Chapter 3
Ophelia
Silence settles over the cemetery, one heartbeat at a time.
The last body lies still at my feet, blood disappearing into earth that has waited centuries to drink it. The women have stopped their chanting. They always do. My work is finished.
Except… It isn’t. One man remains. I’ve already told him he’s innocent, but yet he stays.
He kneels in the grass with his hands resting loosely against his thighs, breathing hard enough that I can hear it.
Dark hair falls across one eye, unruly and wind-tossed, as though he gave up trying to tame it hours ago.
Ink disappears beneath the sleeves of his black Henley, winding over his forearms before slipping beneath the fabric.
More curls above the collar at his throat, disappearing beneath sun-warmed skin that still belongs to the living.
He’s broad through the shoulders, built like someone who works with his hands instead of behind a desk.
He could run, or he could stand and fight; instead, he does neither.
His eyes lift to mine, and they’re the color of rich soil after rain.
Afraid.
Not of being caught; he knows he’s done nothing akin to the men who lie around us.
The others carried themselves differently. They stood too straight and smiled too easily. Their souls leaked beneath their skin, long before I tore them apart.
This man doesn’t carry himself like they did.
He’s full of confusion, and his fear is more from not understanding.
Something beneath my ribs tightens.
I know this feeling.
“You feared an ending like they got,” I note.
His jaw shifts, but he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t plead for his life, only watches me, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m woman enough to pity, or monster enough to fear.
Perhaps I’ve forgotten the difference.
I lower myself until we’re nearly eye level with each other.
He’s close enough now that I notice the small scar cutting through one eyebrow. A black plug fills one ear. The tattoos on his forearms aren’t symbols of violence or devotion. They’re pieces of a life lived, stories written beneath skin that’s still warm.
His hands stay open between us.
I reach toward him, and he flinches. The movement makes me hesitate, so I leave my hand where it is.
“You’re free to return to your life, innocent one,” I say quietly.
His brow furrows.
My fingers brush beneath his jaw, cold meets warmth, and the magic answers before either of us can.
Gold light races beneath the cracks in my skin. It spreads through me too quickly to follow, slipping beneath ruined flesh and brittle bone until it settles beneath my breastbone. Heat blooms there, small but undeniable. I gasp around it, startled by the instinct. My lungs expand on their own.
Air.
I haven’t needed it since the night they buried me.
I pull my hand away.
The light doesn’t disappear. It lingers beneath my skin, in thin, golden veins before fading into the green-gray of decay.
Behind me, someone gasps and I turn. The eldest woman lowers her hood with trembling hands. Silver hair spills over her shoulders as she stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost for the first time.
“No...” she whispers. “After all these years...”
The others exchange uneasy looks.
One woman falls to her knees. Another presses trembling fingers to her lips. The eldest steps closer, stopping just outside the circle of carnage I created.
“It finally happened.”
I search her face; I feel like I should know her. The certainty settles inside me before memory does. Fragments flash behind my eyes: a candle burning low, cold stone beneath my bare feet, women’s voices rising together while hands clasp around mine.
Then darkness… so much darkness.
“My name,” I whisper. “Tell me.”
Her expression softens. “You are Ophelia.”
The name moves through me like something waking.
Ophelia.
The syllables settle into the empty places inside me, fitting where nothing else has.
The woman reaches out, then stops herself before touching me.
“You don’t remember.”
I shake my head once. “Not yet.”
Grief flickers across her face. “They stole more than your life.” She looks toward the open grave behind me. “They stole your memories, too.”
The survivor’s voice cuts through the silence. “What the hell is she talking about?”
I turn toward him. He’s still kneeling where I left him, his gaze moving between us like he’s trying to piece together a language he doesn’t speak.
The elder woman finally looks at him, and her eyes widen.
“So, it’s true.”
“What is?”
She ignores him. Instead, she looks back at me.
“We’ve tried to bring you back every Samhain, for nearly four hundred years.”
I search her face. “Tried?”
“The veil must be thin enough, and there must be guilty souls for you to judge. The old magic chooses when the path can truly open.” She lowers her eyes. “Some years, nothing happened. We waited until dawn beside your grave, and you never came.”
The words don’t feel possible.
“You judged the guilty,” she continues.
Another memory breaks loose.
A courtroom with men shouting over my voice, until someone struck me from behind. The smell of smoke, then earth.
“When dawn came,” the elder continues quietly, “you would return to your grave, and everything reset. Your dress goes back to how it was before you died, the blood and gore washes away. You were never meant to stay.”
I look at my hands, the cracks in my skin seem... smaller.
“What changed?”
Her gaze shifts to the man kneeling in the grass. “Him.”
The man blinks. “Me?”
She nods. “For centuries, we searched.”
“For what?” he asks.
“The one man whose soul could bind yours to the living world.”
Silence stretches between us, then he lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“She touched you.”
“She barely...” He stops, and his eyes fall to my hand. The place where our skin met still glows faintly beneath the surface.
