and I shiver.
Several women passing by the open door of the office turn to gawk, rubber-necking the fuck out of my future husband.
I narrow my eyes on them
“You know, the only advice Pamela ever gave me that was worth any salt was this: find your man and lock his ass down.” I turn to smirk at Victor. “I always thought it was bullshit, but hey, here we are.”
“Ah, right, lock my ass down,” Vic purrs, kissing me again. “Mine, and four other guys’, right? Should be a romantic honeymoon.”
He laughs as he moves past me and into the hallway, but I can tell the idea pisses him off royally.
I’m sure the honeymoon week/Thanksgiving break will be fascinating, a study into the emerald green depths of human jealousies.
My mouth twitches.
I’m looking forward to it already.
Friday, November twenty-second, is Hael’s eighteenth birthday, and yet another long drag at the coal mine known as Prescott High.
“Things are going to get lit tonight,” he crows during our break between second and third period, leaning back on the front steps and basking in the sun like a snake. He’s grinning so big that the sunlight catches on his white teeth, reflecting back at me. Victor has paid Stacey Langford to throw a party for his best friend in the old Prescott High building, so it’s pretty much guaranteed to be good.
Then tomorrow … marriage. To Vic. My heart lodges in my throat, but I banish the feeling of dread. That cold lump in my stomach isn’t about Victor; it’s about the Charter Crew and the Thing. Last time we had a party, Danny died.
Then Ivy died.
And now here we are, in a war that’s fought in shadows and surprise. I chew my lower lip.
“Don’t stress, Blackbird,” Hael says as he sits up and the other boys start to trickle out of the front doors to take their seats around us. Cal sits close to me and offers up a fresh cigarette and a cold chocolate milk with a straw. My favorite. “We’re expecting trouble.” Hael leans in close to me, nuzzling my face with his. “Girl, that’s what makes it fun.”
“Don’t pray for trouble, Hael,” Oscar chastises, watching as the Thing’s police cruiser crawls down the street yet again. It’s a scare tactic that isn’t working, so he can fuck all the way off with that shit. “We have enough of it as it is.”
“Let’s just get through this weekend alive, and I’ll be happy,” Vic murmurs, lighting up a cigarette and watching my stepfather’s car with narrowed eyes. “By the way, Bern, we have a wedding present to give you tonight.” He pauses, flicking me a cocksure smirk that has me smoldering. “If you’re a good girl, you don’t get it at all. Now, if you’re a bad girl …”
“You can have it at three a.m.,” Cal finishes as Aaron takes a seat on Hael’s other side. “The witching hour.” He smiles at me and sips his Pepsi. “Bad things always happen at the witching hour.”
Goose bumps rise up on my arms, but I don’t say anything. I’m not displeased by the idea of a gift.
“You’ll like this one,” Aaron promises me, his attention shifting back to the Thing’s car. Now all the boys are watching. “Actually, I think you’ll love it.”
“Nah,” Hael says, shaking his head, his smile darkening for a moment into something truly wicked. “I guarantee she will; she’s just as bloodthirsty as the rest of us.”
Nobody there disagrees with him—not even me.
On any normal day, my third period class puts me to sleep. I mean, it’s biology. I know all the important stuff—like how an alpha male and alpha female clash in the wild, how violence begets power, how it’s survival of the fittest out there. The rest of it … I have no use for.
A bit of commotion sounds from the hall, like the pounding of heavy boots. It’s not an entirely unusual sound. There are always cops at Prescott High, sometimes SWAT. Okay, well, that was only one time, but most of us just yawned our way through their visit.
Today though … feels off.
I know as soon as the call comes into my phone from Hael, ringing once and then going dark, that something bad is happening.
My entire body goes cold.
“Havoc just got dragged out of class by the VGTF!” someone chortles, and the class explodes into action, ignoring our teacher’s tired, dreary pleas to sit down. If you work at Prescott High, you’re either a do-gooder like