Chapter 42

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CAT

I found out the name of the girl who lost the charm from her Dior bracelet. Miroslava Kuzmin. Mirka, her friends called her. I knew her name because she was dead, and her best friend—a tall girl with perfect teeth, a sleek blonde ponytail, and pale blue eyes—was screaming in front of the doors to Old Ford House where the memorial was taking place, a wing of Milton Hall usually reserved for donors' events. I didn't know how the events committee managed to convince the acting dean to use this place for Byron's memorial. Even Alastor had failed to get it for his cursed gala.

"Call it off!" the ponytailed blonde cried to Wil who stood at the entrance to the wing, dressed in a reserved navy blue suit with his sandy hair pushed back from his face, a single rakish strand falling into brown eyes that already drooped with tiredness. "This is bullshit! My best friend was just murdered and you think it's okay to—"

"She's not the only one who died, Rita," Wil sighed, pushing her away with the flat of his palm to make space for us to get through. Alastor still hadn't turned up to support his girlfriend. Instead, Honey, Phil, and I presented a united front with my guys behind us.

"Mirka deserves a memorial too," Rita complained, her screeching edging close to sobs. I knew the feeling—hysteria, panic, pain. It was overwhelming, all consuming, and inescapable. I didn't get angry at Rita for causing a scene in front of Byron's memorial. This was all bullshit anyway; we'd already had the funeral, and the ballroom beyond the doors would be full of people who barely knew By.

"We'll hold a vigil tomorrow," Phil offered calmly, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. One of my guys made a low, unimpressed sound, probably calculating how annoyed I'd be if they ripped off my friend's hand. "For both Mirka and Caroline. Okay?"

Rita laughed, shaking her head, her perfect teeth bared. "Nothing is alright."

I knew that feeling. I hadn't stopped feeling it for weeks. I avoided Rita's gaze, keeping my eyes on the old wood flooring and trying very hard not to think about the matryoshka dolls that had been filled with bits and pieces of her friend.

I didn't think it was a coincidence that Mirka was Russian. Nightmare was fucked up to see it was poetic, honouring her victim's culture. It felt like salt in a wound, and I'd barely known the girl.

I kept my stare on the floor as Wil opened the heavy doors to Old Ford House, and then we were through, away from Rita and her loud, raw brand of loss, and surrounded by a different kind of loss. I stiffened, swallowing the lump in my throat when I thought about how Byron would have hated this air of theatrical sadness.

Real grief didn't snap pictures for Instagram in front of the garlands of tasteful flowers and fairy lights, like it was a photo op and not a memorial. Real grief didn't lean against the buffet table crowded around a phone playing whatever Premier League match was on. Real grief didn't spot Honey and I, like sharks circling for blood, and rush over to squeeze my hand. I was gutted to hear about Bryan, he was always so terribly nice when we spoke.

"Alright, let's not crowd the poor girls, shall we? This is a memorial not a meet and greet." I glanced up, grateful to find the diminutive form of Carmilla Poppy storming over to us in a white skirt suit, her signature poppy pin on her lapel and crimson glasses perched on the bridge of her nose through which she gave our audience a searing look.

When the supposed mourners blended back into the crowd, Carmilla's expression changed to one of genuine sadness. "How are you girls doing? Actually, don't answer that, what a stupid question. Just know we're all here for you, and some of us aren't livestreaming their support."

"Who?" Phil demanded, straightening to her full height and glaring at the gathered people like she was ready to fight them all.

"Harmony Madigan," Carmilla sighed, shaking her head. Her red-brown bob was so full of hairspray it didn't budge.

"I don't fucking think so," Phil snarled, giving my arm a squeeze as she stalked past me like a woman on a mission.

Carmilla watched her go with a smile, then turned back to us. "Don't be afraid to sneak out if you need a break. No one will judge you."

I nodded, unsure what to say. I wanted to run away right now. Death's hand settled on the small of my back, offering stalwart comfort, and I managed to raise myself a little taller.

It was one night. I could get through one night.