The elder’s voice grows quieter.
“The first women who served you wrote of an anchor in their journals. A man who would come when your work was finished. A man untouched by the crimes you were created to punish.” She studies the man with open curiosity. “We stopped believing he existed.”
I look at him. His breathing hasn’t settled, blood freckles one sleeve where someone died too close, but he hasn’t wiped it away. He hasn’t run away. Most would have; most did.
“What is your name?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. “Damon.”
The moment he speaks it, the warmth beneath my breastbone grows; not in pain, but hunger. The thread between us tightens until I can almost see it.
Damon.
The name means nothing to my memories, but everything inside me reaches toward it. Not because I want to, more because something older than either of us already has.
A sharp sound cuts through the night. A horn… no… a siren, and it’s growing closer.
The living are coming.
“No.” Damon’s voice cuts through the silence.
I turn toward him. He hasn’t looked at me since the light left my hand. His eyes keep finding the bodies instead, as though seeing them again might somehow change what happened.
“No.” He shakes his head and points toward me. “I don’t know what kind of cult shit this is, but I’m not taking...” His hand stalls in the air between us. “... her.”
The words don’t wound me. Why would they? He watched me pull men apart with my bare hands. I’d refuse me, too.
The graying woman studies him for a long moment.
“Would you rather leave her?”
“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation. “I don’t know her.”
No, he doesn’t. I barely know myself.
The warmth inside my chest flickers, and pain follows. It begins beneath my ribs, and spreads through every crack in my body, until my legs threaten to give way. I catch myself against a headstone, stone scraping against my palm.
The light is disappearing, and the elder notices immediately.
“The bond has already begun.”
Damon barely glances at me.
“If you leave her before sunrise, the magic will tear her soul back into the grave.”
“So?”
The word hangs in the air but the woman’s expression doesn’t change.
“You’ll go with her.”
Damon laughs; it’s short and disbelieving.
“No.”
The bond answers for him. Gold races beneath the skin of his wrist. At the same moment, something twists inside my chest, stealing the strength from my legs. I double forward, my hand pressed over the place where my heart should beat.
I hear Damon curse. When I lift my head, he’s staring at his arm.
“What the hell...”
The woman folds her hands before her.
“You’re already tied together; one cannot live without the other.”
“Undo it!” Damon shouts.
“I cannot.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
Her eyes soften. “Neither did she.”
Silence settles between us, and Damon finally looks at me. Not with anger, but uncertainty.
I don’t defend myself since there is nothing to defend. Everything he’s seen is true. The blood beneath my fingernails, the bodies scattered through the cemetery, and the grave waiting behind me.
Another siren joins the first; they’re closer now. The cloaked women all turn toward the cemetery gates.
“Daybreak is less than five hours away. Sheriff Collins unlocks these gates every Halloween before sunrise. We cannot still be here.”
Damon follows her gaze. His truck waits beyond the iron fence. Blood stains the knees of his jeans, and his invitation lies forgotten in the grass.
He whispers something I almost don’t hear.
“They’ll think I did this.”
“Yes,” she confirms quietly. “They will, if you’re here, and found with the bodies.”
His jaw shifts. “Call an ambulance.”
“For whom?”
His eyes close for a brief moment. When they open again, they’re fixed on the elder.
“Take her yourselves.”
“We cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t choose us.”
“I didn’t choose anybody,” I murmur.
“No, you didn’t.” She looks at me before returning her attention to him. “The magic chose both of you.” She steps aside. “Take her home.”
“I said no.”
“Then stay.”
His gaze sweeps over the bodies scattered between the headstones.
“And them?”
She follows his eyes without flinching. “Leave the dead to us.”
He frowns.
“We’ve hidden her judgment for centuries,” she says quietly. “We know what must be done before sunrise.”
The earth beneath my feet seems to vibrate. I know that pull, it’s claimed me before. I remember darkness, weight, and roots wrapping around bone.
I cannot go back.
I lift my eyes to Damon, he looks exhausted already. He owes me nothing. Still…
“Please.” The word barely leaves my lips.
His shoulders fall; not in surrender, but resignation. He looks toward the open grave one last time before meeting my eyes again.
“...Fine.”
The woman nods once. “My name is Maeve. I’ll come to your home before dawn.”
Damon blinks. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’ve watched over Blackridge longer than your family has lived here.”
His expression pinches. “I somehow hate that answer more than everything else that’s happened tonight.”
“If you’re wise, you’ll remember my instructions.” She looks between us. “Don’t separate.”
Her gaze settles on Damon. “Don’t refuse her touch if the bond reaches for you.” Then back to me. “Don’t let the sun find you outside.”
Damon rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Anything else?”
Maeve’s eyes linger on me before returning to him. “Try not to fear her.”
He looks at me then, really looks. He’s taking in my ruined dress, the dirt and blood beneath covering me head to toe.
His mouth pulls into something that almost resembles a smile.
“...Little late for that.”