Chapter 7
"Ophelia."
My father's voice drifts in from the living room while I'm mid-transaction, wrapping a tin soldier for a customer's grandson.
I finish properly — count the change, hand it over, wish the woman a good afternoon — before I go to him, because whatever this is, it can wait the ninety seconds it takes to do my job right.
He's in the chair. His chair. Sober, upright, hands folded in his lap like a man at confession. That alone tells me everything about what's coming before he says a word.
"I shouldn't have said what I said." His voice is careful, threadbare. "Last night. On the street. I don't — I don't even remember all of it, if I'm honest, but I remember enough to know it was cruel. You didn't deserve that. You've never deserved any of it."
I fix my eyes on the wall behind his head, on a water stain shaped vaguely like a bird, and say nothing.
"You're the only thing I have left in this world," he goes on, the words worn smooth from repetition, "and I keep — I keep failing you, don't I. I know I do. I'm going to do better. I mean it this time."
I've heard this time more times than I could count if I tried. I let the silence sit until he finally runs out of anything else to say, and only then do I speak.
"I have to get back to the shop."
I don't wait for a response. I walk out and return to the counter, to the safe, ordinary business of ringing up toys for strangers, and I don't look back to see whether he's still sitting there or not.
I'm halfway through restocking the shelf of glass eyes when the bell rings and Amara bursts in like a small, gorgeous storm — dark denim jacket studded with pins over a slip dress the color of dried blood, her afro pulled up into a great soft crown, gold hoops swinging at her ears.
"There you are!" She practically sags with relief. "I lost you completely last night — where did you go?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "My father was — he was in the street, I had to get him inside, and I couldn't find you in the crowd to tell you."
Her face softens instantly. "Having the town drunk for a Papa. That must be so hard, Ophelia. I'm sorry." She says it plainly, without pity dressed up as anything else, which somehow makes it easier to bear than most people's sympathy.
I nod, unsure what else there is to say.
"Anyway." She recovers quickly, eyeing me up and down.
"That dress is stunning, by the way — as gorgeous as you are.
" My dress today is deep plum, the bodice laced tight over long sleeves that flare slightly at the wrist, a high lace collar at my throat that, thankfully, hides most of what's beneath it.
"Thank you," I manage. "You look lovely too."
"And yet," she says, tilting her head, "you still won't look me in the eye."
I don't have an answer for that. I never do.
Mercifully, she barrels straight past it.
"God, you missed it, though. The owner of The Midnight Menagerie was there last night.
" She fans herself dramatically. "Absolute walking sin, that man.
Tall as anything, built like he does something violent for a hobby, jaw you could cut glass on.
The kind of fit that makes you forget your own name. "
"He sounds like a dream," I say, my voice coming out strange even to my own ears.
"Rhys Castellan," she says, savoring the name like a sweet. "That's him. Owns the whole bloody carnival."
I repeat it under my breath. Rhys Castellan. It sounds exactly the way he looks — sharp, deliberate, expensive.
"But honestly?" Amara leans in, conspiratorial. "What actually caught my eye was who he was standing with. The succubus."
"A succubus," I say slowly. "Like — the mythological demon that seduces men in their sleep?"
"Not mythological in the slightest, love. Very real. Very hot." Amara grins. "She's part of the VIP experience — people pay an absolute fortune to have her seduce them, manipulate them, make them properly fall for her, just for the thrill of it. Heard she's terrifyingly good at it."
I don't know what to say to that either.
"Out of everything that carnival offers," Amara says, "that's the one thing I'd get a black ticket for. A woman that beautiful and that dangerous? Devil in a dress, that one."
"What's a black ticket?"
"A necklace," she says. "Has the carnival's logo on it — skull, roses, the whole gothic bit. Costs an absolute fortune, gets you into all the VIP stuff normal punters never even hear about."
Something cold settles low in my stomach.
The necklace. I never wore it last night — left it sitting in its music box on purpose, some small, stubborn act of defiance against a man who'd pressed a blade to my throat and expected obedience for it.
I remember him at the gate with that camera.
I remember the Dracula room reflecting him and no one else — as though it had been built, somehow, to see him and only him.
Could a mere photographer have that kind of influence over an attraction?
Or was the man I met last night never simply staff at all?
Rhys Castellan.
Could it be him?
I don't get to finish the thought. Amara's eyes drop to my throat, narrowing.
"Wait." She points. "Is that a hickey?"
My hand flies up on instinct, covering the mark before I can stop myself. "No — it's just a rash."
"That is not a rash, Ophelia Sorrell." She's grinning now, delighted, scandalized. "Didn't peg you for the type with secrets. Guess the quiet ones really do surprise you."
I say nothing, which she seems to take as confirmation of something, though I couldn't say what.
"Right, give me your number," she says, already reaching for her phone. "So we can plan the next outing properly."
"I don't have a phone."
She stares at me like I've announced I don't have a head.
"You're — what, nineteen? What nineteen-year-old doesn't have a phone?
" She catches herself, waves it off before I can answer.
"Whatever. Doesn't matter, I know where to find you.
But God, girl, you really do need to sort yourself out a mobile. "
I nod. She leaves in a swirl of denim and perfume, and I stand behind the counter a long while after, turning the whole conversation over and over, wondering how I'd even go about affording a phone when I can't afford anything else that might actually save me.
By evening, I'm in the kitchen making dinner — a simple shepherd's pie, mince and potato, nothing that requires much thought, which is precisely why I've always preferred cooking over almost anything else that fills an evening.
