Chapter 9 #2
The spread they lay out is exotic and hearty. There are thick slices of zacusca—a roasted vegetable spread—alongside salty cheeses, smoked meats, and warm, crusty bread. They use heavy, tarnished silver utensils and mismatched ceramic plates that look like they've survived a century of use.
I sit down with the succubus, and Oana pours me a cup of dark, fragrant tea. She settles in, her gaze turning distant. "We were all nuns in a coven deep in Romania," she begins. "We lived in an abbey with the other sisters and the Mother Superior."
Another sister picks up the story, her voice dropping an octave. "Oana started having visions one day. Visions of the future. Predictions of things that had not yet happened, but were inevitable."
"The Mother Superior was alarmed," a third sister adds, "though not at first. Imagine Oana quietly telling her: 'Sister Elena's father will die tomorrow.' The Mother Superior dismissed it as a childish whim."
The sister pauses, her expression grim. "The next day... he died. Then another vision came true. Then another. Some time later, five more of us began seeing the same things. All six of us were linked, seeing the threads of fate."
"The Mother Superior reported it to the higher church authorities," Oana continues, her voice trembling slightly.
"An investigation began. The investigators decided we were not saints, but possessed.
Heretical. They imprisoned us beneath the convent, in the dark, and subjected us to... 'deliverance.'"
I feel a knot form in my stomach. I know what "deliverance" means in the eyes of a fanatic. It means pain. It means torture.
"That is when the fear took over," another sister says. "The church didn't see a gift; they saw six monsters. We were hunted, called witches who deserved the trials. We were rotting in that hole until he found us."
"Rhys," Oana whispers, a look of pure adoration on her face.
"I had a vision of him. A tall man, with eyes like a winter storm, the color of a churning winter sky, and a heart that beat for the discarded.
He came for us. He engineered our escape, tore us from those chains, and brought us across the world to England. To Whitby."
I stare at them, genuinely shocked. "The church... instead of embracing you, they just assumed you were possessed? And you had a vision of Rhys. Wow. I don't even know what to say."
The sisters nod solemnly. "That is why we follow him. Our loyalty lies with Rhys; he gave us back our lives."
"But how did you end up working at a carnival?" I ask.
They look at each other and smile, a collective expression of liberation.
"People come here because they already believe in impossible things," one explains. "They come looking for ghosts, monsters, and miracles. We do not have to pretend to be ordinary here."
"We spent a lot of days being told we were monsters," another adds. "Rhys built a place where monsters no longer have to hide."
"He never asked us to change, drag?," Oana says softly.
"He did not rescue us only to put us in another cage.
He built a home where we could keep our traditions, our language, and our sisters.
The carnival did not make us strange, Ophelia.
It simply gave us a place where our strangeness frightened no one who mattered. "
Oana's expression turns serious. "Romania changed him, too. There are things he brought back from those mountains that should never have left."
I open my mouth to ask what the fuck that means, but one of the sisters nudges my arm. "Your breakfast is getting cold, Ophelia. Let's all eat."
I nod and start digging into the food, the flavors rich and earthy. As I eat, the succubus leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper.
"I may have snooped a little, darling," she murmurs. "And I know that one of the men on Rhys's target list is someone I want dead just as much as you do."
She pauses, then drops the name like a lead weight. "John Robert."
My heart skips. The fourth man.
"I know you and Rhys are on a mission," she whispers, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Can I be let in on this? Let me help you kill this man."
I stop chewing, looking at her. "What did he do to you to make you want him dead?"
The succubus's smile doesn't reach her eyes; it's cold and sharp. "Something... unforgettable."
I bite my lip, thinking about the filth John Robert is and must be. I can't imagine what he's done, but if the succubus wants a piece of him, he's probably a special kind of serial woman abuser.
"I'll talk to Rhys," I whisper back.
"Thank you, darling," she purrs, leaning back and returning to her meal with a satisfied smirk.
Oana leans in, her gaze drifting from my eyes up to the black halo resting atop my head. A soft, appreciative hum vibrates in her throat.
"It is truly beautiful, drag?," she murmurs, her voice like velvet. "It suits you. A crown for a fallen angel."
