Condemned

14 | Jael

Halloween isn't for another few days, but you wouldn't be able to tell, looking at the crowd Bryony managed to pull together. They look like they're wearing costumes, but I know better.

Sure, some love dressing up or have a wicked sense of humor, but, overall, it's the only time of year where everyone I know, kind of know, don't know, and wish I didn't know can "be themselves."

I can't find a decent parking spot. Is it any wonder why?

Sam had better luck, I see, as I'm rolling down the block for the second time. Her car is easier to squeeze in somewhere, and she left the game a few minutes ahead of me.

All the better that I'm widening that gap. I didn't want her to know that I was at the game this time and should avoid walking in when she does. I should avoid her in general. I'll keep an eye on her, of course, especially in this crowd. But everyone already has the wrong idea about us, and I'm doing everything I can to detach myself to a point she resents me anyway.

Eventually, I go inside the first-floor apartment, where the party is hopefully contained, like I insisted. Bryony and her entourage won't necessarily respect that, but at least I barked out a few ground rules the only time the party was ever mentioned to me. You can't say I didn't try...

Strobe lights, black lights, music blaring, warm and cold bodies everywhere. The undead outnumber the living, and that doesn't make my chaperone job any easier.

The place is festive and sparsely furnished. This is an improvement, all things considered. Someone did a fair amount of cleaning and reorganizing. There's a decent area rug covering the scorched floor and that horrid smell has waned to an irritation, something humans wouldn't likely be able to detect.

A disco ball is spinning in the empty dining room. It's where I spot Sam. In her white dress, she's a beacon of fluorescent purple light. It should be easy enough to keep track of her, but it'll be just as easy for everyone else. Just the thought makes my temper flare, like my blood is gasoline about to combust.

And, just like that, Sam's blocked from my view. A skinny vampire dressed as Dracula—oh how very original—opens his cape and hisses at me. It's for his amusement only. Vampires would typically have the edge in a one-on-one battle with a shifter, but I'm stronger than average and have been trained to kill vampires with one bite, and this loser looks like he'd blow over in a stiff wind. It would be no contest. I give him a fiery glare and roughly shoulder past him on my way to the kitchen.

Faolan glances up at me when I come in. He opens a beer and hands it to me when I join him by the counter. "Trust me. You'll need it."

While taking my first sip, I scratch at a pit in the countertop. "Do I even want to know?"

Everything is scratched, dented, and discolored in here, and I don't need the lights on to see that. At least that orange-demon goo is gone for the most part. It's only sticky where you wouldn't normally put your hand, like the sides and underneath.

"Probably not." Faolan twirls his finger, urging me to turn around. "Ivy's looking for you."

"Thanks for the heads up," I say drily over my shoulder.

She's three feet in front of me with her arms crossed. Ivy practically owns the place, and Bryony is her best friend, but I honestly didn't expect her to show up tonight. I haven't seen her since she pinned me to the floor in almost this exact location. Plus, it seems beneath her. Bryony has questionable taste. We're riff-raff and the help.

Ivy looks tired. Stressed. Disheveled by her standards. Her hair is frizzy and undone. Her clothes are loose and unflattering, like she's a disgruntled housewife for Halloween. Maybe it's a costume? Am I missing the joke?