Chapter 13 #2
While they banter, a line of silent staff members glides into the room.
They're dressed in sharp black suits and bow ties, their faces hidden by simple, expressionless masks.
They move like ghosts, pouring wine and liquor into crystal glasses with practiced precision.
Once the guests are served, the staff don't leave; they stand like statues behind each couch, trays in hand, waiting for the signal.
"So, who is the lady of the night?" the lace-masked woman asks, leaning forward with anticipation.
Rhys doesn't answer with words. He walks toward the stage, his stride confident and predatory.
I am on him still, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He reaches for a control panel with the hand that was on my ass, and pushes a button.
With a heavy, dramatic thud, the black velvet curtains slide open.
I gasp, stepping back. It looks like a twisted, immersive theatre production. The lighting is harsh, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. And there, center stage, stands a guillotine. The heavy blade glints under the spotlight, cold and indifferent.
Next to the machine stands a woman. She looks to be in her thirties, with long, vivid red hair that spills over her shoulders.
She’s dressed in a tattered black slip dress that barely clings to her frame, her skin pale and mapped with bruises—some deep purple, some fading into a sickly yellow.
A thick, blood-stained bandage is wrapped around her head, covering a jagged wound.
My stomach churns. My first instinct is horror; I think she's a victim, a soul being tortured for the amusement of these masked freaks. But then I see what's in her hand.
A heavy leather whip.
Before I can process it, two female staff members drag a man onto the stage.
He's wearing nothing but a pair of grime-streaked underwear, his wrists and ankles bound in heavy iron chains that clank with every desperate struggle.
He looks pathetic—hollowed-out eyes, dark bags under his lids, skin sallow from sleep deprivation.
He looks like a man who has already died inside.
The moment he sees the red-haired woman and the towering blade of the guillotine, he freezes. Then, a dark stain spreads rapidly across the front of his underwear. He pisses himself right there on the stage, the scent of ammonia hitting the air.
The VVIPs erupt into cruel laughter.
"Look at that!" the wolf-masked man cheers. "He knows exactly what's coming. There's nothing quite like the smell of a man pissing himself in pure terror, is there?"
Rhys gives a sharp, approving nod to the woman. She steps forward, the whip cracking against the floor with a sound like a gunshot. When she speaks, her British accent is thick, jagged with a decade of suppressed rage.
"This piece of shit right here," she spits, gesturing to the trembling man, "is my husband. Jacob."
She looks at the guests, her eyes burning. "For ten long fucking years, since the night we married when I was twenty-three, this cunt started breaking me. It started with the yelling. The name-calling. 'Bitch,' 'slut,' 'whore,' 'idiot.' I thought I could fix him. I thought it was just stress."
Her voice trembles, but not from fear. "Then it escalated. He’d slap me, then rub his foot in my face. He spat on me. He pushed me down stairs. Then came the punches. The shoves. He started using his belt on me, stepping on my fingers until I heard them crack."
I feel sick. I look at Rhys, but he’s watching the scene with a cold, detached fascination.
"My pastor told me to pray," she sneers, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.
"Told me to pray to Jesus to change him.
Told me divorce was against Christian values.
Well, guess what? God didn't fucking come to save me five nights ago when this animal almost split my head open.
" She touches the bandage on her head. "As I lay in that hospital bed, I realized I was done listening to the church. I was done being a martyr."
She glares down at Jacob, who is sobbing. "That evening, the coven found me. They offered me a chance to change my fate through The Midnight Menagerie. I didn't get it at first, until three days ago. I used the phrase they gave me, the token... I asked to see the real menagerie."
She looks toward Rhys. "I told the coven everything. Mr. Castellan heard my story. He used his succubus to lure this piece of filth here, thinking he was coming for some twisted pleasure. Instead, he found me."
She raises the whip, her face twisting into a mask of pure, vengeful hatred. "And now, I get to have my revenge on the man who ruined my life for ten years."
The room explodes in excitement. The guests are leaning forward, their masks reflecting the harsh stage lights.
"Beat him! Tear the skin off his back!" a woman screams. "Make him scream for every bruise you took!"
"Give him a proper thrashing before you take his head!" another shouts.
