Page 32 of Porcelain Grave

Tonight, we go hunting. The third man. The third piece of filth who tore my mother’s life apart. Just thinking about it makes a thrill of violent anticipation shoot through my veins. I can't fucking wait to see the look on his face when I show him what his legacy has created.

"The sun is gifting in the morning, is it?"

The voice startles me. I whirl around, my heart hammering, and stop dead.

Standing there is a woman. One from the coven. The six who speak as one. She’s dressed in a full Victorian mourning dress, all heavy black lace and structured fabric, but she isn't wearing a veil. Her black hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her eyes... they aren't those terrifying, glowing green orbs I'm used to. They're brown. Warm, human brown. She has a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks that were completely invisible when she was hidden in the shadows of the coven's tent. And her teeth—when she smiles—are just normal, straight, white teeth. No fangs. No shark-teeth.

She’s actually... beautiful.

I blink, looking at her with total confusion. "This is the first time I've seen you like this," I mutter, my voice still thick with sleep.

The woman lets out a soft chuckle. "Did you really think I had natural shark teeth, Ophelia?"

My eyes go wide. I freeze, listening to the cadence of her voice. "Is that... a Romanian accent I hear?"

She smiles, the expression genuine and soft. "It is a Romanian accent you hear."

I stand there, stunned. Every time I’ve encountered the coven, they’ve spoken in that haunting, perfect unison—six voices merged into one unnatural, terrifying drone. Then they finished each other's sentences as though their thoughts were one. I never noticed an accent because the sheer wrongness of their synchronized speech drowned everything else out. But hearing her alone... it’s different. It’s human.

"I am from Romania," she explains, her voice melodic. "All the women in my coven are Romanian. No one can hear our accents when we speak as one, because of how scary we sound together."

She reaches out, offering her hand with a graceful gesture. "My name is Oana."

I reach out and shake her hand, and my mind immediately flashes back to Rhys. He told me about his time in Romania, how he traveled there to gather the relics and the darkness he needed to build the Menagerie.

"Did Rhys get you from Romania?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

Oana nods slowly. "Yes. But Rhys Castellan did not just 'get' us from Romania. Rhys saved our lives." Her expression turns solemn, filled with a deep, unwavering devotion. "That is why we are completely loyal to him. And now, to you."

I lean in closer, my brow furrowing. "How? How did he save your life?"

Oana’s gaze drifts for a moment, a flicker of a past life crossing her face. "I used to be a nun," she reveals. "All of us... we were nuns."

My jaw nearly hits the grass. Fucking hell. Nuns? The image of a group of devout sisters turning into a coven of supernatural guardians is the most unexpected thing I've heard all week.

Oana smiles again and gestures toward the tree line, away from the castle. "Come with me, dragă. Come and meet the rest of my sisters."

I don't hesitate. I nod and follow her, my slippers sinking into the grass as she leads me away from the stone walls of the castle and deeper into the mysteries of Rhys’s world.

Oana leads me away from the main castle, the grass damp against my slippers. We reach a small, ornate iron gate, rusted and entwined with dead ivy. She pushes it open with a heavy creak, and as I step through, the landscape shifts.

Tucked away in a secluded grove are several small cabins. They aren't your typical holiday cottages; these are dark, weathered timber structures with steep, pointed roofs and chimneys that puff out thin ribbons of grey smoke. They look like something plucked straight out of a dark fairytale, huddled together for warmth and secrets.

"Is this where everyone in the Midnight Menagerie lives?" I ask, looking around at the eerie little village.

Oana nods, her expression serene. "Some of us. Those who need the silence of the woods."

She leads me to the first cabin and pushes the door open. The moment I step inside, the scent hits me—dried herbs, beeswax, old parchment, and a hint of something metallic, like copper. The living room is a gothic dream, or perhaps a nightmare. Heavy velvet curtains in deep crimson block out most of the morning light, leaving the room in a perpetual, moody twilight. The walls are lined with shelves of strange jars containing things I don't want to identify, and the furniture is dark, carved oak, etched with symbols that make my skin prickle. A large stone hearth dominates the room, a low fire crackling within.

Oana guides me further back into the kitchen, and that's where I see them. The other five members of the coven.

Without the masks and the synchronized, haunting drone of their voices, they look... normal. Fucking normal. They all have different shades of brown eyes—some like honey, some like dark chocolate—and their hair is various shades of raven and espresso. Their skin is pale, but it’s a natural, soft pallor like mine, not the ghostly, unnatural white they project in the tents. They're all dressed in simple, flowing black dresses that make them look like a gathering of elegant shadows.

"We have a guest for breakfast," Oana announces.

They all turn to me, their faces softening into genuine smiles. "Welcome, Ophelia," they greet me, their voices a melodic chorus of individual Romanian accents.

"Thank you," I mutter, feeling a bit out of place in Rhys's oversized shirt. I watch them move with a practiced, graceful efficiency, setting the heavy wooden table and sliding pans across the stove.