"Right, well I'll stop hassling you," Carmilla said with a sad smile, her eyes lingering on Honey and I before she looked at the three men behind us. "Come find me if you need anything, girls."

When she left, I could breathe—at least until the next mourner would approach us. For now, I'd take advantage of the peace, however temporary.

The committee had done a beautiful job, I had to admit. The old stone walls were covered in swags of white diaphanous fabric and blue velvet, twinkling lights wrapped around them, turning the medieval space into something softer. The same colours were echoed in the tables, the sporadic seats arranged at the outer edges of the room, and the stage area where I hoped I wasn't expected to give a speech.

There was a huge picture of Byron's scowling face near the stage, with a platter of food offerings beneath it, and it brought a smile to my face even as tears pricked my eyes.

"I'll get you a drink," Tor offered, moving into my side to lay a longer kiss on my cheek. "Honey, do you want anything?"

"I want Byron back," she replied flatly.

"If I could make that happen, I would," Tor said, sympathy in his voice. His kindness to my friend made me fall even deeper in love with him. "How about a white wine spritzer?"

She nodded dully. "Thanks."

I hooked my arm with hers, wishing I had words of comfort. Instead, I just stuck close and hoped my presence was as reassuring as hers was to me.

I sensed Misery about to pull back, his self-loathing almost palpable, so I reached out and snagged his wrist with my free hand, keeping him close. I met his eyes, telegraphing everything I couldn't say.

It's not your fault. It was all Nightmare. You can't be to blame when it wasn't your choice. I don't hate you. I could never hate you when I've been there too, I've killed too.

But I just squeezed his wrist, running my thumb over his pulse, that irregularity—the pulse of a dead man.

I was glad when Tor returned with drinks, even just for something to pull me out of my head. Honey clutched her glass in both hands, jumping when Wil came through the door with a sigh, already tired after bearing the brunt of Rita's grief.

"You okay?" I asked, my chest squeezing when the look he gave me drowned in apology and grief.

"Am I okay? You're the one grieving." He risked losing a limb with my men nearby to draw me into a long, squeezing hug. "You're a good friend, Cat. A really good friend. You don't deserve anything bad. I'm so fucking sorry about Byron's death."

I hugged him with one arm, refusing to let go of Miz even if it meant almost spilling my drink on the back of Wil's suit jacket. "That's the only genuine thing I've heard all night."

Wil drew back with a wince, casting a look around the glittering room full of black-tie fashion and coiffed hair dos. "That bad?"

"Worse."

He caught a glimpse of my men's faces and backed up a step. "Well, let me draw some of that attention away from you. Where did Phil go? She's supposed to do the introduction speech with me."

"She's stopping some wanker livestreaming the memorial," Honey said, exhaustion in her voice. "Because apparently this is a social event."

Wil didn't look surprised. "Don't worry about these vultures, just focus on remembering Byron. We'll take care of everything else."

She nodded, looking right through him.

"I'll come check on you later," he told me and wove through the crowd of crushed velvet and raw silk, his head lifted like he was scanning for Phil. I couldn't find her either, but almost every student at Ford had shown up tonight so the room was packed. God knows why; we'd been cursed and haunted and blackmailed. You'd think most of us would stay safe in our rooms, but I guess habits were hard to break. If there was a soirée, gala, or fundraiser, you went. It was social suicide to be absent; people would whisper, and whispers turned to rumours, and rumours led to plummeting share prices. It wasn't even a conscious thing. If there was a party, you kept up appearances no matter how dark things got.

I jumped when a warm hand stroked my shoulder, then leaned into Tor when he pulled me closer, his arm stretching across to grip Miz's shoulder.

"Deep breaths, beautiful. We'll get through this."

My eyes kept returning to the photo of Byron, my heart clenching hard. I was glad I hadn't worn a black dress, and even gladder I'd worn the leather jacket.

I miss you, By.

And with every day, my anger was starting to fade, leaving only the yawning pit of loss.

Misery brushed a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb, an echo of loss in his eyes. Did my grief remind him of his? The family who took him in, who lived here, in this very building, were all dead. It couldn't have been easy to come here, but he was at my side to support me.

