Chapter 39
The Brid e
T he Sanctuary pulses with Halloween madness, smoke curling through flame-lit walkways like beckoning fingers. Tonight marks its final hours—the last gasps of October breathing across the island before tomorrow strips it back to abandoned military structures and wind-swept paths.
But now, it thrives on the bodies twisted in grotesque performances, their skin painted in symbols I recognize from ancient grimoires. Masked revelers watch from shadows, medallions gleaming at their throats.
Jack’s arm settles around my waist, his fingers splayed possessively across my hip as we move through crowds that part instinctively, sensing something deadly and satisfied about us.
No one here knows what we did hours ago. No one can see the blood we’ve washed from our skin, the death we’ve carved together. But they feel it—this power radiating between us—and they give us space to breathe it in.
“Where do you want to go first?” Jack asks, his voice low against my ear.
I scan the grounds, taking in the various spectacles. A contortionist bends her body into impossible shapes on a raised plat form, each twist revealing new patterns painted across her skin.
Further along, a man in a plague doctor mask performs mock surgeries on willing victims, extracting ribbons of red silk.
“There,” I decide, nodding toward a performance circle where a woman with silver-painted skin is swallowing fire, her throat working visibly as flames disappear into her mouth only to reappear when she exhales through her nose.
Jack guides me through the press of bodies. Unlike the night of our wedding, we aren’t part of the show—we’re part of the audience. But I feel the weight of eyes following us anyway, drawn to something they sense but can’t name.
The scar on my cheek no longer feels like a mark of weakness. Tonight, it’s a badge of survival, proof that I’ve stared into darkness and emerged changed but unbroken. And most importantly, together.
We stop at the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the heat from the performer’s flames. Jack stands behind me, his chest against my back, arms wrapped around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, stubble scraping pleasantly against my skin.
Around us, masked spectators gasp and murmur as the fire dancer takes a burning torch and presses it against her arm, leaving no mark but a shimmer of silver paint.
“That has to be an illusion,” Jack whispers against my ear. “I think I read something about mirror dust in the paint reflecting the flame, making it look like she’s untouched.”
I lean back into him, savoring his warmth. “Why are you spoiling the magic, Mr. Mortis?”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my spine. “Just appreciating the craft.” His teeth graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down my neck. “I prefer real scars to fake ones, Little Bride.”
His fingers trace the line on my cheek, the touch reverent rather than pitying. I turn my head, catching his wrist, pressing my lips to his pulse point where blood thrums steady and strong.
The crowd surges and shifts, attention captured by the performer’s finale—a burst of flame that momentarily blinds, leaving ghostly afterimages dancing across my vision.
When the s pots clear, Jack is watching me with heat in his eyes. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Let’s see what else this place has to offer on its last night.”
We drift through the grounds, pausing to watch a mock execution, people being chased across the grounds, and hear the screams from somewhere farther along the path.
Jack’s arm tightens around me, his other hand brushing hair from my neck to press his mouth against my throat. I feel the scrape of teeth, the warm press of his tongue, and I laugh into the night air, head falling back to grant him better access.
The freedom is intoxicating—to be touched like this in public, to feel desire without fear, to know the worst has already happened and we survived it together.
“I think,” I say, my voice husky with want, “we should find that fortune teller again.”
Jack raises an eyebrow, curiosity lighting his features. “Really?”
I shrug. “I want to know what she sees for us now.”
We make our way toward where the fortune teller had been stationed before, but the tent is gone, replaced by a booth selling grotesque candy sculptures that bleed when bitten into.
“She moved,” a passing server tells us, noticing our confusion. “Near Slaughter Stage B. The small black tent with the silver symbols.”
We find it tucked between two larger attractions, almost hidden in shadow. The entrance is a slash of darkness in black fabric, guarded by nothing but a thin strand of silver bells that chime softly in the night breeze. Jack pushes the fabric aside, allowing me to enter first.
Inside, the air is thick with incense—not the cloying sweetness of cheap sticks, but something deeper, earthier, like freshly turned soil and crushed herbs. The fortune teller sits behind a small table draped in midnight-blue velvet.
