Chapter 7

Iwas up to seven fuckboys thwarted, but the last one was kinda hot in a Cillian Murphy way so I'd taken his number. I wasn't going to call him, but he didn't need to know that.1

Honey was chatting up Mr Broad Shoulders 2024, so I found a spot against the living room wall to lean and people watch. Dylan Ford was the centre of attention, naturally. With his good looks and excessive money, he had both men and women clinging to him, throwing seductive smiles in an attempt to hook a future billionaire. I couldn't blame them. He was a powerful ally to have at Ford's End Medical School for Stuck Up Twats, Alarmingly Social Best Friends, and Introverts Who'd Rather Be In The Local Animal Shelter Than At A Frat Party.2

Better a friend than an enemy, anyway. I shouldn't have spoken up with the Fords earlier, but I couldn't bring myself to regret it either. I was tired of being walked all over by powerful men from powerful families. I just hoped I hadn't made myself a target—or worse, made Honey and By targets by association.

I sipped from a red cup of fruity vodka and fuck knows what else—the beer ran out an hour ago—and kept an eye on Honey and Alastor. He seemed okay, but didn't all creeps seem okay at first? I glanced away when they decided to stick their tongues down each other's throats on the sofa. Good for Honey. I was bored.

The shop of many rooms where we got our costumes must have sold out their entire stock, because in the last ten minutes alone I'd seen four people in the same long, black cloak with their hoods up. Maybe they'd all come as grim reapers and tragically misplaced their scythes. Maybe they were dressed as the creepy cult from Hot Fuzz.3

"Cat," Byron greeted with a sage nod as he came to splay across the wall beside me, a half-empty cup in his hand. "I see your boobs are still there."

"They are," I agreed. "Fortunately all the stares have not burned them from my body."

"I'm happy for you."

I gave him a sage nod this time. We both jumped in surprise when the music shot up several decibels.

"Sorry, sorry!" someone shouted. Mason Lindgren. "Wrong fucking way."

"Tell me he isn't about to…" Byron laughed, his eyes a little glossy, cheeks a little red. There was also a smudge of lipstick on his jaw I very graciously did not point out.

A hollow clang of wood came from the foyer and then Lindgren was crossing the room with a guitar in his hand. A laugh burst out of me, loud with inebriation. "He is. He really is."

Byron wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Please be Wonderwall. Please be a meme come to life. Universe, I never ask much of you, just give me this one thing."

"There's no way." I shook my head, the long white wig clinging to my cheeks, staticky. My head was itchy underneath; another drink and I'd probably rip out the pins and throw the damn thing off just to let my scalp breathe.

Byron and I held our breaths when Mason began to play, and disappointment was instantaneous when it wasn't the initial chords of Wonderwall but…

"It's Don't Look Back In Anger," I cried, grabbing Byron's hand, unable to contain my glee. "Oh my god, oh my god."

"It's real," he laughed, crying. He grabbed my arm and for some unknowable drunk reason we both sank to the floor, gasping for air as we laughed too hard. "The ancient frat party lore is real."

I dropped my head onto his warm shoulder and laughed until my belly ached, and it felt good. All the stress and worries of starting over somewhere new, where I didn't know the rules and expectations and patterns… it all swept behind laughter.

Another black cloak swept past, brushing my ankles as the tall, hooded person—either a dude or Gwendoline Christie—walked around the coffee table to look out the window. Something buzzed against my hip and I jumped.

"Did you bring a vibrator to a party?" I asked Byron, a furrow between my brows.

"It's my phone," he said between hiccupping laughter. "Move, I can't get to it with your shoulder in the way."

I giggle-snorted. "That's not my shoulder, By."

"Oh, god. It's so soft. Why is it soft?"

"Moisturiser," I informed him, leaning back so he could fish his phone from his pocket as Lindgren belted out the final chorus.

"Keep your moisturised bosom to yourself, Wallison." Byron glanced at his phone, squinted at the text, and the smile fell off his face, comically fast.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sobering at the dread I watched spill through Byron's dark blue eyes.

His phone rang, a shrill tone that briefly drowned out Lindgren's crooning, and my friend flinched.

"By," I breathed. "You're freaking me out. What's wrong?"

His throat bobbed. He angled the phone away from me, rushing to his feet. His hands shook. "It's Sterling."

His sister. "Is everything okay?"

