Chapter 5
Damon
“Ophelia?”
No answer.
I set my mug down and move through the living room, following a trail of damp footprints across the hardwood. The shower stopped running a while ago. I’d left one of my clean shirts and a pair of drawstring sweatpants outside the door, both of which are gone now.
I find her beside the couch.
She’s curled on the floor, with her cheek resting against one folded arm, still damp from the shower.
My shirt swallows her, the black fabric falling nearly to her knees.
She didn’t bother with the sweatpants. Her ruined dress lies in a wet heap near the bathroom doorway, brown water spreading beneath it.
I stop at the edge of the rug. “What are you doing?”
Her pale eyes open. “You have furniture.”
I look from her, to the couch, and back again. “Then why are you sleeping on the floor?”
She slowly pushes herself upright. The shower took away the blood and most of the dirt, but it didn’t fix what’s beneath. The green hue of her skin is lighter now. Cracks branch across the fingers wrapped around her knees, and the damage along one side of her jaw looks darker against clean skin.
“Beds are for the living,” she responds.
The answer makes my heart twist, and dare I say, I feel sorry for her.
“That’s not a bed.”
“It has cushions,” she argues.
“So does a chair.”
“I didn’t sit in that, either.”
I glance at the recliner, at the dent three years of my own bad posture has worn into it. “You’ve got me there.”
She studies me, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I’m starting to recognize that look. Ophelia doesn’t expect kindness. She expects instructions, and if none come, she makes herself small enough to avoid becoming a problem.
I don’t like noticing that.
“Get up,” I grunt.
Her shoulders stiffen.
I point toward the couch. “You’re not sleeping on my floor. I’m going to step on you in the dark, and then we’ll both have a bad night.”
“We’re already having a bad night.”
“Exactly. No reason to get ambitious.”
She unfolds herself carefully, and rises. My shirt hangs crooked from one shoulder, exposing the edge of a dark mark near her collarbone. Not decay. A scar, maybe, though I can’t tell how old scars work when the person wearing them has been buried longer than my town has existed.
She lowers herself onto the couch, and sits at the very edge.
“You can lean back,” I tell her.
“I’m comfortable.”
“You look like you’re waiting for a job interview.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Right.” I rub a hand over my face. “Of course you don’t.”
She watches me return to the kitchen. When I bring the second mug into the living room, her gaze follows it.
“What is that liquid?”
“Coffee.”
“What does it do?”
“Mostly gives me the energy to continue making poor decisions.”
I hold it toward her.
She looks at the mug, then at me. “Is it poisonous?”
“No, it isn’t poisonous.”
She accepts it with both hands. The ceramic looks too bright against her fingers. She holds it near her face but doesn’t drink, breathing in the steam with a faint crease between her brows.
“It’s bitter,” she points out.
“You haven’t tasted it.”
“I can smell it.”
“So can everyone else. We drink it anyway.”
She takes a careful sip. Her expression doesn’t change, but her tongue touches her lower lip like she’s trying to decide whether I’ve lied to her.
“Well?”
“It’s unpleasant.”
“You get used to it.”
“That’s a poor reason to keep doing something.”
“Welcome to modern life.”
Three knocks sound against the front door.
Ophelia sets the mug down without spilling a drop.
“Stay here,” I command.
Ophelia looks at me.
I hear it as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Right. You’re the dangerous one.”
“I can still stay here.”
“That would actually be great.”
I cross the room and look through the narrow window beside the door.
Maeve stands on my porch. She’s still wearing the black robe, though the hood is down now. Her silver hair hangs loose over her shoulders, and there isn’t a spot of blood or dirt on her. I don’t see a vehicle in the driveway. I open the door, but keep one hand on the edge of it.
“Did you walk here?”
“May I enter?”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No.” She holds my gaze. Behind her, the street is empty, except for a smashed pumpkin.
I wait. She does, too. I guess we’re in a battle of wills.
Behind me, Ophelia says, “She’ll remain there until you invite her in.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Is that a vampire thing?”
Maeve’s mouth flattens. “No.”
“Then why?”
“Because entering another person’s home without permission is rude.”
Of course. The cult has manners.
I step aside. “Come in.”
She crosses the threshold, and pauses when she sees Ophelia sitting on the couch in my shirt, holding a mug of coffee like someone recovering from a very strange sleepover.
Her expression softens. “You cleaned her.”
“She was getting grave dirt everywhere.”
Maeve moves farther into the room. “How do you feel?”
Ophelia considers the question. “Cold.”
“Anything else?”
“Hungry.”
My eyes snap toward her.
