Chapter 11 #3
I stay frozen in the red light, my mind racing, spinning into a void of confusion.
My father? What the fuck does that mean?
My father was a ghost, a memory of a man who left me with nothing but a shattered psyche and a fear of my own reflection that he made worse every night he yelled at me for haunting him with my face.
"What do you mean, what my father did to me?" I demand, my voice trembling. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean—that death is the only way to spare those who defy fate? That's not a prophecy, that's a fucking threat!”
The witches don't flinch. They lean in, their shark-like teeth glinting under the flickering flames. They begin to speak, one by one, their voices weaving a suffocating web around me.
"You have wandered in the grey for too long, Ophelia," the first one whispers.
"Your mind was fractured by a hand that should have protected you," the second adds.
"Modern medicine is a toy for the healthy," the third sneers, her voice rasping. "It cannot stitch together a soul that was ripped apart by destiny."
"Your fate is sealed in blood and shadow," the fourth continues.
"The only path to healing is embracing the very monster who chases you through the dark,” the fifth states.
“Your mind has been broken far too long for any other to mend it,” the sixth finishes.
Then, as if they are a single organism, they speak in that terrifying, booming harmony: "Your stalker is your only remedy.”
I sink back into the red laced chair, feeling small and utterly trapped. I don't know what to say. The absurdity of it is almost laughable, if it weren't so fucking terrifying. I look at them—these pale, beautiful, monstrous things—and a spark of defiance flares up through my fear.
I sit frozen, unable to summon a response, before finally managing, "Why should I believe a word of this?" I snap. "You're just... performers. You work for him. Maybe Rhys paid you to get in my head, to make me think I have to be with him. This is just another one of his sick games, isn't it?”
"Coin," one says, almost amused, "cannot purchase what we speak. We answer to fate alone, not to Rhys Castellan's purse."
The woman in the center lets out a low, guttural hiss that might have been a laugh. "Rhys Castellan does not pay for loyalty, child. He does not need to buy the truth when the universe itself bows to his will. We do not serve him; we serve the Order of Fate. He is simply the instrument.”
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Then tell me... who is he? Who exactly is Rhys Castellan? Who is he, really?"
The witches exchange a look, their grey-green eyes shimmering.
"All you need know," they say together, "is that he is your salvation."
"All you need to know," the one with the raspiest voice murmurs, "is that he is the monster who will devour your pain. He is the darkness that will swallow your ghosts. He is your salvation... whether you survive the process or not.”
A cold shiver races down my spine. The way she says 'salvation' makes it sound like a death sentence.
"Is he going to kill me?" I whisper, the thought flashing through my mind—the knife at my throat, the gun, the way he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat he's already claimed. "Some stalkers... they end it. They kill the thing they're obsessed with.”
The witches' expressions turn solemn, almost predatory. "Death begets death," they chant softly.
Then, they chant softly, "The one who caused you to live as if you were already dead... that is the only one worthy of the grave. He alone is worthy of dying for it."
Who? The man who killed my sisters? Who my father said he is currently serving life in prison?
Before I can ask who they mean—before I can scream for a real answer—the woman who lit the first candle leans forward. With a single, sharp blow, she extinguishes the flame.
Instantly, every other candle in the room—the ones on the table, the ones on the walls—snaps out at once. The room is plunged into a suffocating, absolute blackness, plunging the tent back into total dark.
I gasp, my breath hitching in the dark. I take the silence as my cue to leave.
I stand up slowly, my hands shaking, and fumble my way toward the velvet curtains.
I walk out of that tent feeling like I've just stepped out of a fever dream, my head swimming with contradictions and terror, no closer to understanding a single word of what I've just heard.
As I emerge into the neon glow of the carnival, I find Amara waiting for me. She’s leaning against a striped pole, casually eating something that looks like a blackened, candied spider—a 'Void-Web Treat' from one of the nearby stalls, glistening with a dark, iridescent syrup.
She looks at me, seeing the ghostly pallor of my face, and holds out a blackened treat she must have bought for me. "Here, love. Eat something. You look like you've seen a ghost." She gives me a small, knowing smile. "Wait here for me. It's my turn to go in.”
I nod numbly, taking the treat but not eating it. I just stand there, staring blankly at the flashing lights of the Menagerie, trying to process the words 'your stalker is your only remedy.’
Then, the air behind me shifts. I feel it before I hear it—that heavy, oppressive heat, the scent of expensive tobacco and something metallic. I feel his gaze, a physical weight pressing against the back of my neck, stripping me bare.
I slowly turn my head over my shoulder.
Rhys is right there. He's standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body radiating through my dress. He isn't saying a word, but his eyes—those predatory, obsessive eyes—are locked onto me, as if he can see every single terrifying thing the witches just told me.