I blink, almost forgetting the damn thing was even there. It feels weightless, yet I can feel it humming with a faint, rhythmic energy that seems to sync with my own heartbeat. I look at Oana, my curiosity piqued. "Do you know how it actually works? I mean, how does it work like that?"
Oana leans closer, her eyes narrowing as she inspects the intricate metalwork of the halo. She doesn't ask what I mean. A slow, knowing smile spreads across her lips—the kind of smile that tells you she knows exactly what Rhys gave me.
"No," she says simply. "I have no idea."
I narrow my eyes, leaning back in my chair. "Bullshit. You’re a lying witch, Oana. You absolutely know."
She lets out a soft, melodic laugh, her Romanian accent thickening. "You cannot prove that I know, drag?. A guess is not a proof."
I stare at her for a long moment, realizing I'm not going to get a straight answer out of this woman today. I give a sharp, singular nod. "Fine. Whatever. If no one’s going to tell me how this bloody thing works, I’ll just figure it out on my own. Probably by accidentally blowing something up."
Once we finish the hearty breakfast, the succubus and I excuse ourselves. We thank the sisters—who give us warm, knowing looks—and step back out into the cool morning air, walking side-by-side toward the castle.
The succubus glides beside me, her hips swaying with a predatory grace that makes everything around her seem dull.
She glances at me, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Darling, you're the only woman in England who lives with a billionaire and still doesn't own a bloody phone.
How do you even function? Do you send carrier pigeons? "
I roll my eyes. "I don't need a phone when I have Rhys. He's basically my human GPS and alarm clock." I pause, remembering something. "By the way... do you remember Amara?"
The succubus stops for a fraction of a second, her brow furrowing as she searches her memory. Then, she shakes her head slowly. "Amara? No. I'm afraid I don't know who that is."
My mouth drops open. I stare at her in genuine disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? Amara! The girl who is absolutely obsessed with you? She's practically worshiping the ground you walk on!"
The succubus sighs, looking bored. "Darling, you have to be more specific. I encounter hundreds of souls who fancy me. It's a professional hazard."
"She's the girl who's come to the carnival more than once!" I insist, gesturing wildly. "She is so into you. Like, dangerously into you."
The succubus pauses again, a flicker of recognition finally crossing her face. "Oh... right. Her."
I nod slowly, a bit of pity bubbling up in my chest. "I was going to ask if you actually liked her, but you don't even remember her name. That's fucking brutal."
She lets out a low, confident chuckle, the sound vibrating with a seductive power.
"Many people fall for me, Ophelia. Men, women...
it matters little. It is nothing new, and frankly, it is expected.
I am designed to be desired. People don't come looking for me because they hope I'll love them.
They come because they hope I'll look at them.”
"So," I ask, leaning in, "would you ever actually consider being with her? Amara's a sweet girl."
The succubus throws her head back and laughs—a rich, mocking sound. "Be with her? Darling, I don't 'do' relationships. I feast on desire; I don't cultivate it. To be with someone is to be tethered, and I prefer to fly."
I can't help but feel bad for Amara. The poor girl is head-over-heels for a woman who views her as just another face in a crowd of admirers. It's cold, but then again, that's the nature of the beast.
"If Amara is who I think she is," the succubus adds, her voice softening just a fraction, "she is a beautiful girl. But I would only break that poor girl's heart. I am not built for tenderness."
"Right," I mutter. "So you're just a heart-breaker. Have you been with any men then? Do you actually date them?"
She gives me a look of pure amusement. "It is never a good idea for a man to fall in love with a woman who will lure him to his doom, Ophelia. Love is a luxury for mortals. For me, it's just... appetite."
"Fucking hell," I laugh. "If you won't date Amara or some random bloke, then who would you date? Is there anyone on this planet who actually meets your standards?"
She stops walking and looks at me, her eyes gleaming. "I don't date, darling. I play. Why settle for one meal when the whole world is a buffet?"
We keep chatting as we approach the castle, the conversation drifting.
I try to pry her real name out of her, but she just winks at me, keeping her mystery intact.
"A name is a powerful thing, Ophelia. Not just anyone gets mine.
But... perhaps one day, when you've proven yourself a true friend of the shadows, I'll whisper it in your ear. "