Quatre-vingt-huit faire-part pour un non-lieu

The smell of lavender and sickness clung to the air.

Jasmine sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers curled tight around a ceramic mug she no longer had the strength to lift. Steam drifted lazily upward, but her mother hadn’t taken a sip. Not in hours.

Outside the window, dusk bled into the sky, painting the trees in hues of dying gold. The wind rattled the glass, as if the forest itself grieved with them. Jasmine could hear the soft ticking of the old clock in the hallway, each second stretching longer than the last, like time didn’t want to move forward without her mother in it.

“Ma,” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “You want me to open the window?”

Her mother didn’t respond. Just the softest movement beneath the blanket…a twitch of fingers, a shallow breath.

She looked like a ghost already.

Her once-full frame had withered into something fragile, bones sharp beneath pale skin. Her lips were dry, cracking at the corners. Jasmine reached for the damp cloth and dabbed them gently, careful not to hurt her.

“You always hated closed windows,” she murmured. “Said it made the room feel like a coffin.”

The irony settled hard in her chest.

She turned toward the window, unlatched it with stiff fingers. The wind slipped inside, cold and biting, and for a moment Jasmine imagined it carrying her mother’s soul somewhere lighter. Somewhere gentler.

Behind her, a rasping breath stirred. Jasmine turned quickly.

Her mother’s eyes…clouded and sunken…found hers. Barely there, but focused.

“Come here, baby…”

Jasmine climbed into the bed beside her, careful of the tangle of sheets and the shallow rise and fall of her mother’s chest. Her mother’s hand, thin and shaking, lifted to brush a strand of hair from Jasmine’s face.

“You have your father’s stubborn mouth,” she said, a ghost of a smile twitching at the edge of her lips.

Jasmine bit down hard on the lump in her throat. “And your eyes.”

Her mother chuckled, a sound like paper tearing. “He’ll come for you. When I’m gone. He’ll want what he left behind.”

Jasmine’s breath caught. “I don’t care. He had his chance. He left us.”

Her mother didn’t argue. Just looked at her with something deep in her eyes…fear or warning, Jasmine couldn’t tell.

“Don’t go to him,” her mother whispered. “Not unless you’re ready to become something else. Not unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Jasmine froze.

Her mother’s grip on her hand tightened, bony fingers like iron. “He’ll smell you. The moment you come into yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

But her mother’s eyes had drifted shut again, her breaths shallower now. Fading.

Jasmine pressed her forehead to her mother’s and stayed there, trembling, as the light drained from the world.

Hours later, the moon rose full and sharp above the trees. The house was silent.

And Jasmine knew, somehow…without being told that her mother’s heart had stopped.

She screamed only once, long and ragged, before the sound broke inside her. No neighbors came. No pack doctor. No family.

It was just her. And the woods. And the old blood her mother had spent years trying to hide.

The next morning, Jasmine buried her with her own hands in the garden. No shovel, no ceremony. Just dirt and grief.

She thought of leaving the woods. Her mother that made her remain grounded was gone but Jasmine Wembley wasn’t the same girl anymore. And she wasn’t going to be anyone’s forgotten daughter.

She didn’t cry again. Not even when the first letter came, marked with a symbol she didn’t recognize. A crescent moon split down the center. The scent on it made her flinch.. sharp, animal, something ancient and primal stirring in her gut.

She opened the letter with trembling fingers, its parchment thick, edges frayed like it had traveled through storms to reach her. She couldn't understand it's content. It looked like it was delivered to a wrong recipient.

The ink bled in strange curves, a language she didn’t recognize. But something in her bones shifted the moment her eyes touched it…something old and buried deep.

A scent clung to the page. Earthy. Metallic. Alive.

She dropped it like it burned.

The wind outside howled louder, slipping through the open window with a voice that wasn’t just wind anymore. It whispered things. Names. Promises.

She backed away from the letter, chest heaving.

That night, sleep didn’t come. She lay stiff on the old couch, a kitchen knife under her pillow, her ears straining for sounds that didn’t belong.

They came with the fog…silent shadows slipping between trees, cloaked in moonlight. She never heard the door creak. Never saw the faces until it was too late.

A hand clamped over her mouth. Another tore the blade from beneath her head. She thrashed, bit, fought like her mother taught her. But they were faster. Stronger. Like her…but more.

“Easy, little mutt,” one of them growled, breath hot against her ear. “The alpha’s got plans for you.”

Ropes cut into her wrists. A sack over her head. Cold steel at her throat.

Then darkness.

When Jasmine woke, the world smelled like sweat, sex, and despair. The floor was hard stone. The walls were padded in velvet. She wasn’t alone.

Laughter echoed down the corridor. Men’s laughter. Low. Hungry.

Somewhere, a woman cried.

And Jasmine, still half-drugged, still gagged, she fell back asleep. Unconcious.

When Jasmine woke, the world didn’t smell like dirt or rot anymore. It smelled... sweet. Like honey and wild jasmine and expensive perfume.

Her fingers dug into silk. Real silk. Beneath her, the bed was too soft….wrong-soft, like sinking into someone else's dream. Her eyes blinked open to chandeliers that scattered golden light across a ceiling trimmed in ivory. Velvet curtains framed tall windows. The sun streamed in like it belonged here, like it had been invited.

Wherever this was... it wasn’t the woods.

And it wasn’t hers.

She sat up too quickly. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. There were no ropes now, no cage. Just a quiet room, immaculate and glowing like it had never known violence.

She stumbled to her feet. Her reflection stared back at her from a mirror the size of a door…wild-eyed, pale, barefoot in a tattered dress. A ghost in a dollhouse.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Two taps. The door opened before she could answer.

The woman who entered couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Tall, with skin like burnished bronze and a smile carved too precisely to be real. Her hair spilled in glossy waves over her shoulders, and her heels clicked softly on the marble floor.

“You must be Jasmine,” she said, her voice smooth like honey over steel. “Welcome to the House of Solace.”

Jasmine’s mouth moved, but no sound came.

“I’m Elora.” The woman moved with a predator’s grace, already walking the room like she owned it. “I run things here. We don’t get many from the outside anymore, but…” Her eyes flicked up and down Jasmine, unreadable. “You’re a special case.”

Jasmine backed up a step, throat tight. “I don’t…What is this place?”

“A refuge,” Elora said sweetly. “A sanctuary for those of our kind. You’re not here as a whore, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Jasmine didn’t know if she felt relief or confusion. “Then why?”

“You’re here to work. Clean. Assist. And stay out of trouble.” Elora pulled a slim, leather-bound booklet from beneath her arm and held it out. “Your rules. Read them carefully. Break them once, and you’ll be warned. Break them twice…” Her smile didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened. “Well. I’d suggest you don’t.”

Jasmine took the book. Her fingers trembled.

“No talking to guests unless spoken to. No going upstairs without invitation. No entering private rooms. No peeking behind locked doors.”

The list went on. More rules. More shadows between the lines.

Elora turned to leave. At the door, she paused.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back with that same too-smooth smile. “And stay out of the mirror room at night.”

Jasmine blinked. “The what?”

But Elora was already gone. The door shut behind her with a whisper.

In the silence, Jasmine opened the booklet. The ink shimmered faintly, and for a moment the letters rearranged themselves, curving, ancient, almost alive.

She felt it then. Deep in her chest. The wrongness.

Not just fear. Not just confusion.

This place… wasn't just a brothel.

It was something else.

Somewhere in the walls, something moved. Something that breathed without lungs. Something watched.

And Jasmine knew, with sudden, bone-deep certainty…

She hadn’t just been taken.

She’d been chosen.