Chapter 11 #2
"He'd better not try anything," Amara mutters, "or I swear to God I'll have my whole family down on him — my uncle's a boxer, he'll flatten him."
I chuckle at that. For a moment.
The gate rises up ahead, glowing amber against the dark. Behind us, he's still there.
The neon lights of The Midnight Menagerie blur into a psychedelic smear as we walk, but I can feel him.
Even without looking, I know Rhys is there, a predatory shadow pacing just a few steps behind us.
Every time I steal a glance over my shoulder, he’s there—silent, steady, his presence like a heavy weight pressing against my spine.
We get our tickets, the paper crisp and cold in my hand, and navigate through the cacophony of the carnival until we reach it: a towering, oppressive black tent. Above the entrance, written in a script that seems to bleed into the fabric, are the words: THE SIX WHO SPEAK AS ONE
A small, weathered sign hangs by the flap: Enter one at a time.
Amara gives me a supportive nudge, her voice a soft anchor in the chaos. "You go first, Ophelia. I'll follow right after.”
I nod, my throat tight. Before I step forward, I look back one last time.
Rhys is standing in the crowd, motionless.
I can’t bring myself to look him directly in the eyes—I can't bear the intensity of that gaze—so I focus on the line of his jaw, the cold set of his shoulders. He’s just watching.
Waiting. I can't make out his expression without meeting his eyes properly.
I push through the heavy velvet curtains and step inside.
The darkness hits me first, thick and suffocating, smelling of old incense, dried blood, and something metallic. Inside, the dark is absolute at first, until my eyes adjust to a single dim lamp burning low near the center.
As my eyes adjust, I realize the walls aren't black, but a deep, bruised crimson, like the interior of a throat. In the center of the room stands a heavy wooden table, its surface scarred and dark, topped with six thick red candles that remain unlit.
My eyes wander to the walls, and a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature races down my arms. Hanging from the crimson fabric are things that belong in a nightmare: bundles of dried herbs tied with human hair, jars containing cloudy liquids and floating organic shapes that look far too much like organs, rusted surgical tools, and bleached animal skulls etched with symbols I don't recognize. It’s a coven’s sanctuary, a place where the veil between this world and something far darker is thin.
Hung with things I can only half make sense of — dried herbs bound in black thread, small glass jars holding things I don't examine too closely, a raven's skull mounted above a shelf of unlabeled bottles.
The single dim lamp flickers nearby, casting long, dancing shadows that make the room feel like it's breathing. Surrounding the table are six women. They are draped in heavy black dresses, their faces completely obscured by translucent black veils.
Suddenly, all six women speak. Their voices don't sound like six separate people; they merge into a singular, haunting drone—a layered, choral resonance that vibrates in my very bones.
Their voices layered and strange, overlapping just enough to sound like an echo arriving before its cause. "Who's there?"
I stiffen. I know this is a game, a test of nerves. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from trembling, channeling a confidence I don't actually feel.
I steady my voice as best I can. "As I believe people so proudly boast of your clairvoyance,” I say, my voice echoing in the hollow space, “your query suggests you're either lying, or merely playing coy."
The silence that follows is absolute. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, one of the women strikes a match. She touches it to a single wick.
It touches it to a single candle — and the instant the flame catches, every other candle around the table ignites at once, a dozen small fires blooming in perfect unison. I gasp despite myself.
I look around just to confirm this. That the moment that first flame flickers to life, a ripple of fire erupts. Every other candle on the table and every torch along the walls ignites simultaneously, as if the fire had been waiting for a signal.
I stumble back a step. "What in the world...?"
The light reveals them fully—the pale, ghostly women under their veils, their black dresses absorbing the red glow of the room, pooling around them like spilled ink.
"We see your aura," one begins, her voice a thin whisper.
"It's displaced," says another.
"Fractured," a third murmurs.
Then, in a terrifying, synchronized harmony, they command: "Your palm. Bring it here.”
I move myself into the red-laced chair they gesture toward. My legs feel like lead, but I move, sinking into the chair. I slowly extend my hand, offering my palm to the woman closest to me.
The nearest takes it, turning it gently in the candlelight.
