Page 33 of Porcelain Grave

Just as I'm settling in, the door swings open and the succubus saunters in. She looks as lethal and alluring as ever. She looks as lethal and alluring as ever. Even dressed for an ordinary morning, she somehow manages to look like temptation given human form. There isn't a drop of glamour in the room that belongs to anyone else once she walks in. She looks less like someone who got dressed that morning and more like someone who was born looking dangerous. "I may need a vision from the coven," she purrs, her eyes scanning the room before landing on me. "Oh, darling. You're here."

"Morning," I reply with a small smile.

The sisters gesture for me to sit, their Romanian accents thick and warm. "Please, have a seat at the table. Breakfast is almost ready." One of them tilts her head, a playful glint in her eye. "Does Rhys know you are not having breakfast with him today?"

I scoff, leaning back in the chair. "Must he know every fucking thing I do?"

They all giggle, a sound that's surprisingly human. "We would not want to steal you away from him," one teases, "he is so very... possessive."

I chuckle, shaking my head. As they begin bringing the food to the table, I look at them curiously. "How did you lot even get from Romania to Whitby?"

The spread they lay out is exotic and hearty. There are thick slices of zacusca—a roasted vegetable spread—alongside salty cheeses, smoked meats, and warm, crusty bread. They use heavy, tarnished silver utensils and mismatched ceramic plates that look like they've survived a century of use.

I sit down with the succubus, and Oana pours me a cup of dark, fragrant tea. She settles in, her gaze turning distant. "We were all nuns in a coven deep in Romania," she begins. "We lived in an abbey with the other sisters and the Mother Superior."

Another sister picks up the story, her voice dropping an octave. "Oana started having visions one day. Visions of the future. Predictions of things that had not yet happened, but were inevitable."

"The Mother Superior was alarmed," a third sister adds, "though not at first. Imagine Oana quietly telling her: 'Sister Elena's father will die tomorrow.' The Mother Superior dismissed it as a childish whim."

The sister pauses, her expression grim. "The next day... he died. Then another vision came true. Then another. Some time later, five more of us began seeing the same things. All six of us were linked, seeing the threads of fate."

"The Mother Superior reported it to the higher church authorities," Oana continues, her voice trembling slightly. "An investigation began. The investigators decided we were not saints, but possessed. Heretical. They imprisoned us beneath the convent, in the dark, and subjected us to... 'deliverance.'"

I feel a knot form in my stomach. I know what "deliverance" means in the eyes of a fanatic. It means pain. It means torture.

"That is when the fear took over," another sister says. "The church didn't see a gift; they saw six monsters. We were hunted, called witches who deserved the trials. We were rotting in that hole until he found us."

"Rhys," Oana whispers, a look of pure adoration on her face. "I had a vision of him. A tall man, with eyes like a winter storm, the color of a churning winter sky, and a heart that beat for the discarded. He came for us. He engineered our escape, tore us from those chains, and brought us across the world to England. To Whitby."

I stare at them, genuinely shocked. "The church... instead of embracing you, they just assumed you were possessed? And you had a vision of Rhys. Wow. I don't even know what to say."

The sisters nod solemnly. "That is why we follow him. Our loyalty lies with Rhys; he gave us back our lives."

"But how did you end up working at a carnival?" I ask.

They look at each other and smile, a collective expression of liberation.

"People come here because they already believe in impossible things," one explains. "They come looking for ghosts, monsters, and miracles. We do not have to pretend to be ordinary here."

"We spent a lot of days being told we were monsters," another adds. "Rhys built a place where monsters no longer have to hide."

"He never asked us to change, dragă," Oana says softly. "He did not rescue us only to put us in another cage. He built a home where we could keep our traditions, our language, and our sisters. The carnival did not make us strange, Ophelia. It simply gave us a place where our strangeness frightened no one who mattered."

Oana's expression turns serious. "Romania changed him, too. There are things he brought back from those mountains that should never have left."

I open my mouth to ask what the fuck that means, but one of the sisters nudges my arm. "Your breakfast is getting cold, Ophelia. Let's all eat."

I nod and start digging into the food, the flavors rich and earthy. As I eat, the succubus leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper.

"I may have snooped a little, darling," she murmurs. "And I know that one of the men on Rhys's target list is someone I want dead just as much as you do."

She pauses, then drops the name like a lead weight. "John Robert."

My heart skips. The fourth man.

"I know you and Rhys are on a mission," she whispers, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Can I be let in on this? Let me help you kill this man."

I stop chewing, looking at her. "What did he do to you to make you want him dead?"