Page 64 of Porcelain Grave

I stand before the full-length mirror. Behind the glass, I can see the silhouettes of the weapons Rhys keeps—the blades and the guns, the tools of our shared madness. I look fucking incredible. I look like I belong at his side.

Ping.

The notification sound echoes through the room. I bolt toward the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. My first thought is Rhys. Is he wondering where I am going? Is he demanding I come back to his bed wait for him so he can fuck the breath out of me?

I grab the phone, but it’s not him. It’s a text from Amara.

💬 Get to the Hesketh Woods, now. I’ve got something for you that you need to see before I come to the carnival. Hurry up, love.

I frown, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Hesketh Woods isn't far, but why the secrecy? Why not just come to the gate? I try to call her back, pressing the phone to my ear, but it goes straight to voicemail.

"Bloody hell, Amara, what are you playing at?" I mutter.

I sigh, glancing back at Shadow. The big cat is watching me with those golden, knowing eyes. "I'll be back soon, big guy."

I slide the phone into the hidden pocket of my dress and head out. I walk through the oppressive grandeur of the castle and across the grounds of the Midnight Menagerie, the carnival equipment looming like skeletal giants in the distance. I pass through the gates and start walking down the street, the salt air of Whitby biting at my cheeks.

Hesketh Woods is a dense, suffocating stretch of ancient trees and clinging mist. As I step under the canopy, the light dims, and the silence becomes heavy.

"Amara?" I call out, my voice echoing. "Amara, you here? Stop fucking around!"

I push through a thicket of brambles, the thorns catching on my lace dress, but I don't care. Then, I spot something. A flash of color against the damp, grey earth.

I accelerate, my heels sinking into the mud. As I get closer, my heart drops. Amara is lying on the ground, sprawled out. Her phone is lying a few inches from her hand, the screen cracked.

"Amara!" I scream, dropping to my knees beside her. I grab her shoulders, shaking her. "Amara, wake up! Talk to me!"

I see it then—a thick smear of blood matting the hair on the side of her head. She’s unconscious, her breathing shallow and ragged. Panic surges through me, a cold wave of terror.

"Oh god, Amara, who did this to you—"

CRACK.

A sudden, blinding explosion of pain erupts at the back of my skull. It feels like a sledgehammer has collided with my head. The world tilts violently, the green of the trees and the grey of the sky swirling into a nauseating vortex.

I collapse forward, my face hitting the dirt next to Amara. My vision begins to tunnel, the edges turning black. Through the ringing in my ears, a voice drifts over me—cold, feminine, and dripping with a malice that makes my blood freeze.

"Found you, you bitch."

Then, the darkness swallows me whole.

Chapter 19

I blink slowly, my eyelids feeling like they’ve been glued shut with grit. The first thing that hits me isn't a sight or a smell, but a sound—a relentless, high-pitched buzzing vibrating at the base of my skull where I was hit. It’s a sickening drone that makes my stomach churn, pulsing in time with the throbbing pain in my head.

I try to move, to reach up and touch the wound, but my arms jerk violently. I freeze, the panic spiking in my chest. I try again, tugging harder, only to feel the bite of coarse rope digging into my wrists. I’m spread-eagle, my hands tied to the opposite ends of a rusted iron bedframe. My legs are yanked apart and lashed tight to the footboards, leaving me completely exposed and vulnerable on a thin, stained mattress that smells of mildew and ancient rot.

I look around, my vision swimming. It’s a fucking nightmare of a room—an old, dusty cabin bedroom that looks like it hasn't seen a cleaning rag since the Victorian era. Cobwebs hang like rotting lace from the ceiling, and the wallpaper is peeling away in long, jaundiced strips, revealing grey, damp wood underneath. A single, grime-streaked window lets in a sliver of oppressive grey light, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

And then, I see her.

Standing at the foot of the bed, watching me with a look of clinical detachment, is Mary Wells. The same bitch who tried to drown me during Goth Weekend. The same fucking psycho who has been systematically slaughtering every woman Rhys has ever laid a finger on.

She looks exactly as she did before: medium-short black hair cut into a sharp, severe bob and those piercing green eyes that look at me like I’m a bug she’s about to pin to a board.

My mind flashes to the black halo. I can feel it still perched on my head, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of my skin. With my arms stretched out like this, I can’t reach it; I can't hold it as I think of Rhys. I’m just a displayed trophy for her to sneer at. I can still feel the weight of my phone in the pocket of my dress that can't save me now unless I reach it and call Rhys.

"Fighting is useless," Mary says, her voice smooth and cultured, dripping with a condescending sweetness that makes me want to vomit. "You're just wasting your energy. You're going to die here."