Ophelia glances at me. “Not for you.”
“That would’ve been useful information five seconds sooner.”
Maeve’s gaze travels between us, and for some reason, I resent the quiet amusement in it.
“Kitchen,” I bite out. “We’re doing this at the table, and you’re explaining everything.”
Maeve follows without arguing, which somehow makes me trust her less.
Ophelia remains on the couch.
I stop in the doorway. “You should hear this.”
“I know what I am.”
“No, you know you crawled out of a grave, and killed eight people. That’s not the same thing.”
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
Maeve looks at her. “Come, child.”
Ophelia’s eyes lift. “Don’t call me that.”
Maeve inclines her head. “Ophelia, then.”
She joins us at the table. I take the seat nearest the kitchen door. Ophelia sits across from me, and Maeve settles at the end between us, as if she’s moderating the world’s worst family meeting.
For a moment, nobody speaks.
I tap one finger against the table. “Start with who she is.”
Maeve folds her hands. “Ophelia Ashcombe was born in 1624.”
I look at Ophelia, trying to fit four hundred years into the face across from me. She gives no sign that the name means anything.
Maeve continues. “Her family owned much of the land that became Blackridge. Her father had no sons, and when he died, the property passed to her.”
“A woman inherited it?”
“Yes.”
“In the sixteen hundreds?”
“It was unusual.”
“That feels like an understatement.”
“She was educated, unmarried, and wealthy enough that men couldn’t easily control her. She managed the estate herself. She opened its houses to widows and women fleeing violent husbands. She hired women for work that men believed belonged to them.”
Ophelia’s thumb moves across the rim of her mug. “I did this?”
“You did.”
No memory returns to her face. That might be the worst part.
“What happened?” I ask.
Maeve looks toward Ophelia before answering. “Influence draws admiration. It also draws men who believe power is something women must have stolen.”
My jaw tightens.
“They tried to force her into marriage, first. When she refused, they attempted to take the land through the courts. She fought them, and won.”
I lean back. “So, they killed her.”
“Yes.”
Ophelia’s gaze drops to the table.
“What did they accuse her of?” I ask.
“Whatever served them.”
“That’s vague.”
“It was meant to be. Heresy. Corruption. Unnatural practices. The death of a man who’d tried to assault one of the girls under her protection.”
“Did she kill him?”
Maeve’s eyes settle on Ophelia. “Yes.”
Ophelia doesn’t move.
“Was he guilty?” I ask.
“He was.”
“That didn’t matter?” I question.
“No.”
The coffee sits untouched in front of me, a thin film formed across the surface.
“How did she die?”
Maeve takes a breath. “They held a trial without allowing her to speak. Men she’d embarrassed gave testimony. Men who wanted her property declared her dangerous. When hanging failed to kill her, they buried her beneath consecrated ground while she was still alive.”
The kitchen shrinks around that sentence.
Ophelia touches the base of her throat. Two fingers, resting flat, the way you’d check a pulse on someone else.
I remember the way she climbed out of the earth. The dirt under her nails. The first desperate grip of her fingers against the soil.
“How long?” Ophelia asks.
Maeve’s expression changes by almost nothing. “Long enough.”
Ophelia’s hand lowers.
I look away first.
“What happened to the men?”
“They divided her estate amongst them.”
“Of course they did.” Nothing about it surprises me, and that’s the part that turns my stomach; that a room full of men killing a woman for her land tracks so easily, I don’t even have to work at believing it.
“They didn’t keep it for long,” Maeve says calmly. “The women she’d protected came for them, one by one.”
Ophelia has gone very still.
“They became your first cult members?” I ask.
“We don’t call ourselves a cult.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“Her daughters.”
Ophelia’s mouth hardens. “I have no children.”
“Not by blood.”
“Then you aren’t mine.”
Maeve absorbs that without flinching. “Perhaps not, but our ancestors are the women you helped, the ones you died for; so, you are as much our family as the blood that flows through my veins.”
I lean forward. “So, every Halloween, you bring her back.”
“Yes.”
“To kill men.”
“To judge them,” Maeve clarifies.
“Same result,” I deadpan.
“No,” Maeve answers. “Not always.”
I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate.
“Has she spared others?”
“One, many years ago. He’d been invited by mistake.”
“Your magic makes mistakes?”
“It’s not magic that delivers the invitations, people do. Magic chooses, we deliver.”
“And tonight?”
“The invitations found the men they were meant to find.”
“Including me.”
Maeve’s gaze shifts toward my wrist.