"No." He bolted to his feet, grabbed the wall when he swayed, and I followed in a rush, reaching for him. "I need to talk to her. I'll tell you everything when I come back. Stay here, watch Honey and make sure that guy doesn't take advantage of her."

"By," I complained weakly, but I didn't protest when he fled the room, shoulder-checking another black-robed figure. "Great outfit," I drawled to the robe, my pissy mood and worry spilling out. "Very imaginative."

The hood turned, too dark inside to glimpse any features, but chances were they looked at me a moment too long because they were ogling the Heaving Bosom.

"My eyes are alllll the way up here," I said, slurring a little. The fruity vodka packed a stronger punch than beer it turned out.

The robe didn't reply, which was fine if a little rude. I gave them my middle finger behind their back, watching the cloaked jerk stride across the room to grab Mason Lindgren's shoulders like they were about to hug. Instead, my heart jumped against my ribs when more hooded figures emerged from the many doorways that connected this room to the rest of the house. There were five of them now, every one I'd seen tonight gathered in one room.

"Honey," I called in warning, my heartbeat tripling for a reason I wasn't entirely sure of. But I'd seen enough horror films to know how this ended, and I wasn't keen to stick around for whatever fucked up initiation was about to play out. Clearly Ford was one of those universities where animal sacrifice and chanting was all the rage, but I was going to pass.

I skirted the group of robed figures and made a beeline for Honey.

"Weird shit," I told her, grabbing Alastor's shoulder and pulling him off my friend.

"What the fuck?" he spat, a mean look crossing his face.

"Creepy fucking cult." I pointed emphatically and grabbed Honey's arm, heaving her off the sofa and wincing when she swayed into me. Goosebumps covered my arms when Lindgren's wailing cut off suddenly, replaced by a low, repetitive chanting. "We're going," I told my friend, "say goodbye to Carmichael."

"Bye, babe," Honey said agreeably, batting her lashes at Alastor.

I hurried us towards the door, but before we could reach it—or before the three other people sober enough to realise this was about to be an initiation of fucked up proportions could get there, too—every door slammed shut.

The chants rose in volume.

Fuck. Was I completely pissed, or was blood dripping down the walls?

"Honey, tell me you see that," I whispered, going cold all over. We hovered, frozen as I panicked, processing the fact the doors had closed on their own.

"What the fuck?" someone shouted, loud with both inebriation and panic. "The walls are bleeding."

Great. Wonderful. I wasn't hallucinating. The walls really were overflowing with thick, viscous blood, dripping from the ceiling towards us.

Cold sluiced down my back as I stared around the room, my arms trembling where I gripped Honey desperately tight. In the middle of the room, a red circle burned itself into the parquet floor, not just branding the wood but flickering higher. Flames. This was so much worse than an initiation.

How were they doing this? It had to be SFX. Was someone's parent working on a film set, and they'd stolen supplies? How were the walls bleeding?

I took another step back, unable to stifle a whimper when the coffee table erupted in fire. One moment it was fine, the next it was ablaze, no flame bar visible. Like it was … like it was magic. But magic didn't exist. Bleeding walls didn't exist. This was a huge, elaborate prank. It had to be.

Sprawled out on the expensive rug next to the coffee table, his eyes wide and face tight in horror, was Mason Lindgren. He looked ten years older. Looked petrified, his skin bleached with terror. What had he seen? What had the robed figures done?

"What are you doing to him?" someone else yelled—Rone, whose room was across the hall from mine, and whose name was emphatically not Rhona. My eyes shot to her now as she lurched forward dressed as a sexy pirate, anger in her eyes. "Hey, cult assholes. What the fuck are you doing—"

She fell back with a cry when one of the robed figures reached out a single pale fingertip to her. Rone splayed against the unlit fireplace with her hand pressed to her head and horror flashing through her eyes.

"Stop," she panted. "Please stop. I'm sorry, fuck, don't—don't do this—"

I tightened my grip on Honey who was too drunk to understand how screwed we were, and spun for the door. There were already people there, wrenching on the handle. As I watched, Duncan Ford hauled himself into it, shoulder first, but it held fast. Whoever closed it must be outside, making sure it remained locked. Even though all the doors had slammed shut at the same time. There had to be a rational explanation for this. It was a prank. It wasn't—

We all flinched, drunk, sober, and everything in between, when Mason began to scream.