Silence descends. It stretches for an eternity, the only sound the crackle of the candles. Suddenly, all six women gasp in unison, a sharp intake of breath that sounds like a collective shock.
"Your destiny," one says, "was interrupted seven years ago."
Another, her voice rasping, like sandpaper on stone: "Then set to a mirror of your own reflection."
And a third, with a voice so cold it makes the hair on my neck stand up, finishes, "There is but one mortal with such an unfortunate, curious fate.”
They remove their veils in perfect unison.
I freeze. They all have the same eyes. A piercing, unnatural green, laced with streaks of oppressive grey.
A green so pale it's laced through with grey, unsettling in a way I can't fully name.
I can't look them in the eye—I can't do it—so my gaze darts frantically to the rest of their faces.
Their skin is a deathly, translucent pale, paler than even mine, making their lips look like fresh smears of fresh blood.
All of them have raven black hair. And when they speak, they reveal teeth that are sharp, jagged, and predatory—like a shark's.
"You are Ophelia Sorrell," they say together. "We are delighted you accepted our invitation."
"We have waited," one continues.
"For this moment," says another.
"We have been tasked," a third adds.
"To change your fate," says a fourth.
"And seal it for good," the last finishes.
I stare fixedly at the table, unable to look at any of them properly.
I'm spinning. I can't read their expressions, so I keep my eyes locked on the scarred wooden table, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman in the middle reach for a long, black pipe.
She places it in her mouth and inhales deeply, the embers glowing a fierce orange.
A moment later, the woman at the far end of the table exhales a thick, swirling cloud of smoke. But she didn't smoke it. She exhaled the smoke that the other woman inhaled.
I recoil, a look of pure disgust and horror crossing my face. The intimacy of the act, the supernatural link between them, makes my stomach churn.
"What are you talking about?" I demand, my voice cracking. "About my fate? My destiny? What does any of this mean?"
One of them looks at me, her shark-like teeth glinting. "Your destiny, Ophelia's destiny," one says, "is to be with Rhys Castellan."
"You must accept it," they say together, their voices booming. "Whatever form it takes.”
"Nothing you try to offer as resistance," another adds.
The last woman, the one still holding my palm, squeezes my hand with a grip like iron. "Will change that.”
I yank my hand back, staring at them in disbelief. "So that's your great clairvoyance, is it?" I say, sharper than I intend. "That I'm destined to be with my own stalker? Who exactly are you to decide that? Who the fuck are you to tell me that? Some glorified fortune tellers?”
"We are far more than fortune tellers," they respond in unison. "We are a coven of witches who mends destinies to the ones they were always meant to hold."
Then, they begin to unravel my life, one by one.
"You were never meant to survive that night," one whispers.
"You just so happened to be the triplet who was seen last," another adds.
"And for that, you were cursed — to see your sisters' faces instead of your own, every time you dared to look.”
"Such a broken mind," says another, "was a twist woven by fate itself."
"Rhys," a third continues, "has found his way inside your broken mind."
"And in doing so," says a fourth, "he will save you from it. Carry you to the path you were always meant to walk.”
"Take you to your new ordained path. Beside him," they chant together.
"No." I pull my hand back sharply. "No!" I scream, standing up so abruptly the chair screeches against the floor. "No! That can't be the only way to repair my mind. To be okay again. To be whole again. There has to be another way! I can try self-therapy, I can find a doctor—”
The witches look at each other, a silent communication passing between them.
"Then you know nothing," one says.
"People have tried to defy fate before," another warns.
"Their deaths," a third continues, "were the only mercy left to spare them—"
"—from the suffering that followed the moment they tempted fate," the fourth finishes.
I can hardly credit what I'm hearing. I stare at them, trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "I came here for answers on how to fix myself! And your solution is for me to throw myself at the mercy of a man who puts a knife to my throat and a gun to my head?”
"Necessity makes strange bedfellows," one says—the same phrase that has haunted me since this nightmare began.
The second time I've heard that particular phrase from them.
"And it is our sacred duty," another continues.
"To undo what your father has done to you," the final voice whispers, leaving me shivering in the red light, the word father echoing in my mind like a death knell.