Chapter 8

There were five robed psychopaths and twenty one of us in the room, but any hope of fighting the bastards died with whatever they did to make Rone and Lindgren scream. It was horrific, their screams high and piercing, reaching right into my chest and making my heart skip. Behind us, Duncan Ford threw himself at the door, over and over, his desperation mounting.

"Now, listen here!" his cousin said, staring towards the five cloaks arranged in a circle around the fiery circle burning the rug—and Mason in the middle of it, screaming harrowingly, his eyes staring at nothing.

A different robed figure lifted a hand, pointing a tanned finger at Orwell as he strode at them with a shocking amount of purpose for someone dressed as the aubergine emoji.1 I could have sworn I could see straight through the cloak to the bay window, but in another blink they were solid. A stunned hush fell over the room when Orwell dropped to his knees with a blood-curdling scream.

"Orly!" Ford yelled, vaulting across the room to his cousin's side, and glaring murderously at the robed figures who resumed their chanting, this time fiercer, louder.

"We have to find a way out of here," I whispered to Honey. Duncan glanced up, hearing me, and a strange understanding passed between us. We likely hated each other, but right now we were two of very few sober-ish people in the room, which made us allies. "This is your fucking party," I hissed at him.

"Not this." His handsome face was contorted in anger—and fear, barely concealed beneath. "Come on, Orly, get up." He hooked his hands under his cousin's arms but Orwell threw his head back and screamed louder.

I swallowed hard, my whole body icy. Duncan had thrown himself at the door over and over, and it hadn't budged. And not six steps away, five robed nutjobs were chanting louder, shouting shit that sounded like Latin, like a curse, like every horror film I'd ever had nightmares after watching.

Someone stumbled into me and I flinched so hard Honey nearly slipped from my arms. A red-faced guy in a clown costume swayed on his feet, his eyes glazed. "Woah, shit, boobs."

"Woah, shit, sacrificial cult shit," I hissed at him, shoving him away with my shoulder, pulling Honey closer like a shield against me. I didn't know what to do, how to get out.

"Open the doors, you freaks," a girl called Milani Hussain yelled, throwing her wine glass at the circle of robed figures. It hit the shoulder of the tallest one and crashed to the floor, shattering on impact. "Save your cosplay bullshit for comic con."

This time the figures didn't turn, no one pointed a menacing finger at her, and she didn't drop to the floor. Because they were shouting at the top of their lungs, Latin flowing in a rapid, frantic stream that made me icy cold. Duncan had propped Orwell against the wall and threw himself at the door again, Alastor Carmichael right there with him, and three other guys whose names I didn't know—we'll call them Batman, Mario, and Vagina after their costumes.

Please, please open…

My heart tripled, until it beat fast enough to thump its way out of my ribs, but I kept my eyes on the door, hoping, praying…

I was about to set Honey beside Orwell Ford and throw myself at the door, too, when Batman lurched forward, momentum carrying him to the foyer floor as the door opened all at once.

I flew towards it, arms and elbows brushing mine as twenty-one panicked people moved at once for the exit—but we never even reached the door.

The scent of blood rose, and another voice joined the chanting, impossible to place in all the chaos. It wasn't any of the people close to me, but it had to be one of the med students with us. What the fuck…?

Duncan skittered back, his face especially pale, his eyes wide. His face had lost all its life as he recoiled from the doorway, bumping into Honey but undeterred as he fled—her.

My breath caught. I became very aware of the silence, of the sudden absence of chanting, as a wall of cool, solid air pushed us back. My feet skidded across the polished floor, Honey's too.

And into the room walked a tall, imposing woman of remarkable beauty, her footsteps resounding loudly. I could only look at her for three seconds before my head exploded into pain, my eyes watered, and I was forced to look away, but it was enough to glimpse golden skin, elegant features, waist-length hair in a shade of red so dark it was like dried blood, and eyes in two different colours—bone-white and ink-black. From the iris of her white eye, blood poured down her cheek, the single stain on her staggering beauty.

I gasped down air, drowning, suffocating. My eyes fixed on the floor where black lace trailed behind the woman's dark dress like a gothic train. I clutched Honey as close as my shaking arms would allow. It was so cold, so quiet, so still. Instinct told me to run and never stop running.

"Oh, god," Honey began to chant, "Oh god, oh god."

