Page 74 of Cracked Doll

I turn to Rhys, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "She's a character, isn't she?"

"She seems... spirited," he says, pulling me closer. "I'm glad you have someone who cares about you. Other than me, of course."

"She means well," I reply. "Just a bit loud about it."

"Come on," he says, taking my hand again. "The coven awaits."

We continue through the carnival until we reach the black tent of the six who speak as one. The entrance flaps part like a mouth, and we step inside together.

The interior is pitch black except for a single lamp hanging high above, its light dim as an ember. In front of me sits a low table ringed with unlit red candles, and around it, the six of them, veiled as ever. Items that look like they're used in spellcasting hang from the walls—dried herbs, bones, crystals, and things I can't name.

"Rhys Castellan," they all say at once, their voices perfectly synchronized. "Ophelia Sorrell. Welcome."

The silence that follows is absolute, pressing against my ears like cotton wool. I look back at Rhys, and these women give me chills still—the way they move as one, speak as one, exist as one. But Rhys is calm, steady as stone. He kisses my forehead, his lips warm against my skin.

"I'm right here, love," he whispers. "You're safe with me."

Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, one of the women strikes a match. She touches it to a single wick, and the instant the flame catches, every other candle around the table ignites at once. A dozen small fires bloom in perfect unison, casting dancing shadows across their veiled faces.

Rhys guides me to sit on the red-laced chair. As I settle into it, the coven begins to speak.

"Your aura," one starts.

"It's coming to place," the next continues.

"Fractures fading," another adds.

Then they speak together as the one closest to me pushes her arm forward. "Your palm, bring it here."

I place my palm on the woman's cold hand. Her fingers trace the lines of my palm, reading something I can't see. She looks at the others, then releases my hand. All six of them remove their veils at once.

Pale faces with sharp, shark-like teeth smile at me. Their skin is deathly white, their hair black as midnight.

"You have remembered," they say together, "what your father did. Your father's actions."

One begins, "We have waited for this moment."

"Fate foretold," another continues.

"Your arrival with this news," a third adds.

"Will lead to a binding ritual," they finish together.

My stomach drops. A binding ritual. The words hang in the air like smoke, and I can feel the weight of their collective gaze on me. My hands tremble slightly in my lap, and I have to fight the urge to reach for Rhys. The thought of being bound to something—some force or entity I don't understand—makes my skin crawl. But beneath the fear, there's something else. Something that feels like recognition. Like this is what I've been waiting for without knowing it.

My hands start shaking before I even know what I'm doing. "I don't know what the fuck you're on about," I say, voice cracking. "But if this is about my dad—"

"I want what the others got," I blurt out. "I want him to pay. All the way to the end of it."

"Necessity makes strange bedfellows," they say together—the third time now, and this time it doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like a door opening.

"Your father," one begins.

"Who fed you lies," another continues.

"Who fed himself first," a third adds, colder.

"Blood remembers what the mind buries," says a fourth. "And yours has been remembering all along."