Page 23 of Cracked Doll

"I don't think this is a good idea anymore," I whisper, shaking.

His fingers trail slow down my bare arm, and I flinch so violently the keys slip from my hand and clatter against the pavement.

"You don't have a choice here, love." His voice has gone soft, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "You stopped having one the moment I decided you were mine. But if you'd rather test that—" A pause, and I hear, unmistakably, the soft metallic click of a blade being drawn. "Run."

Cold steel presses against the back of my neck.

I run.

I run faster than I've ever run in my life, my bare arms prickling with cold, my boots slapping hard against wet cobblestone, and I'm nearly to the corner when I catch another flash of glass — a parked car's window, my own pale reflected face streaking past — and I screech, stumble, force my eyes forward and keep running before it can catch hold of me properly.

I glance back. He isn't running. He's walking — unhurried, easy, somehow never falling any further behind no matter how hard I push myself.

I round another corner and freeze.

Eyes. Two of them, low to the ground, glowing faint and amber in the dark — gone the instant I blink, and then, a heartbeat later, two more, further off, higher up, watching from somewhere I can't place. I gasp, choke back the scream trying to claw its way out, and force myself to keep moving, telling myself, uselessly, it's nothing, it's a cat, it's your own frightened mind conjuring monsters out of shadow.

I reach a fork where the road splits in two directions, and stop dead.

From the left path — utterly black, not a single streetlamp lit along its length — comes a voice. Soft. Lilting. Singing my name, over and over, in a slow, crooning melody that curdles something deep in my chest.

"Ophelia... Ophelia..."

I don't dare find out if it's real.

I bolt down the right-hand path instead, lungs burning, and it isn't until I'm nearly upon them that I recognize the shapes rising up ahead — twisted black iron, moths and ravens wrought into every curve, silver letters glowing faint under lantern light.

THE MIDNIGHT MENAGERIE.

I glance back one final time, chest heaving, and there he is. Still walking. Still, somehow, exactly one step behind me — close enough now that I could reach back and touch him, if I dared.

Chapter 9

It hits me all at once, standing before the iron gate with him a single step behind me: every turn I didn't take, every dark road I refused, every impossible glowing pair of eyes that sent me sprinting the other way — all of it funnelled me here. To this gate. To him. He didn't need to chase me at all. He only needed to close off every other direction until there was nothing left but this one.

The carnival is still alive around us, lanterns swaying, laughter and music tangled together, a steady stream of people drifting in and out despite the hour. I duck through the gate and into the crowd, telling myself, foolishly, that if I can just disappear into enough bodies, enough noise, I might finally lose him for good.

I need somewhere he won't think to look. Somewhere darker than the mirror maze, darker than anything gleaming or glass. And there, tucked between two brighter tents, I spot it — a door, plain and black, unmarked, swallowing the light around it whole.

I duck inside without a second thought and pull it shut behind me.

Darkness. Total, disorienting darkness — until, a moment later, I notice a small pinprick of light on one wall, and through it, projected impossibly onto the opposite surface, an upside-down image blooms into focus.

Me. My own shape, inverted, ghostly, hovering there like something summoned rather than reflected. The necklace still in my hand. I stare at it, transfixed, uncertain whether to be afraid of an image that isn't quite a mirror and isn't quite anything else I have a name for —

And then, within that inverted picture, I see him. Standing directly behind me.

I scream and try to run, but he's already there, already holding me, and I feel the cold flat edge of a blade settle against my throat.

The cold steel of the blade bites into the skin of my throat, a thin, freezing line that makes my breath hitch. I'm frozen, staring at that bloody wall. The projection is vivid, a ghostly, inverted version of me trembling in the dark. And there he is, a silhouette of a predator looming behind me, his face a blur of obsession.

"Look at you," he purrs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp right against my ear. "Absolutely terrified. You thought you could hide in the dark, didn't you, my lovely little cracked doll? But I've got you now. I've always had you."

I try to shrink away, but he pulls me tighter against his chest, his grip like iron. I can smell him—something like old parchment and expensive tobacco.

"You're all wrong, Ophelia. Broken. Fragmented," he whispers, the knife shifting slightly, pressing deeper into the lace of my collar. "But I'm going to fix you. I'm going to carve away everything that isn't mine until there's nothing left but what I want."

Suddenly, I feel a sharp rip. The blade slices through the high lace collar of my plum dress with effortless ease. I gasp, the sudden rush of cool air hitting my skin making me shiver. He doesn't stop. He drags the knife downward, a slow, deliberate stroke that splits the fabric right down the center of my chest, tearing through the tight bodice. The laces snap one by one, the dress falling open to reveal my breasts straining against the thin fabric of my bra.