"Goddess, darling," the red-haired woman said with a mild smile that did nothing to mask the power trembling in her voice. Power unlike anything I'd felt before. It was the same power that made the walls bleed, that had pushed us back from the door, that covered the strange woman like a miasma. Power that didn't exist. That couldn't be real. It wasn't something that could be explained by natural forces, wasn't even ley lines or thin veils or whatever else caused a rash of hauntings on Halloween night. This was… it was…

"Magic," Duncan Ford breathed.

The woman smiled at him, the sharp edges of her lips curling deeper into her cheeks. At once, Rone, Mason, and Orwell stopped screaming, and I sucked in a sharp breath of relief, shushing Honey who still gasped panicked words under her breath.

The power, the undeniable magic in the room, swelled, like a single heartbeat. As if in answer, a loud, dull thud resounded through the room. I flinched when the blonde wizard who tried to get my number exhaled a curse and knelt where—where Rone had collapsed. She no longer leaned against the fireplace but splayed on the floor, her mouth slack.

"She's—" He shook his head, the bleached horror on his face comical paired with the long silver wig and star-spangled cloak he wore.

"Dead," the terrifying woman finished for him. "Of course she is. How do you think I'm here?" She laughed softly, a tinkling sound. "Where is my disciple? Come forward."

I froze, digging my fingernails into Honey's arm when she whimpered and flinched into me, the redhead's stare passing over all of us, searching, probing. I swore the coppery scent of blood became stronger, forcing down my nose into my throat until I choked on it.

Why was no one running at this woman, trying to stop her doing—whatever it was she was doing? People had tried to take down the robed psychos. They failed, but still—why was everyone rooted to the spot, just staring as she swept around the room, heads lowered like subjects before a queen?

She surveyed us before gliding through the circle of fire with a contemplative sound. The flames didn't burn her, didn't even eat through the delicate black lace of her train. The sight of that unburned lace hit me like a blow. It was—magic was real. I was watching it, right in front of me, and it could have been flame retardant fabric but deep down I knew it wasn't. Like I knew this wasn't a creepy initiation for med school. It was bigger. More.

What the hell had we got ourselves twisted up in? My breathing fractured and sped.

"We have to get out of here," Milani Hussain breathed, grabbing my arm in apparent desperation as the red-haired woman stood in the heart of the burning circle beside Mason Lindgren. Was he—like Rone was he dead?

"You," the woman—goddess?— breathed, excitement lighting her face as she regarded Milani. I kept my attention on her chin, not daring to look higher, primal terror warning me away from those mismatched, bleeding eyes. "There is terror in your blood. Whose line do you hail from?"

"I don't know what you mean," Milani gasped, digging her nails into my arm. "I don't know who you are or what's going on, but I'm not part of this. I only came to this party to fuck Duncan, so count me out of—this. Whatever it even is."

"Are you my disciple?" the terrifying woman asked, the air quivering with the power in her voice. It pressed on my chest, crushed my lungs until I wheezed.

"No," Milani whispered, shrieking when the red-haired woman lifted a hand, like the robed figures—who were conspicuously still and silent now—had earlier. Milani was ripped away from my side, the toes of her high heels dragging across the floor like she was possessed. With power thumping, alive in the air, I wasn't sure possession was wrong. "Let me go," she hissed. "Please, I won't tell anyone—"

"It would have been useful to have a child of terror as my disciple," the woman said, her head tilting as she watched Milani float across the floor. Sharp breaths were taken around the room. If people could speak, they used their voices to swear, to plead, to pray. My lips were sealed together. I was frozen, silent.

"Alas, you are too useful to my enemies."

"Who the fuck are you?" Milani demanded shrilly, wrenching against the force dragging her to the terrifying woman.

"Nightmare, darling. I am Nightmare."

A hush fell over the bleeding room before pleas and prayers renewed at twice the volume. Nightmare didn't seem like a cool name two goth parents had given their kid; it felt like a title, like a warning. As if every night terror and traumatising dream originated from this beautiful woman from whom power thumped like a heartbeat.

Milani was finally close enough to fight the woman. Nightmare. But her arms were locked at her sides with invisible bindings, and she could only thrash uselessly as Nightmare lifted a finger, pressed it to Milani's forehead, and a dissonant, howling scream tore from the girl, drowning out all other noise.

When Nightmare pulled back, Milani's eyes rolled back into her forehead and her legs fell from under her. I gasped frantically when another thump went through the air, through the atmosphere of the world, like it had before. And I understood. When Milani hit the ground, I knew that the thump meant she was dead, and that Nightmare's power grew with each death.

Dead. Of course she is. How do you think I'm here?

And there was only one reason we would all be surrounded by her power, too: she planned to murder every last one of us.