I squeezed his wrist in silent thanks, swallowing the knot in my throat when Wil walked to the stage area and clinked a fork against the side of a champagne glass. I flashed back to a dozen different functions I'd attended with my family, Byron and Honey at more than a few of them. Another tear slipped free.

There were memories everywhere, inescapable. Not just of Byron, but of Virgil. Would I be attending his funeral next?

"First of all, thank you all for coming to remember Byron tonight," Wil said when a hushed silence fell over the gathered people. Someone was still on their phone; I could hear the jump of music as they scrolled through video after video. Rage joined my hurt and I gnashed my teeth.

Rip the damn thing from their hands and shove it down their throat.

I shook the thought away. It would only be a temporary satisfaction before I was hauled in by the police. Like Duncan. Oh god, I hadn't called the station to check on him today. What if they'd charged him?

I missed the first half of Wil's speech, the words slurring into a mess of syllables that made little sense. A shudder went down my spine when I focused back on the sound of his voice, listening to him talk about the impact Byron had on the school he attended before Ford. By hadn't made an impact on Ford; he hadn't been here long enough. Nightmare had ripped any hope of that from him.

More tears burned the backs of my eyes, blurring my vision when I blinked.

"Byron had so many dreams," Wil was saying, his voice both respectful and sad. I wanted to get up on the stage and yell at the top of my lungs that Byron should still be here and Nightmare had murdered him, like so many people at Ford had been murdered by her. But it was like we were in stasis, none of us daring to talk about her or even mention Halloween like Duncan said that day in the snow.

If people thought everything would go back to normal now, they were delusional. I was starting to suspect this island had always belonged to her, not the Fords. It was her hunting ground, her ritual site, the place where she'd murdered the entire Ford family all those years ago.

Except… how was Duncan here if the Fords had all died? How had Orwell been here, before Nightmare murdered him? There must have been cousins who inherited the island when the family were killed. I didn't want to upset Miz by asking him about the family when he was clearly suffering.

"There are no words to quantify the loss," Wil continued, his voice carrying across the room, "and it has touched every last one of us. I'd like us to have a moment of silence to remember everyone we've—"

The lights flickered overhead, and I startled. My men formed a protective huddle around me, like faulty electrics were a threat to fight with fists and magic. Shadows swirled around Death's hand as he pulled me closer and it should have worried me, being so close to that deadly magic, but he'd never hurt me.

My heart skipped when the lights flickered again, and for a split second I thought it was Byron's spirit coming through to tell everyone how fake their grief was when most of them had never met him and those that had ignored him. But his voice never sounded, and his ghost never formed, and on the next flicker, the lights went out entirely.

Panicked squeals and low, murmurs filled the room, making hairs stand on end all down my arms. "Honey?" I asked, reaching through the darkness for her. Even the fairy lights had gone out, leaving us in true, inky blackness, and I couldn't quite ignore the paranoid voice in the back of my head that said this was Nightmare's doing.

Movement began to swirl around us as people panicked, calling for friends, demanding the lights be turned back on, casting illumination across the stone floors and buffet tables with torches on their phones.

"Honey?" I called again, louder.

"This is totally wild," a plummy male voice said somewhere to our left. "Check out this dead guy remembrance soirée I'm at. Totally a ghost-related blackout. If I never finish this stream, I was murdered by a poltergeist in a totally insane—"

His voice cut off abruptly, a ragged gasp leaving him. "I miss Mummy," he blurted, stealing a laugh from my lips at the absurdity of the statement and his whining tone. "I've been so lonely since the divorce."

"Tor," Death bit out, making me jump—and then laugh as I realised Tor had tormented the dickhead live streamer into outing his mummy issues. "Tell me you didn't influence that asshole."

"Totally didn't," Tor replied, his low laugh sliding through me.

"Don't panic," Wil called confidently from the stage. I envied his ability to be unruffled. The longer the room stayed in darkness, lit only by phone screens, the faster my heart beat. "Just a power cut; I'm sure they'll reconnect the electricity in a few minutes."

