The pact

Chapter 15 – The Pact

Ava Carter POV

The silence after Damon’s scream was more deafening than the sound itself.

I stumbled backward, heart in my throat, as his body slumped to the cold, rotting floor of the East Wing. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. Emilia sobbed against my side, her small hands clenched into my sweater, trembling uncontrollably. My own limbs shook just as violently, though I tried to stay grounded for her. The candlelight flickered erratically, casting shadows that twisted and jerked like live things along the walls. The air felt charged, thick with something not of this world.

Seconds ago, a figure—a woman with hollow eyes and a mouth sewn shut—had appeared behind the flame. She hadn’t spoken, not in any way a human ear could comprehend, but her meaning had been unmistakable. The pact had been made. Damon had offered his soul, his life, his everything—in exchange for Emilia’s freedom.

But she hadn’t taken him. Not yet.

I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing trembling fingers to his neck. A pulse—weak, but there. Relief washed over me, followed quickly by dread. Why hadn’t she accepted his offer?

"He needs help," I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. "He needs a doctor."

Emilia clutched me tighter, her voice tiny and broken. “She didn’t want Daddy.”

I looked at her sharply, frowning. “What?”

“She didn’t want Daddy,” she repeated, her tears soaking into the cotton of my sleeve. “She wants you.”

My blood turned to ice.

The next few hours blurred. We carried Damon to the guest bedroom with Margaret’s help. She had just returned from the village clinic with a bottle of strong sedatives and painkillers—legal, discreet, no questions asked. We hadn’t dared call for an ambulance. Damon, even in his barely conscious state, had begged me not to.

I understood. Bringing outsiders into the house felt wrong, like it would only provoke something darker, something older. The East Wing was sealed again. The candles extinguished. The door barred with salt.

Emilia slept in my room. I sat beside Damon’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, every breath a small victory. The storm outside had returned with a vengeance. Rain pelted the windows in waves, and wind howled like a chorus of the damned. Damon stirred, moaning faintly. I leaned in, brushing his damp hair from his forehead.

“Damon,” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. “She didn’t… she didn’t take it…”

“I know,” I said gently. “She didn’t want you. She wants me.”

His body tensed, and he tried to sit up. Pain shot through him, and he groaned in protest. I pushed him back down gently.

“No, Ava. No,” he rasped. “I won’t let that happen.”

"You made the offer,” I said, voice trembling. “You knew what could happen. You invoked the rites.”

“I thought she was bound to blood,” he said, jaw clenched. “I thought she’d only ever want Emilia.”

“Then why me? Why not take you like you wanted?”

“Because you’re the first one to see her. Hear her,” he whispered, the words like a confession. “You believe. That makes you valuable. Your soul shines brighter in her world.”

I didn’t sleep much that night. When I did, the dreams came fast and unrelenting—of mirrors, endless mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of me. Some smiled serenely. Others wept, screamed, or bled from their eyes. One version burned alive.

I woke with a start, sweat clinging to my skin. My breath came in short gasps. Only one word echoed in my mind:

Pact.

It haunted me into the morning. The house was eerily still. Margaret had taken Emilia to the garden for fresh air and distraction. Damon remained unconscious, his body fighting whatever darkness he’d invited.

I wandered through the house, barefoot, the wood cold against my soles. My fingers trailed along the walls as I walked, as though grounding myself in the house’s shifting energy.

I didn’t intend to go to the attic. But somehow, my steps led me there anyway.

Dust blanketed everything. Trunks, books, broken furniture. The air smelled of time and secrets. In the far corner, draped in a tattered sheet, stood a tall armoire. It called to me. I crossed the room, heart pounding, and pulled the sheet away.

Behind its doors stood a mirror.

Not cracked. Not fogged.

Pristine.

Unlike every other reflective surface in this cursed house, this mirror gleamed as though untouched by time. I stepped closer. It wasn’t just a reflection staring back—it was something else. A window, maybe.

Behind the glass stood the woman.

Not the ghostly, sewn-mouthed horror from before. This was her younger self—dark hair cascading over pale shoulders, clothed in an elegant ivory gown. Her eyes were sad. Knowing.

She stared directly at me.

I lifted my hand.

She did the same.

When our fingertips met on opposite sides of the glass, a sudden gust of wind slammed the attic door shut behind me. The mirror didn’t crack, but the air shimmered like disturbed water.

Her mouth moved.

One must stay.

I stumbled back, breath catching in my throat.

“Why me?” I whispered aloud.

Her lips moved again.

You opened the door.

I shook my head. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help.”

Her expression softened. For a moment, she looked almost… human. Trapped. Tired.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She held my gaze.

Peace.

And then she was gone. The mirror reflected only me again.

Later, I found Emilia sitting cross-legged in the garden, sketchbook in her lap. She smiled when she saw me and held up her latest drawing.

“It’s you,” she said.

I knelt beside her.

The drawing was of a woman in a long white gown, standing in front of a house engulfed in flames.

My blood chilled. “Why is the house on fire, Emilia?”

She shrugged, completely calm. “That’s how it ends.”

I swallowed. “Did the lady tell you that?”

“No. Mommy did.”

My breath caught. “Your mother?”

Emilia nodded. “She comes sometimes. When the humming stops.”

“What does she say?”

“Not much. Just that it’s almost over.”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared at the picture, my fingers tightening around its edge. A burning house. A woman who looked like me. A child’s quiet prophecy.

I glanced back toward the mansion.

Something was coming.

I could feel it like a weight pressing down on my chest.

The pact had been made.

A soul still needed to be claimed.

But maybe—just maybe—we could rewrite it.

Or burn everything down trying.

That night, the house trembled.

Literally shook.

Doors slammed on their hinges. Mirrors cracked and shattered across the floors. The lights flickered and died. The air thickened with the scent of scorched wood and rosewater. It coiled through the halls like incense.

I ran to Damon’s room.

He was awake, standing by the window in the dark.

“It’s starting,” he said without turning around.

I joined him, staring out into the storm. Lightning split the sky, illuminating shadows that danced between the trees—shadows shaped like people, like memories, like death.

“She’s ready to collect,” he said.

I turned to him. “Then we give her something else.”

He looked at me, tired and haunted. “That would take blood.”

I held his gaze. “Then we bleed.”

A moment passed. The thunder rumbled like a warning.

Something inside the walls moaned—long, drawn-out, almost human.

Behind us, the attic mirror sang softly.

A child’s lullaby.

Sweet.

Wrong.

Inviting.

And deadly.