Chapter 30
Thursday drags like a bloody funeral. I tell Amara I can't do the shopping trip after all.
The thought of stepping into a fitting room with mirrors on every wall makes my stomach twist. I know what happens when I catch my own reflection too long—my chest tightens, the edges of the room go fuzzy, and suddenly I'm back in that room watching my sisters die and seeing my reflection on the butcher, and then seeing my sisters’ reflection instead of my own in the mirror.
So I send a message to her which Rhys tells me will reach her, saying sorry, and I stay home instead, curled up in Rhys's black t-shirt, watching the rain smear the windows.
I know I am better now. I should be. But I won't risk it when Rhys isn't around.
Friday night the whole town transforms. Whitby Goth Weekend kicks off like the place has been waiting all year to shed its skin.
Black banners hang from every lamppost along the harbour.
The abbey ruins are lit from below with purple floodlights so the stones look bruised.
Music leaks out of every pub—goth rock, darkwave, the low thump of drums carried on the sea wind.
The streets are packed shoulder to shoulder with people who look like they stepped out of Victorian mourning portraits or vampire films. Lace, velvet, leather, fishnets, corsets, top hats, veils, platform boots that could crush bones.
Some have painted their faces chalk-white with black lips and spiderweb eyeliner.
Others wear full Victorian mourning with jet jewellery that catches the streetlights.
A woman in a floor-length crimson gown glides past me like she's floating.
Two lads in leather kilts and silver skull jewellery laugh outside The Royal Hotel, sharing a bottle of absinthe.
The smell of incense, sea salt, and frying chips mixes in the air.
Every shop window is dressed in black and silver, and the queue outside the music venues snakes down the cobbles.
Rhys chose my outfit himself. He laid it out on the bed like an offering.
The dress is floor-length black velvet, so dark it drinks the light.
It clings to my waist then flares into a dramatic bell skirt slit high on one thigh.
The bodice is structured with silver boning and delicate black lace overlays that look like frost on a window.
Long, sheer sleeves end in points over my knuckles.
Around my throat sits a wide velvet choker with a single silver crescent moon pendant that rests in the hollow between my collarbones.
My hair is down, straightened to a glossy sheet of black with a single white streak dyed in on the left side—Rhys said it made me look like I'd been kissed by lightning.
My makeup, done by someone he said does the makeup of The Midnight Menagerie staff, is smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and a dusting of silver highlighter along my cheekbones so I catch the light when I turn my head.
On my feet are knee-high platform boots in black patent leather with silver buckles that click when I walk.
I look like a goth queen who rules the night instead of hiding from it.
When I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror I don't flinch. I almost smile.
Rhys is in his usual uniform—black tailored trousers, a charcoal shirt open at the collar, and a long black coat that moves like smoke when he walks.
No costume for him. He says he's not here to play dress-up; he's here to watch me.
The coat makes his shoulders look broader, and the way he keeps one hand in his pocket while the other rests on the small of my back feels possessive even in public.
He parks the big black Mercedes right where Amara said she'd be waiting, just off the main drag near the statue of Captain Cook. The engine idles low. He turns to me, eyes dark and amused.
"Have fun, love. I'll be nearby. Stalking you from a respectable distance."
I grin. "You better."
He leans closer, voice dropping. "And when this weekend's done, my mother wants to see you."
I blink. "For what?"
"Because she'll be your mum soon," he says, calm as anything. "And the grandmother of our kids."
I stare at him, heat rising in my cheeks. "We'll see about that later."
He laughs low, pulls me in by the choker, and kisses me hard enough that my lipstick smudges.
He holds a black rose for me. It looks obscene against his skin.
I take it, smell it, and the scent mixes with the musk of him still on my sheets.
Then I push the door open and jump down from the car, the velvet skirt swirling around my legs.
Amara's already there, waving both arms. She's dressed like a Victorian widow who decided to become a rock star—floor-length black lace dress with a high collar and long train, but the sleeves are torn to show fishnet underneath.
Her hair is teased into a wild black cloud with a tiny top hat pinned on one side.