"Everyone reconvene outside," another voice shouted, throaty and deep. I didn't know his name, but I guessed he was part of the event committee. "The floodlights in the park run on a different generator; we'll finish the memorial there."

"Let's go, little bride," Death said calmly, stroking my back.

"I need you to find Honey," I replied, shaking my head, gasping down breaths that became harder and harder to take. Not Honey too, please not Honey. "I can't—I need you to find her, use your magic, whatever it takes—"

"Shh," Death soothed, warm lips pressing to my temple and lingering long enough that the grip loosened a fraction on my chest. "It's just a power cut, she'll be fine."

"I'll go find her," Miz offered, already pulling away.

I tore from Death's arms and lunged in Misery's direction, grabbing his shoulders in bruise-tight fingers.

"You don't get to leave," I said in an urgent voice. "None of you."

Nightmare would get to them if they left.

"I'll find her," a welcome voice offered, and I squinted through the scant light at Phil, her face flushed and shiny, her hair ragged. "I'll text you when I've found her. Can you believe there's a fucking power cut on the one night we choose to hold the memorial?"

"No," I said and meant it. This wasn't a coincidence. I no longer believed in coincidences, only in unsettling events that led to blood and murders and me screaming as I lost someone else. When Phil slipped into the crowd, elbowing people out of the way, I said, "We need to find Virgil. We've run out of time."

"It's just a power cut," Tor reassured me, one hand on my shoulder, the other on Miz's.

"It's not," Misery muttered, shaking his head, a tremble beginning where he held onto me. "It's not a power cut. Can't you feel it?"

"It's just your fear amplifying your senses, Miz," Death said so gently, someone's torch light bouncing off his face, illuminating the aching sadness in his eyes. "Everything's going to be okay."

I shook my head. I was with Miz on this one.

"Come on," Tor coaxed, his voice unwavering as he turned us to the door. "Let's go outside, find Honey, and we'll comb the island for signs of Virgil. Death, you reckon we can get some of the others to join a search party?"

"Pain, definitely," Death agreed, walking a step behind us to make sure no one got left behind. "Maybe even Madness. Violence would sabotage any rescue attempt, so he's not an option. I wouldn't trust Cruelty, either; she'll do anything her brother does."

My head spun at the casual mention of so many gods. How many death gods were there? I shuddered and my darkness surged, brushing against my trembling soul.

No death god is a threat to you. You'll rip them apart with your bare hands before they can touch a single hair on your head.

It was a nice sentiment, but something told me killing a god took a little more than my bare hands.

"Honey?" I called as we exited Old Ford House into the cold stone corridor beyond, the crowd pressed from one side to the other, crammed in like sardines. "Honey!"

She didn't shout back. My stomach twisted. I was going to lose her, too. My breathing came shorter, sharper. I couldn't stop the spiral once it began. This wasn't a power cut; it was a calculated move by Nightmare and she was going to rip my best friend and my brother from me in one fell swoop and—

My phone vibrated in my leather jacket pocket, a lifeline while I drowned in panic. My hands were shaking so badly that Miz slid it from my pocket and held it in front of me.

"What's your password, my universe?"

"1402," Tor answered before I could.

"You remembered," I said, wide eyed.

"I'll always remember your personal data," he replied, kissing my forehead, gesturing in front of us to create a path to the exit, magic pushing people out of the way. Candles flickered from sconces along the walls, sending a little shiver over me. I felt like I'd stepped back in time to when Nightmare first hunted Ford.

"Someone named Phil has found Honey," Miz told me. "He says she's near the library."

"She." I frowned. What the hell was Honey doing out there, on the other side of the park? But I was so relieved that I could wait to question her; I just needed to hug her so tightly that no one could ever hurt her.

Candles almost guttered as the heavy doors at the end of the hallway were heaved open, the grating sound scraping my nerves until my composure was almost non-existent. But we were nearly out, and I knew where to find Honey, and she was safe with Phil.

She was safe.