Page 22 of Porcelain Grave

Rhys steps up behind me, his massive frame towering over me. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel the heat radiating off him. In the mirror, I look over my shoulder, seeing his melting neon mask hovering just above mine. Our masks touch—a clink of porcelain and plastic—and then, without warning, he raises his own weapon and BANG.

I jump a foot in the air, a scream catching in my throat. I look at the mirror. A jagged hole has been punched right through the center of our reflection, spider-webbing the glass into a thousand shimmering shards.

I turn to him, pouting behind the mask. "You bastard! I was just starting to love what the mirror was reflecting."

He chuckles, the sound dark and vibrating in his chest. "It'll be replaced by morning. New glass for a new version of us." He leans in, his glowing blue lines casting a ghostly light over my skin. "Are you ready to go hunting tonight, Ophelia?"

I grin, gripping the handle of the axe tighter. "Only if I can bring the axe.”

Chapter 6

I step out into the cool night air, feeling like a fucking vision of death and elegance. I’ve traded my nakedness for a Victorian gothic dress that’s absolutely stunning—all heavy black silk and intricate lace that hugs my curves without choking the life out of me. It’s designed for movement, a sweeping skirt that whispers against the pavement but doesn't trip me up, allowing me to move like a shadow. On my feet are polished black leather boots with a sturdy heel, perfect for walking through blood or over rubble.

The black halo sits poised above my head, a dark crown of promise, and the necklace rests heavy against my collarbone. I feel powerful. I feel lethal. And in my grip, the weight of the two-sided axe is a comfort, the cold steel promising a very messy end for whoever crosses my path.

Rhys is beside me, looking every bit the predatory bastard he is. He’s dressed in sleek, dark attire that blends into the gloom, but the most important detail is the heavy handgun tucked securely under his belt, ready to be drawn in a heartbeat.

As he opens the car door for me, I glance up at the mask he’s still holding. The neon blue drips are striking, cutting through the darkness of the porcelain.

"Why the blue, then?" I ask, my voice playful but edged with a dark curiosity. "Why's your mask got blue over it?"

He pauses, his gaze lingering on me, the intensity of his obsession practically radiating off him. "Because your eyes are blue, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "I wanted a piece of you on my face while I watch you kill."

I can't help it; I giggle, the sound light and manic. God, he's absolutely mental, and I love every fucking second of it.

I guess that explains the blue in my mask, too?

I slide into the passenger seat, the axe resting across my lap like a prized possession. As he pulls away from the curb, the engine roaring as we dive into the midnight streets of Whitby, I lean back and look at him.

"Who's the first unlucky bastard on the list?" I ask.

"Andrew Griffin," Rhys answers, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"And where the fuck do we find a piece of shit like him?"

Rhys lets out a cynical snort, a smirk playing on his lips. "Griffin's a pathetic waste of skin. Twice divorced, losing his house to the bank, and currently wallowing in a gambling house, praying to some god of luck to save his miserable arse. He thinks he can gamble his way out of debt."

I grip the handle of the axe, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Well, he's about to find out that his luck just fucking ran out.”

Rhys reaches over and flicks on the car stereo, and suddenly the air is filled with the haunting, frantic strings of Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns. I know exactly what it means—the Dance of Death. It’s got this sinister, sweeping elegance to it, a wicked sort of grace that fits Rhys like a fucking glove. It makes my skin prickle with anticipation, the music driving the adrenaline straight into my veins.

I glance at him and smile, a sharp, hungry thing. We pull up in front of The Gilded Cage, a shithole of a gambling den tucked away in a damp corner of Whitby. It’s a place where desperation smells stronger than the stale cigarettes and cheap gin, a haunt for losers and bottom-feeders.

I’ve got my mask on now—the pure design of the eyes and mouth making me look like some neon cracked porcelain doll nightmare. It glows ice-blue. I’m leaning against the cold brick wall of the alleyway, hidden in the shadows, listening. Then I hear him.

Andrew Griffin.

His footsteps are heavy, uneven. He’s muttering to himself, a pathetic stream of consciousness about his mounting debts, his ex-wives, and how his life has gone completely tits up. He sounds absolutely miserable, a broken little man wallowing in his own filth.

As he draws level with my hiding spot, I step out into the dim light. I’ve got the double-edged axe resting across my shoulders behind my head, both my forearms draped over the handle in a relaxed, predatory pose. I stand right in his fucking path.

Griffin jumps nearly a foot in the air, letting out a pathetic yelp. He stares at me, eyes wide with confusion and fear. "What the fuck is this?" he sputters, looking me up and down. "What type of circus freak show is this? Who the fuck are you?"

I tilt my head, my voice sounding distorted and cold behind the mask. "Didn't your daddy warn you not to walk the streets in the middle of the night alone, you pathetic prick? It's not safe for pieces of shit like you."

"Get out of my way, you mental slag!" he snaps, though his voice is shaking.

I let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Tell me, Andrew... do you remember nineteen years ago? Do you remember when you raped a woman in Thomas Sorrell’s basement?"