Silver crosses dangle from her ears and her lips are painted the same blood-red as mine. When she spots me her mouth drops open.
"Holy shit, Ophelia! You look like you crawled out of a gothic fairy tale and decided to take over the kingdom. That dress is insane. Turn around—fuck, the slit! Rhys chose this, didn't he? Did he also give you that sexy black rose?"
I spin once, the velvet catching the streetlight. "He did. Says I look like a queen."
"You do. A terrifying, fuck-me-and-die queen. I love it." She pulls me into a hug so tight my ribs creak. I hug her back just as hard, breathing in her perfume and the faint smell of clove cigarettes. I compliment her outfit back at her, loving how she looks.
We start walking. The first stop is a stall selling handmade jewellery—tiny silver coffins, bat-wing earrings, rings shaped like screaming faces.
Amara buys me a pair of earrings shaped like tiny guillotines and I buy her a choker with a lock that only opens with a tiny key.
We laugh like teenagers. Next we hit the music stage near the harbour where a band is playing something slow and heavy with a violin that sounds like it's crying.
People dance in slow circles, some with their eyes closed, some grinding against partners in full view of the sea.
I dance too. For the first time I don't stand on the edge watching.
I let the bass move through my bones and Amara spins me until my skirt flares and strangers cheer.
We grab fish and chips wrapped in paper and eat them on the pier, boots dangling over the water while the tide slaps the posts below.
A man in a top hat and monocle offers us absinthe from a silver flask and we take tiny sips that burn like fire and taste like liquorice.
My head feels light and warm. No one points.
No one whispers "freak." A girl in a shredded wedding dress compliments my boots.
A lad with skeleton face paint asks if he can take my photo for his zine and I say yes without panicking.
Later we duck into a pop-up shop selling corsets and I let Amara lace me into a black satin underbust that cinches my waist even tighter. I catch my reflection in the shop mirror and instead of freezing I tilt my chin, liking the way the silver streak in my hair catches the light. Amara whistles.
"You're glowing, babe. Like actually glowing."
We hit the abbey grounds where a fire dancer performs between the graves, flames licking the night sky. I stand close enough to feel the heat on my face and don't look away once. Amara links her arm through mine and we watch until the last spark dies.
By midnight my feet ache but I don't want to stop. The town feels alive and I'm part of it instead of watching from the outside. Rhys's car is parked further up the hill, engine off, but I know he's somewhere in the crowd, eyes on me. The thought makes my stomach flip in the best way.
Amara squeezes my hand. "Best weekend ever?"
I nod, the velvet dress heavy and perfect around my legs. "Yeah. For the first time, it actually feels like mine.”
"Right, we've gotta hit the River Esk," Amara says, her eyes gleaming with a manic sort of energy.
She tells me there's a pop-up 'Occult Market' set up along the banks—stalls selling cursed relics, blood-red candles, and some weird ritualistic art that only comes out for the weekend.
It sounds like exactly the kind of twisted shite we need.
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. I don't have to look far.
There he is. Rhys is leaning against a stone wall a few yards back, half-hidden by the shadow of a gothic arch.
He isn't smiling, but his eyes are locked on me, dark and heavy, tracking every curve of my body in this velvet dress.
I feel that familiar, electric shiver slide down my spine.
I give him a slow, deliberate wink, letting him know I know he's there, and then I turn back to Amara.
As we start walking toward the river, Amara’s mind drifts right back to that succubus.
"Do you reckon she's here tonight?" Amara asks, her voice dropping into this hungry, obsessive tone. "God, Ophelia, I can't stop thinking about her. I need her. I fucking need her to look at me with those gray eyes again."
She starts rambling, and it gets dark fast. She isn't just talking about a crush; she’s talking about total annihilation.
"I’d let her do anything. I’d let her drain every single drop of life out of me if it meant she’d keep me, keep me as her little pet.
I want her to break me, to pull me into that trance until I forget my own fucking name.
I just want to be her plaything, you know? Just a hollow shell for her to use."