I stay in Rhys' arms, frozen, caught between the horror of the violence and the visceral, dark satisfaction of the woman's revenge. I feel Rhys’s holding me, his breath hot against my ear.
"See, my cracked doll?" he whispers, his voice sending a chill down my spine. "In this house, the monsters are the only ones who get justice.”
The air in this room is thick, tasting of expensive cologne, old velvet, and something metallic that makes the back of my throat itch.
I’m shaking, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches behind the veil of my mask.
I want to believe this is a show. I need it to be a fucking show.
This is the Midnight Menagerie; it’s immersive, it’s theatrical, it’s designed to push buttons. Right?
But as I look at the woman, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the draft in the room.
The way she looks at the man chained before her isn't the look of an actress hitting a mark. It’s a raw, pulsing hatred that feels like a physical weight in the room.
And the man, Jacob... the terror in his eyes is too frantic, too genuine.
He isn't playing a part. He's playing for his life.
I glance at Rhys. He stands there, imposing and still, his gothic mask hiding his expression, but his aura has shifted.
He isn't just the host of a twisted party. There’s a cold, calculated justice in the way he watches.
It hits me then—this isn't just entertainment. This is a slaughterhouse for the wicked. He’s running a vigilante court under the guise of a dark carnival, turning execution into a VVIP experience.
Jacob falls to his knees, the chains rattling violently against the gold-leafed floor.
"Abigail! Abby, my love, please!" he wails, his voice cracking into a pathetic sob.
"Forgive me! We can start over. I swear on everything, I’ll never hurt you again!
Just tell them to let me go! So we can go home together! "
Abigail doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink. She just stares down at him with eyes that have gone completely dead, devoid of anything but a freezing, crystalline rage.
Then, she swings.
Crack!
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. The whip lashes across Jacob’s back, tearing through the skin with a sickening sound. He screams—a guttural, primal sound that echoes off the high ceilings.
Crack!
Again. And again. And again.
She beats him with a rhythmic, savage intensity. Jacob tries to scramble away, his heels sliding on the polished floor, but two female staff members step forward, their faces expressionless, pointing sleek black guns at his head. He freezes, trapped, forced to endure the onslaught.
The whip carves deep, bloody furrows into his flesh. One lash catches him across the face, slicing through his eyelid and cheek. Blood sprays, hot and crimson, splattering the gold walls.
And the guests... fuck, the guests are loving it.
I hear a man beside me chuckle, a low, cultured sound. "Exquisite," he murmurs. "Look at the tension in the muscle."
"More wine!" a woman shrieks with a manic giggle, waving her glass at a silent waiter. "This is the best performance of the season!"
They aren't horrified. They’re aroused. They’re celebrating.
They treat his agony like a symphony, sipping their vintage scotch while a man is flayed alive in front of them.
I feel sick, my stomach churning, but I can't look away. The violence is hypnotic, a dark mirror of the pain I’ve carried in my own soul.
Finally, Abigail stops. She’s breathing hard, her chest heaving, her red hair wild around her bandaged head. She looks like a vengeful goddess of blood.
The staff members move in, grabbing Jacob by his arms. He’s a broken mess, sobbing and leaking blood from every pore. They drag him toward the center of the room where the guillotine stands—a towering, menacing silhouette of steel and wood.
They force his neck into the lunette, pinning him down. He’s still begging, his voice a wet whisper now. "Abby... please... I love you... I still love you..."
The crowd erupts, their voices a chorus of cruelty. "No mercy for the pathetic low-life!" one shouts. "A fitting end for a waste of life!"
Abigail walks slowly toward the machine. She leans down, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a chilling, melodic whisper that carries through the silent room.
"I loved you once, Jacob," she breathes. "That's why I'm going to enjoy watching the light leave your eyes."
She reaches for the rope.
Slam.
The blade drops with a heavy, metallic thud.
There is a wet, slicing sound—the sound of a knife through meat. Blood erupts in a violent spray, a crimson fountain that splashes across the front row of guests. A few of them actually lean into it, laughing as the red droplets stain their expensive black lace and velvet.
The head bounces once, twice, and then rolls across the floor, coming to a stop exactly at Rhys’s polished boots.