12. Hattie

HATTIE

" N obody panic," Winnie calls out to the smattering of guests in the vicinity as we stand in darkness so black, you can feel the thickness of it. "The lights should come back at any moment!" I hope.

And as if on cue, the cobweb-riddled chandeliers flicker back on, albeit with all the kilowatts of a night light.

"We're still working on it," Winnie calls out to the masses as she continues to lead Peggy, Clarabelle, and me through the labyrinth that is Halloween Hollow.

I'm lucky I've got nine lives, Cricket mewls as she pokes her head out of the tote bag she's sitting in and secures her front paws out of it as well. This place is so spooky. I think I just spent three of them .

Lucky for you, Rookie barks, the only thing that's keeping me going is the fact I smell cookies!

"Remember, no chocolate," I say softly, giving him a pat.

Don't listen to her, Cricket chirps. Rookie, you're not going to let some woman tell you what to do, are you?

I shoot Cricket a look and she all but waves me off with her paw.

Rookie nuzzles up against my knee. As long as that woman keeps me safe and feeds me a steady diet of donuts, she can tell me anything.

" Aww ." I take a moment to offer both him and Jolly another quick pat. Rookie and I are alike in that we'd do just about anything for a decent donut—even walking through a clearly haunted house with faulty electrical wiring, and perhaps meeting up with a killer. You never know.

We make our way deeper into the mansion, sticking so close together you'd think we'd fallen victim to the Blob.

The halls are filled with all sorts of spooky decor—miles of spiderwebs, glowing freaky-looking skulls with hair, and even a few more hologram ghouls that pop out and scream at us as we pass. Each room is more elaborate than the last, and I can't help but be impressed by the amount of work that's gone into this place.

We finally reach the ballroom and find it all decked out like a haunted Victorian nightmare—and by nightmare , I mean parlor.

Flickering candelabras sit on each of the myriad of tables set out, and a grand piano sits in one corner, playing a haunting melody all by itself. The room is filled with people dressed as if they stepped out of a time machine from the Victorian era itself, laughing and chatting as if there was nothing strange about the fact the waitstaff looks as if they just crawled out of the local cemetery.

Most of the tables are filled with women enjoying hot beverages while munching on a platter of Halloween-themed-looking cookies. Think high tea and crumpets, but with the occasional Bloody Mary muddying up the otherwise virginal waters.

There's a bar set out and the mixologist at hand looks to be a rather handsome elderly vampire.

"Well, well, well," Peggy muses as she juts out her chest in his direction. "I suddenly feel the need for a very stiff drink."

"You would," Clarabelle grumbles.

"Oh hush, you." Peggy is quick to swat her. I can't believe I let Clarabelle talk me into wearing this ridiculous fall-themed sweater. It does nothing for my boobs.

Both she and Clarabelle take off for the bar and Cricket is about to leap after them.

"No alcohol for you, missy," I say, lifting her out of my tote bag and cradling her in my arms.

Not even a little catnip cocktail? she mewls, giving me her best sad eyes. Peggy keeps bragging about something called a meowtini. It sounds right up my alley.

A tiny laugh rumbles through me. "Trust me, it's not."

Rookie, meanwhile, has found a comfy spot under one of the tables and is already making friends with the guests by begging for cookies. And seeing that the guests can't seem to resist either him or Jolly Beary, as it stands Rookie has already eaten three of those sweet treats.

He works quick, I'll give him that.

We turn a corner and find ourselves in a room that looks like it's straight out of a Victorian horror novel. The walls are draped in deep burgundy wallpaper, faded and peeling at the edges, and the dim lighting casts shadows that seem to dance just out of the corner of your eye. Cobwebs drape elegantly over the dusty furniture and a fireplace flickers with an unnatural blue flame that gives the room an ethereal glow.

A grandfather clock in the corner ticks ominously, its pendulum swinging with a heavy, echoing thud that feels like it's counting down to eternity. The portraits on the walls all feature stern-looking men and women from a soulless era gone by and their disapproving eyes seem to follow our every move.

And seated at a small ornate table in the center of the room is none other than the exact redheaded vixen I've been looking for.

True to form, Venetta Brandt has outfitted herself in a curve-hugging purple dress with a purple pointy hat to match. It seems purple is the new black when it comes to witchy attire. Leave it to Venetta to be on the cutting edge of wicked fashion.

To my surprise, she seems to be deeply engrossed in a conversation with a disembodied head floating in a large crystal ball in front of her. The head looks disturbingly lifelike and decidedly female with wiry-looking crimson curls, lips stained to match, and skin so pale it holds a light blue hue. Oddly enough, both of their lips are moving in a murmured conversation that we can't quite catch.

There's a sign on the table that reads Madame Violet, Seer of Secrets—Peeker into the Future!

"There she is," I whisper to Winnie. "It looks as if she's trying to get a handle on what lies ahead. Most likely to see if she looks good in orange."

Winnie snorts. "Well, I know one thing Venetta's future doesn't hold, and that's Killion. I saw the way she was lusting after him last night. Heck, I can't believe she'd want to set foot on the estate after what happened here."

"You know what they say. The killer always returns to the scene of the crime."

Winnie sniffs. "Maybe she's asking Madame Violet for tips on how to perfect her witchy wardrobe. That dress looks like it came from a thrift store's reject bin." Her phone goes off and she glances at the screen. "I need to take this. One of the fog machines in the midway just malfunctioned and it's spitting out purple goo at the crowd." She nods to Venetta. "Try to keep things civil."

I scoff as she takes off.

"Was she talking to me? I'm always civil," I say to Cricket and she gives a light growl in response.

I bet she was talking to me, Cricket mewls As much as I'm not a fan of the hairy detective, I'm even less of a fan of Venetta Brandt. Nobody steals anything from you on my watch—not even hairy detectives.

"He's not hairy, per se. It's just facial scruff. But I appreciate the fact you have my back."

We make a beeline for the table in question and I plop right down next to the purple queen of mean herself.

"Well, well, Venetta," I purr. "Fancy meeting you here." I look over at the headless fortuneteller among us. "And I bet you didn't see that coming."