Chapter 18 #2
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a moment, a small, triumphant smile on my lips. I look over at Shadow, who lets out a long yawn, showing off those terrifying teeth.
"I've got a visitor, Shadow," I whisper.
I glance back at the camera in the ceiling. Rhys is probably watching, probably seething or amused that I'm bringing someone into his sanctuary. I don't care. For a few hours, I am not just the 'ruined little doll' he loves so much. Although I feel like no matter where I go, I always will be.
I step into the shower, letting the steaming water scald my skin. I clean myself for a few good minutes.
I step out, dripping and shivering, and wrap myself in a plush, oversized black bathrobe that smells faintly like Rhys and I. It’s far too big for me, making me feel small and fragile, but the softness is a luxury I’m still getting used to.
I walk over to the vanity for the first time.
It’s a stunning piece of Victorian craftsmanship, all dark, carved mahogany and ornate swirls that look like frozen smoke.
I reach out and swing open the mirrored cabinet, and for a heartbeat, I freeze.
I expect to see them. I expect my sisters to be standing behind me, their faces covered in blood, their eyes hollow and haunting. I expect my mother to be there.
But there’s nothing. Just me. Pale, wide-eyed, and hauntingly alone.
I sit down on the velvet stool, staring at the array of makeup Rhys bought for me.
He’s a psychotic bastard, but he has a fucking eye for quality.
I’ve never done this before, but I start tentatively.
I apply a primer that feels like silk, then a foundation that evens out my pale skin.
I use a dark, smoky eyeshadow, blending the charcoal and deep plums around my lids to give myself a sunken, gothic look—something that matches the darkness in my head.
I line my eyes with a sharp, black wing, making my gaze look predatory, and finish it off with a deep, blood-red lipstick that makes my mouth look like a fresh wound.
I spend an hour on my hair, brushing out the tangles until it falls in heavy, obsidian waves down my back. I feel like a doll being painted, a masterpiece created by a madman.
Finally, I reach for the jewelry. I clasp the necklace around my throat—heavy, cold metal that feels like a collar—and carefully place the black halo upon my head.
I lean in close to the mirror, staring into my own pupils.
No ghosts. No screaming spirits. Just Ophelia.
I look like a fallen angel, a ruined thing made beautiful.
I walk over to the closet, where Rhys has curated a wardrobe that is essentially a collection of high-fashion mourning wear.
I pick out a dress that’s a masterpiece of black lace and silk, clinging to my curves like a second skin, with a high collar and a skirt that flares slightly at the bottom.
I slide into a pair of pointed black heels that make me feel tall and dangerous.
I stand before the full-length mirror. Behind the glass, I can see the silhouettes of the weapons Rhys keeps—the blades and the guns, the tools of our shared madness. I look fucking incredible. I look like I belong at his side.
Ping.
The notification sound echoes through the room. I bolt toward the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. My first thought is Rhys. Is he wondering where I am going? Is he demanding I come back to his bed wait for him so he can fuck the breath out of me?
I grab the phone, but it’s not him. It’s a text from Amara.
?? Get to the Hesketh Woods, now. I’ve got something for you that you need to see before I come to the carnival. Hurry up, love.
I frown, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Hesketh Woods isn't far, but why the secrecy? Why not just come to the gate? I try to call her back, pressing the phone to my ear, but it goes straight to voicemail.
"Bloody hell, Amara, what are you playing at?" I mutter.
I sigh, glancing back at Shadow. The big cat is watching me with those golden, knowing eyes. "I'll be back soon, big guy."
I slide the phone into the hidden pocket of my dress and head out.
I walk through the oppressive grandeur of the castle and across the grounds of the Midnight Menagerie, the carnival equipment looming like skeletal giants in the distance.
I pass through the gates and start walking down the street, the salt air of Whitby biting at my cheeks.
Hesketh Woods is a dense, suffocating stretch of ancient trees and clinging mist. As I step under the canopy, the light dims, and the silence becomes heavy.
"Amara?" I call out, my voice echoing. "Amara, you here? Stop fucking around!"
I push through a thicket of brambles, the thorns catching on my lace dress, but I don't care. Then, I spot something. A flash of color against the damp, grey earth.
I accelerate, my heels sinking into the mud. As I get closer, my heart drops. Amara is lying on the ground, sprawled out. Her phone is lying a few inches from her hand, the screen cracked.
"Amara!" I scream, dropping to my knees beside her. I grab her shoulders, shaking her. "Amara, wake up! Talk to me!"
I see it then—a thick smear of blood matting the hair on the side of her head. She’s unconscious, her breathing shallow and ragged. Panic surges through me, a cold wave of terror.
"Oh god, Amara, who did this to you—"
CRACK.
A sudden, blinding explosion of pain erupts at the back of my skull. It feels like a sledgehammer has collided with my head. The world tilts violently, the green of the trees and the grey of the sky swirling into a nauseating vortex.
I collapse forward, my face hitting the dirt next to Amara. My vision begins to tunnel, the edges turning black. Through the ringing in my ears, a voice drifts over me—cold, feminine, and dripping with a malice that makes my blood freeze.
"Found you, you bitch."
Then, the darkness swallows me whole.