Reading settles my mind. Cooking occupies my hands, which is a different kind of mercy on nights like this one.
The old television mutters away in the living room, which means my father's still there, not yet gone to the bar, though it's only a matter of time. I've checked the front door twice already — locked, locked again — some part of me still braced for footsteps that shouldn't be there.
My free hand drifts to my throat without my permission, fingers finding the mark still tender beneath my collar. I remember exactly how it got there. I remember far too much about how it got there.
I've just turned off the stove when the lights go out.
I freeze, spoon still in hand, kitchen plunged into sudden dark. The power company warned us — pay by today or lose it — and I've spent the whole day hoping, foolishly, that they'd simply forget.
I go to the window. Every other house on the street glows warm and lit against the evening. Only ours sits dark.
"Bloody hell—" My father's voice, from the living room, followed by a crash of something knocked over. "Ophelia! Get me a candle!" A pause, more cursing under his breath, and then, "Never mind — sod it, I'm off to the bar anyway. Just get some food in me first."
I sigh and feel my way toward the drawer where we keep the candles, fingers finding wax and then, finally, the little box of matches beside it. I set the candle on the table and strike the first match —
And there he is. Standing directly across from me, watching.
I gasp and drop the lit match, the box tumbling from my other hand, and the flame gutters out the instant it hits the floor, plunging the kitchen back into total dark.
Was that real? Was he actually there? It happened too fast, too bright, gone too quick to trust. My breath comes in short, panicked pulls as I crouch and feel blindly across the floorboards, searching for the fallen matchbox.
My fingers brush something solid. A shoe.
I freeze, yank my hand back with a sharp gasp, and stay frozen, unmoving, for what feels like an eternity.
Nothing happens.
I reach again, slower this time, and find only the matchbox, exactly where it should be. Nothing else. No one else.
I stand quickly, strike a fresh match with shaking hands, and light the candle, holding it up in front of me, turning it slowly to check every corner of the kitchen.
Empty.
I turn — and he's standing directly behind me.
I gasp, mouth already opening to scream, when his finger presses gently against my lips.
"Don't," he murmurs.
"What are you doing here?" I hiss, once his finger falls away. "You can't just — you cannot keep breaking into my house like this—"
"I didn't like how you cried yourself to sleep last night," he says, unbothered, hands sliding into his coat pockets as though we're discussing the weather. "So I sat with you a while. Wiped your last tears before you went under properly. Made sure nothing else came near you."
My stomach drops clean through the floor. "You watched me sleep."
I start backing away, and he lets me, matching my retreat step for unhurried step. "My father's home," I say, voice shaking. "I'll call him. You're a stalker, you cannot keep—"
He laughs — genuine, low, entirely unbothered — and keeps walking toward me.
"If that useless sod actually gave a shit about you," he says, "he wouldn't have drowned himself in drink and had you dropping out of school at twelve just so the pair of you didn't starve.
If he cared, love, you'd still be in a bloody classroom right now instead of running his shop for him. "
My back hits the wall.
He leans in, close enough that the candlelight throws both our shadows into one shape on the wall behind him.
"And if he cared," he says, quieter now, almost gentle, "he'd have noticed his only surviving daughter — the last of his three little triplets — can't look at her own reflection without seeing her dead sisters staring back. "
My heart stutters. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything about you." His voice is low, certain, utterly without doubt. "You're rather famous in this pathetic little town, Ophelia. Nothing better to gossip about than the girl who won't look anyone in the eye. And for knowing about your fear, it's because I know everything about you."
I don't answer. I just watch him, my pulse hammering somewhere up in my throat.
"Ophelia?" My father's voice, closer now, stumbling through the dark living room, cursing loudly as something clatters to the floor. "Is dinner ready? Bloody hell — where's the — Ophelia, I want to eat before I head to the bar—"
I try to slip past him, but he doesn't let me move an inch.
"He'll see you," I whisper. "You need to go, he'll see—"
"I'm not remotely frightened of the town drunk, sweetheart." His mouth curls, cruel and amused at once. "Your papa's a pussy, and we both know it."
"He's not," I say, though even I can hear how little conviction is left in it. "He'll stop you."
"Do you actually believe that?"
My father appears in the doorway before I can answer, silhouetted against the candlelight, swaying, still mid-sentence about dinner. He goes utterly still when he sees us — me, pinned against the wall, this stranger far too close.
I don't look at the shape of him. I can't. I just feel the weight of his stare land on us both.
The man in front of me doesn't so much as flinch. Instead, unhurried, deliberate, he lowers his head and presses his mouth to my neck, right over the mark already blooming there.
"Papa," I gasp, desperate. "Papa, please — help me, he's — he broke in, he won't let me go, please—"
My father doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, swaying slightly, staring at the two of us like a man watching something happen from very far away.
"Papa!" My voice cracks entirely now, tears spilling hot and fast, as the hands at my waist begin to wander, slow and possessive. "Please — I need you, please help me—"
And then my father turns, and runs.
I hear him stumble against the doorframe, curse, catch himself, and bolt — actually bolt, tripping over something in the dark hallway, cursing again as he goes down and scrambles back up — until I hear the shop door bang open, the bell shrieking behind him, and then nothing at all.
He's gone. Out into the night. Away from me.
I stand there in the dark kitchen, held against the wall by a stranger who knows every secret I've ever kept, and understand, with a clarity that feels almost peaceful in its total despair, that no one — no one at all — is coming to save me tonight.