's sobbing now, a pathetic, wet sound, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist in our world.
Rhys watches with a look of possessive pride, his finger tightening on the trigger. He doesn't shoot him dead—not yet. He wants him to feel every second of the descent.
I rip the axe out of his shoulder with a wet pop and swing it in a wide, brutal arc.
The blade catches him across the stomach, slicing open his beer belly like a piece of overripe fruit.
His intestines spill out onto the cold mud, steaming in the night air.
He looks down at his own insides, his screams turning into a gurgling, wet choke.
"Look at you," I sneer, stepping on his chest to pin him down, feeling his ribs crack under my boot. "Not so holy now, are you?"
As he gasps for one last breath, his eyes rolling back in his head, Rhys leans down. He presses the muzzle of the gun directly against the man's open mouth.
"Tell the priest we said hello," Rhys whispers.
BANG.
The gunshot is deafening, painting the trees and the mud in a spray of red and grey. The man's head snaps back, his body twitching once, twice, and then falling limp.
I stand back, breathing hard, my chest heaving. I look at the carnage—the blood, the gore, the shattered remains of a man who thought a few prayers could erase a lifetime of sin. I feel a wave of intense, electric arousal wash over me.
I turn to Rhys, my mask still glowing, and lean into him. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my blood-splattered body against his.
"Well done, love," he murmurs, kissing the side of my mask. "Absolutely fucking brilliant.”
We leave the gore and the stench of that pathetic cunt behind in the mud.
The masks, the axe, and the gun are discarded, left to the shadows of the woods as Rhys leads me toward the neon-soaked darkness of the Midnight Menagerie.
The transition is jarring—from the silence of a murder to the distant, distorted music and screams of the carnival.
I walk close to him, my heels clicking against the pavement, feeling the lingering adrenaline humming in my veins. I glance up at him, my voice a bit breathless. "Where the fuck are we going, Rhys?"
He doesn't look at me, but I can hear the smirk in his voice, that low, predatory rumble that always makes my stomach flip. "Somewhere, love, where I can give you both fear and pleasure in equal measure."
My heart hammers against my ribs. With Rhys, that's usually a promise of something absolutely mental.
He stops abruptly in front of the ferris wheel, and I just stare.
It’s not some bright, tacky piece of carnival machinery painted in primary colors.
This thing is a gothic monstrosity of black wrought iron, towering into the midnight sky like a skeletal hand reaching for the moon.
The gondolas aren't open buckets; they're enclosed Victorian cages, lined with deep crimson velvet seats that look like they belong in a haunted opera house.
It turns almost silently, a slow, ghostly rotation that feels more like a ritual than a ride.
Only one or two cabins are occupied, leaving the rest to sway like empty coffins in the breeze.
As we approach, I notice the crowd. People are lined up, but as soon as we step into view, the atmosphere shifts.
I see women fanning themselves as they eye Rhys up and down, their eyes wide, whispering frantically behind their hands.
I brace myself for the usual—the sneers, the whispers of 'freak' or 'madgirl' that I get from the locals in Whitby.
But it doesn't happen.
"Look at her dress... absolutely stunning," one woman hisses to her friend.
"God, she's so lucky," another whispers, her gaze darting between me and Rhys. "To actually get thee Ringmaster... he's easily the hottest thing in this entire fucking carnival."
I freeze, my brow furrowing. Ringmaster? Who the fuck is the Ringmaster? I glance at Rhys, who is walking with that effortless, arrogant stride, completely unfazed by the attention. Is that him? Is that what they call him in his kingdom?
We don't even bother with the queue. Rhys breezes past the line of people as if they’re nothing more than ghosts. The operator running the wheel doesn't even wait for him to open his mouth; he snaps to attention, his face pale.
"The carriage is ready as ordered, boss," the man says, his voice shaking slightly.
He engages the mechanism, and the wheel groans softly, bringing a specific carriage down to the platform. Unlike the others, this one is shielded by black stained glass instead of clear windows, turning the interior into a private, obsidian sanctuary.
Rhys reaches out, his hand firm on the small of my back, and helps me into the carriage.
As the door clicks shut, sealing us away from the world, I instinctively reach for the safety belt, clicking it into place with a sharp snap.
Outside, I can hear the muffled sounds of other passengers being loaded into the remaining cages.