33
Jem didn’t bother parking neatly; he slid the Subaru up against the curb, killed the engine, and hopped out of the car. A door slammed behind him, and Tean’s footsteps followed as Jem sprinted toward the door.
The slap of his ROOS on the sidewalk.
Treads creaking as he went up the stairs to the old porch.
Golden streamers, more black balloons, a paper cutout meant to look like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. He grabbed the door handle, and it wouldn’t turn.
“Locked,” he said. “I’m going around back.”
“Hold on,” Tean said. Then, into the phone, “This is a life-or-death situation—”
“Hang up and call Orsino.” Jem sprinted the length of the porch. “And stay out of the house.”
“Jem! Wait!”
Jem didn’t look back.
The porch wasn’t a wraparound, but it did have a second set of stairs leading off the side.
Dead grass rustled underfoot as he ran through the darkness.
Then he reached the backyard. There was more light here because the large family room of Rainbow House had big windows, and the back door had a half lite. Jem headed for the door.
But something stepped in front of the half lite: a silhouette the height of a man, with a long muzzle, fur catching the light.
Something was off about his posture; he carried himself hunched over, as though in pain.
The wolfman paused at the door, and Jem heard the deadbolt thump home.
Then the wolfman lifted his head. The mask hid the man’s features, but this had to be Reed.
Not Zeb; he wasn’t big enough. And not Kai—he didn’t have the same batshit energy.
The wolfman stared at Jem. And then he turned, shouting something, the words muffled by the glass.
He disappeared deeper into the house, probably to find someone to tell him what to do.
People were really fucking stupid, sometimes.
Take the door, for instance.
Jem broke into a run again. This time, though, he bent as he ran and scooped up one of the pavers lining a flowerbed.
He hit the half lite with it, and the glass shattered.
Shards tumbled inside and made a tinkling sound on the floor.
Jem did a sloppy second pass with the paver, knocking the bigger fragments out of the bottom of the frame.
Music spilled out now—“Old Town Road”. A man was shouting, “Somebody answer me!” The air against Jem’s face was warm and smelled sweet; it took his brain a second to make the connection to a fog machine.
Then he was reaching through the broken half-lite, and he flipped back the deadbolt. The door swung open, and Jem stepped inside.
Gold streamers draped the walls, fluttering as cold air rushed into the room.
The usual furniture—the oversized sofas and loveseats and ottomans where, most days, kids were sprawled—were gone.
In their place, round tables and chairs had been set up.
The tables were set for eight, and each table had a centerpiece that looked like a 3D-printed fantasy castle.
More balloons were weighted down at different points around the room, and there were even freestanding background pieces that were supposed to look like windows and doorways.
Against one wall, a craft station held blank masks, feathers, glitter, and glue.
A temporary dance floor had been laid down in front of a DJ setup, and overhead hung a banner that said, TONIGHT, WE TAKE OFF OUR MASKS AND LIVE OUR HAPPY EVER AFTER.
The man—Reed—was still shouting, “Zeb! Zeb! He’s here!”
Nasha lay in the opening to the hallway. She was wearing what looked like Prince’s old clothes, baggy and purple, and the way her head was turned showed that her throat had been cut. Another pair of shoes showed beyond her. Someone else the wolves had already cut down. Another person dead.
It was like it always was, when everything flowed, when he was riffing and he knew—he knew—he couldn’t fuck it up. Not even if he tried.
It stops tonight.
Jem started into the house. He was cutting between the tables, checking the far side of the room, trying to spot where the voice was coming from, when he tripped.
Something soft.
He caught himself, hand slapping a table, and looked down.
Ammon lay on the floor. His eyes were closed, and blood soaked the front of his shirt.
A metallic thud made Jem glance up. Two of the wolfmen stood on the far side of the room—Reed, and a second, bigger one who had to be Zeb. At Zeb’s feet was a five-gallon jerry can. He carried another can in one hand; in his other, he held a knife.
“Howdy boys,” Jem said. He rolled his wrist, letting the paracord unspool, the hex nut wobbling.
The other hand went into his pocket and came out with the antenna.
“Free tip: the police are on their way, so you’d better fuck right off if you don’t want to find out what it’s like for some white supremacist asshole to make you the block bitch. ”
Reed turned, as though he might spot the police coming into the house. But Zeb stared at Jem. The mask gave back nothing. Light flickered on the fake fur. Then Zeb kicked the jerry can. It toppled over, and liquid splashed out. A sweet, metallic smell reached Jem a moment later: paint thinner.
“All right, fuckos,” Jem said. “I warned you.”
He started toward them. Zeb said something to Reed, voice low, and dropped the second jerry can. It fell on its side, and more liquid chugged out of the opening, glistening under the lights. Reed hesitated, and Zeb snapped, “Go.”
Reed limped right.
Zeb went left.
A split second.
Which one?
The injured one. Obviously.
Jem zagged toward Reed. As soon as he started to run, he was aware of Zeb breaking into a sprint, but he kept his gaze on his target.
Reed flinched as Jem charged toward him.
He had a knife too, but he held it like he didn’t know how to use it—probably never had used it, not unless you counted stabbing someone in the back, cutting and slashing at someone who was already helpless.
Someone they’d tied up. Someone who wasn’t a threat.
He took a wild swing, but Jem was still ten feet away, and the last row of prom tables was between them.
The crash of a chair behind Jem told him Zeb was getting closer, but he didn’t look back. As Jem came around the final table, Reed took another of those swings. Too early, again. He was off balance, and even with the mask in his place, he looked wide-eyed and terrified.
Good.
Jem grabbed the centerpiece from the table.
It was awkward with the telescoping antenna still in that hand, but the centerpiece hardly weighed anything.
He hurled it at Reed. It wasn’t a great throw; the plastic castle spun end over end once, and then it smacked into Reed.
The wolfman let out a sharp cry and took another wobbling step back. And then Jem reached him.
He swung the hex nut twice to build up speed and then whipped it at Reed’s head.
It connected with a crack, and the wolfman screamed.
Jem closed the last few feet and grabbed the wolfman’s mask.
He yanked his head down and brought his knee up.
He felt something soft fold under the impact. The mask, definitely.
Reed screamed again, a gurgling sound now.
Maybe not just the mask. Maybe his nose, too.
Jem shoved him backward, and Reed went down. Spinning, Jem snapped out the telescoping antenna. Zeb was right there, the knife coming in, meant for Jem’s kidney. He twisted, and the knife went past him. Air. Nothing but air.
He couldn’t fuck it up. Not even if he tried.
And then Zeb’s elbow slammed into his head.