Chapter 20
The leather seat creaks beneath me as the big black car rolls through the empty streets. The driver stays silent up front, and beside me the succubus sprawls with her legs crossed, black dress hiked up, one arm draped along the back of the seat like she owns the whole bloody car.
She smells good. I notice that again, and I think that's part of the whole succubus. Her smell.
"Why did you choose to be the succubus of The Midnight Menagerie?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her voice slides over my skin like warm honey, even when she speaks casually. "I like seducing and luring men to their doom. Any other job that would give me access to them would get me arrested."
I stare at her. "You're joking."
"The torture chamber should have been a clue, love. This is no bluff."
I swallow hard. "So women with abusive partners come to the coven, and Rhys sends you. You lure those men back to The Midnight Menagerie and then the wife kills the partner in front of the VVIPs?"
"Spot on," she says, her lips curving into something that might be a smile. "They pay a fortune for the privilege of watching justice served. The men never see it coming until the blade is at their throat."
“I don't know if that's extremely heroic or very unhinged. But a man who abuses his partner is scum who doesn't deserve a life.”
"Exactly," she agrees, voice low and approving. "They're fucking parasites."
I shift closer. "Who was that woman watching us through the window on the second floor?"
"Rhys should tell you soon."
I realise I'm not getting answers from her, so I try something else. "How old is Rhys?"
"Are you trying to get information about him from me?"
I nod without shame.
She sighs, almost fond. "Rhys is ten years older than you."
Twenty-nine. The number settles heavy in my chest. He's twenty-nine.
"How tall is he? Exactly."
Her smirk returns. "193 centimetres.”
I picture him towering over me, broad and unyielding.
The car slows in front of The Tin Heart. The door opens and I step out, turning back. "I wish I knew your real name so I don't have to call you succubus."
Her seductive grey eyes hold mine. "That's something you'll have to ask Rhys himself."
I walk to the shop door and get my keys from my pockets. Then something heavy hits the pavement. I spin around.
The succubus stands over a woman, who is sprawled on the ground with a knife still clutched in her hand. The same woman who shot the blonde in Rhys's arms. Her black dress is torn, her hair wild.
"Ran out of bullets?" the succubus drawls.
The woman screams and lunges for me. The succubus moves like smoke, grabbing her wrist and twisting until the knife clatters away.
She drives a knee into the woman's stomach, then slams her face-first into the bonnet of the car.
Blood sprays across the black paint. The woman thrashes, but the succubus pins her arm behind her back and presses her cheek to the metal.
"I'm not going to stop until I kill her," the woman spits, voice ragged with pain. "She is the only one left. She has to die."
"You won't ever get close, you mad bitch," the succubus hisses. "I'm taking you to Rhys and he'll split you open."
The woman suddenly goes limp, then twists violently, using the momentum to slip free. She bolts into the dark street and vanishes between the buildings.
The succubus turns to me, breathing steady. "It's going to be all right, love."
"Who is that woman?" My voice shakes. "What does she mean by 'the only one left'?"
She takes my keys from my trembling hand and unlocks the door. "I can't leave until you're safe inside."
I stay quiet. I know I'm not getting answers here. I walk through the doorway, take my keys back, and lock it from the inside. The shop is pitch black. I feel my way blindly upstairs, heart hammering, to find some candles.
The candles flicker across my bedroom walls, casting long shadows that dance like ghosts. My nightgown clings to my skin, thin cotton brushing my thighs as I move to the window. Outside, the street lies empty except for that familiar dark shape across the road. Rhys. Always there. Always watching.
I press my palms against the cold glass and stare at his tall form. Six foot four of pure menace, hidden in the shadows. My heart hammers against my ribs. That bastard thinks he can just stand there, stalking me like some bloody predator. Well, two can play at this game.
My fingers find the hem of my nightgown.
I lift it slowly, deliberately, until my bare breasts are exposed to the night air.
The cool breeze hardens my nipples instantly.
I hold the pose for a moment, letting him see everything, then drop the fabric back down with a wicked grin. A flash. Nothing more.
Through the darkness, I catch his smirk. That arrogant, knowing curve of his lips. Then his hand moves. He makes that crude gesture, pumping his fist up and down like he's wanking right there in the street, eyes locked on my window.
"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath, heat flooding my cheeks. The dirty bastard. My pulse races, part fear, part something else entirely. Something twisted and hot that I don't want to name.
I turn away from the window, but my body betrays me.
My nipples still ache from the cold air and his gaze.
That wanker out there, jerking off to the sight of me.
Part of me wants to open the window and scream at him to fuck off.
Another part wants to lift my nightgown again, slower this time, and see what else he'll do.
"Creepy fucking stalker," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice shakes. I blow out one candle, then another, until only one remains. The darkness presses in around me, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the house, floorboards creak. The ghosts of my sisters, maybe, or just my own paranoia.
I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. My mind won't stop racing. Rhys is twenty-nine. Ten years older than me. Six foot four of danger and obsession. And now he's out there, probably still touching himself while he thinks about my tits.
"Bollocks," I curse softly, squeezing my eyes shut.
Sleep feels impossible. Not with him out there.