The gold isn’t visible now, but I feel the place she looks at.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
A laugh leaves me before I can stop it. “You dragged me to a cemetery, tied my life to a dead woman, and you don’t know why?”
“We didn’t tie you to her.”
“Your invitation put me there.”
“The invitations are older than any woman currently living. We deliver them, but we don’t choose whom they are delivered to.”
“That sounds like a convenient distinction.”
My thumb finds the inside of my wrist, pressing against my pulse point.
“It’s the truth,” Maeve states.
“It’s not comforting.”
“I’m not here to comfort you.”
At the edge of my vision, Ophelia’s head turns toward me. I keep my eyes on Maeve.
“Great. Then you’re doing an excellent job.”
Ophelia looks between us and must decide to steer the conversation along. “What happens at sunrise?”
Maeve’s attention moves to her. “Until tonight, you’ve always returned to the grave.”
“And now?”
“That depends on the bond.”
I sit straighter. “Finally.”
Maeve ignores my tone. “An anchor allows her to remain among the living. Your life gives her soul something to hold on to, but the connection is new and fragile.”
“How do we strengthen it?” Ophelia asks. “I’m not sure if I want to return to the grave, or if I want to stay here.”
“Trust,” Maeve answers.
“That’s it?” Ophelia questions.
“It’s the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” Ophelia presses Maeve.
“The bond must deepen.”
I look at Ophelia. She’s already watching Maeve.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“A willingness to let the connection grow, rather than fighting it.”
“That’s not an answer,” I scoff, getting frustrated with every non-answer Maeve gives us.
“It’s the only answer I have,” Maeve responds.
“You’ve been doing this for four hundred years,” I state incredulously.
Maeve’s hands stay folded like she’s had this conversation a hundred times, even though she told us in the cemetery that this hasn’t happened before.
“No, my ancestors have been doing this for four hundred years. I’ve only been doing it for seventy-nine. And this has never happened.” Maeve pushes her chair back and stands.
I stare at her. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“You just told me that we’re supposed to deepen some magical bond, and refused to say how.”
“You’ll recognize what it needs.”
“No, I won’t. I didn’t recognize that half the men in this town were monsters. My instincts aren’t exactly having a great night,” I quip.
Ophelia’s gaze moves to me.
Maeve pauses beside the table. “The bond won’t force either of you. It may make you aware of each other in ways that feel intrusive, but it cannot create trust where none exists.”
“And if we don’t trust each other?”
“She weakens.”
I look at Ophelia’s hands. The cracks have spread farther along her knuckles since we sat down.
“How quickly?”
“You’ll know.”
“That’s another non-answer.”
“You’ll feel her dying.”
My mouth closes as Maeve turns toward the door.
I follow her into the living room. “Wait.”
She looks back.
“You said she was powerful,” I state.
“Yes.”
“What kind of power?” I question, because I want to clarify exactly what I have gotten myself into.
Maeve’s eyes flick toward the kitchen, where Ophelia sits alone beneath the yellow light.
“The kind men have always feared in women.”
“That’s very dramatic.”
“It’s also true.”
“What can she do?”
“More than judge,” Maeve responds with another non-answer.
“Such as?”
Maeve opens the door. “A question for another night.”
“You’re unbelievably annoying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She steps onto the porch, then turns. “Keep her inside when the sun rises. Stay near her. Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“What happens if I do?”
“She’ll know.”
The door closes between us before I can ask how.
I lock it, then I add the deadbolt, because the lock feels inadequate against four centuries of cult magic and women who don’t seem to need cars.
When I turn around, Ophelia is standing in the entrance to the kitchen.
She heard everything. Of course she did.
My shirt hangs loose around her legs. Her damp hair leaves dark spots across the shoulders. She looks cleaner now, but not more alive.
“What if she means love?” she asks.
The question is quiet enough that I almost pretend I didn’t hear it.
I lean back against the door. “Let’s hope she doesn’t.”
Ophelia nods once.
She looks down at her hands. “Am I worth saving?”
My ribs pull tight around a breath. This is the same woman who stood over eight bodies without shaking. Now she won’t look at me. I could lie. Tell her yes because it’s the decent answer. Tell her no because I’m angry, and afraid, and none of this should be mine to fix.
“I don’t know yet,” I say with complete honesty.
Her fingers go still.
“But I’m not letting you die tonight.”
She raises her eyes to mine. The gold thread stirs beneath my wrist, warm this time rather than painful. Neither of us mentions it. Ophelia returns to the couch and sits down carefully, leaving room beside her, even though I haven’t said I’m joining her.
I stand by the door for another moment, then I pick up my coffee, and take the empty space.