Her face is different from what I remember—older, lined with deep grooves around eyes that seem too pale to be natural. But her hands are the same, fingers long and elegant as they spread cards across the velvet.
“The Bride returns,” she says, voice like autumn leaves crushed underfoot. “But not a Bride anymore. Something else now.” Her gaze shifts to Jack. “Both of you have changed.”
“We’d like a reading,” I say, taking a seat on the cushion across from her. Jack settles beside me, his thigh pressed against mine, a warm anchor in the tent’s cool darkness.
As she begins shuffling the cards she throws her head back and cackles. “Yes, yes, you were right.”
“Excuse me?” Jack asks, sounding perplexed.
The woman side-eyes him. “I was answering the cards.” Then she frowns and looks between both our hands. “You’ve killed today,” she says matter-of-factly, not looking up from her task. I don’t deny it. Neither does Jack. The knowledge sits between us, acknowledged and accepted.
She lays three cards on the velvet, face down. When she turns the first, it shows a tower struck by lightning, figures falling from its heights.
“Destruction,” she murmurs. “But not yours. You are the storm, not the structure.” She turns the second card—two figures bound by chains, standing at a crossroads. “Choice made. Paths joined. There is no untangling of what has been woven.”
The third card shows a figure walking into darkness, lantern held high.
“The journey continues. Not into light—into endless night. But together.” She looks up, her eyes finding mine with unsettling precision.
“This is no soft love, no gentle heart. This is obsession. Possession. Survival entwined with destruction.”
Jack’s hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers lacing together. I feel the calluses on his palm, the strength in his grip, and I squeeze back, accepting what she offers.
“Your path stretches beyond ages,” she continues, voice dropping lower.
“Beyond death itself. What has been forged in blood does not easily break.” She gathers the cards, returning them to the deck without another glance.
“You will face trials in every lifetime. Pain. Loss. But always, always, you will find each other in the dark.”
“And is that a blessing or a curse?” Jack asks, his voice steady but curious.
The fortune teller’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “For creatures like you? It is simply the truth. ”
She offers no more, and we understand we’ve been dismissed. As we rise to leave, I reach for my wallet, but she shakes her head.
“I told you before that I don’t want your money. I don’t accept payment from those whose fates are bound to mine.” Something ancient flickers in her gaze. “We will meet again, when winter turns the world to ice and you require different truths.”
“You know,” I gasp. It’s not a question but a statement. I can see it on her face.
“Yes,” she nods slowly. “The cards told me. That’s why I moved my tent.” She points to her bags next to the table. “I’m ready to go.”
With those words, she ushers us out of the tent, unwilling or unable to answer any more questions.
“I can’t decide if she’s creepy or awesome,” I sigh once we’re outside, the night air feels electric against my skin, charged with possibility.
Jack pulls me close, his lips finding mine in a kiss that tastes of smoke and destiny. When we part, his eyes hold mine, something fierce and tender in their depths. “Definitely creepy,” he decides.
“Do you believe her?” I ask as his thumb traces the line of my jaw.
I think of everything we’ve survived—his revenge, my captivity, Shelby’s death. I think of how he looked standing in Nick’s basement, offering me the knife, giving me the choice to end a life that had tried to end mine.
“I believe in us,” I answer simply. “Whatever comes next.”
His smile is slow, predatory, promising. His fingers tighten on my hip, drawing me deeper into shadow where revelers can’t see the way his hand slips beneath my shirt, tracing bare skin with deliberate intent.
“Then let’s enjoy our playground,” he murmurs against my lips. “After all, we’ve earned it.”
And as his mouth claims mine again, more demanding this time, I surrender to the knowledge that the fortune teller was right—this isn’t soft romance. This is something sharper, darker, a love carved from violence and sealed in blood. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
We go from attraction to attraction, taking in as much as we can before our time here is up. We don’t need a clock to tell us when we’re nearing midnight. The crowd gravitates toward the central stage—the same altar where Jack once claimed me as his Bride.
Tonight, it’s transformed by hundreds of black candles, their flames perfectly still in the windless air, smoke rising in straight columns toward a moonless sky. The scent of melting wax mingles with incense, with sweat and anticipation from the bodies pressing closer.