Not with that woman who tried to kill me still running loose.
Not with all the secrets Rhys keeps dangling just out of reach.
Not with the question about my father and the doubts Rhys placed in my mind.
I lie there, heart pounding, listening to the house settle around me like it's breathing. Waiting. Watching. Just like Rhys.
I sit up in bed, the last candle still flickering weakly on the nightstand.
My fingers close around the brass holder, the wax warm against my palm.
The house is dead quiet, no sound of Papa stumbling through the door, which is fucking odd because the man should be skint by now.
Out drinking on what money? I shove the thought away.
Not tonight. I slip my feet into the old slippers and stand, the floorboards cold beneath the thin soles.
The stairs to the attic creak under my weight as I climb, each step sending little clouds of dust into the air.
"Fuck's sake," I mutter, waving my free hand in front of my face.
The last thing I need is to see those bloodied little ghosts again, not when I'm alone up here with no one to scream for.
Amara's not here to hold my hand or crack a joke.
It's just me and whatever the fuck is waiting in the dark.
I start with the boxes nearest the stairs, the ones Amara and I didn't get to finish.
Old coats, moth-eaten and smelling of mildew.
I dig through them, fingers brushing velvet and silk that might have belonged to Mum once.
Nothing useful. Then the crates of papers, yellowed receipts from the toy shop, old bills, a few faded photographs of people I don't recognise.
I flip through them one by one, squinting in the candlelight.
My back aches after twenty minutes of this.
Another box, this one full of broken porcelain dolls with cracked faces and missing eyes.
I set them aside carefully, not wanting to wake anything that might be sleeping inside them.
Time drags. My knees hurt from kneeling on the hard floor.
The candle has burned down to a stub, the flame guttering every time I move too fast. I sneeze hard from the dust, nearly snuffing it out completely, and curse under my breath.
"Fuck." I'm about ready to give up when I notice the far corner, the one piled high with furniture and trunks too big to move alone.
That can wait for another day, when Amara's here and we've got more light.
I turn to leave, and my slipper catches on something that shifts under my foot.
A loose floorboard. I freeze, staring down at it.
The wood is warped, the nails rusted. I kneel slowly, setting the candle holder beside me, and pry at the edge with my fingers.
It lifts with a groan, revealing a dark gap beneath.
My heart pounds as I reach in, praying I don't touch anything alive.
Something cold and metal brushes my fingertips. I grab it and pull it free.
The butcher's knife gleams dully in the candlelight.
Dried blood crusts the blade and the wooden handle, dark and flaking.
My stomach turns. Seven years ago, the man who killed my sisters held a knife just like this.
Same shape, same size, same fucking horror etched into the steel.
I stare at it, frozen, the attic spinning around me.
What the hell is it doing here, hidden under the floorboards of our house?
Just then the attic door slams open and Papa stumbles in, reeking of cheap gin and fury. "You little slag!" he roars, eyes bloodshot. "Did you really think I wouldn't find the money you hid under that floorboard beneath my wardrobe?"
I shove the knife behind my back, fingers trembling around the sticky handle. "That money was for the electric bill," I stammer, voice cracking. "Look at us, living in the fucking dark for nights on end."
He lurches closer and I back away, heart hammering. He hasn't noticed the open floorboard or the knife, hasn't even clocked we're in the attic. All he sees is his drinking money gone.
"You think I don't know what I took from this family?" he snarls, spit flying. "I know exactly what I took, you ungrateful little bitch!"
"We're running out of food," I snap, anger flaring despite the fear. "No electricity, and soon we'll get a final notice for the water. Why can't you just find work and use that to drink instead of my hard-earned money from the toy shop?"
That sets him off proper. "You mouthy little cunt!
" he bellows, advancing on me. "You've got a tongue as sharp as your mother's, Marguerite.
She wouldn't just fucking obey either, always had that same defiant look in her eyes.
You're just like her, aren't you? Same stubborn jaw, same fucking attitude that got her in trouble. "
My breath catches. This is the first time he's mentioned Mum in years, and it's all coming out in a drunken rage.
"She thought she was too good for me, just like you do," he continues, voice slurring. "Always looking down her nose, thinking she could do better. Well, look where that got her. Rotted in a coffin, and good riddance!"
He lunges at me, fist raised, but before he can land a blow, Rhys materialises out of nowhere and grabs him by the collar. Rhys's fists fly, brutal punches and kicks sending Papa sprawling across the floor. Papa doesn't even see who's hitting him until he looks up and his face goes white.
"Mr Castellan!" he wheezes, crawling backwards. "I wasn't abusing her, I swear! I've never hit her, not once!"
Rhys doesn't give a shit. He delivers one final kick that sends Papa flying out the attic door and crashing onto the hallway floor below.
Rhys turns to go after him again, but I grab his arm. "I want the Sandman," I say quickly.
He looks down at me, those dark eyes terrifying—black as pitch, pupils blown wide with murderous intent, veins pulsing at his temples like he's barely holding back from tearing someone apart. The candlelight catches the whites of his eyes, making them gleam with something feral and unhinged.
I pull my hand from behind my back and show him the knife, voice cracking. "I found it hidden here.”