Chapter 7
SEVEN
MONROE
“Or, and this could be a crazy idea, we could just leave them alone?”
“Whose side are you on here, Dawson?”
“Yours.” Dawson gestured around us. “Which is why I’m trying to tell you that you’re going to be mad when you realize you’ve missed out on some of your favorite spooky season activities because you’re playing stupid pranks on an innocent siren.”
“She is not innocent,” I snapped. “She’s a thief.”
“He said, she said.” Dawson pointed to his left. “I’m losing my patience, Cousin. In the meantime, we’re missing Halloween bingo.”
“What I’m not missing is my chance to get even.”
Dawson sighed and hung his head, his dark hair falling into his face. “Do you even have a plan here? I mean, what are you going to do to her now?”
“I have a plan.” I pointed to the sirens at the tables in front of us. “I watch and wait, and they will show me how I can attack.”
“That’s not a plan, dude.” Dawson pinched the bridge of his nose.
“It’s called being spontaneous and versatile.”
“Kristie says it’s called immaturity.”
I shrugged. “What does she know?”
“You make it really hard for me to support you sometimes.”
“Hey, she TP’d our booth?—"
“Ok, so you’re going to attack Holden’s booth? He’s our friend and client. They’re painting pumpkins for Fae Night.” He looked longingly at the pies being taken out of the ovens in the booth right next to us. “Can’t we just eat a pie while we play bingo? Like we always do?”
“No, I’m waiting for them to leave Holden’s booth. They’ve painted like four-hundred of his mini-pumpkins for the hunt and they’re bound to leave any minute.”
“But we’ll get pie after, right?”
“Just get your wand out so you’re ready.”
“But we’ll get pie after, right ?”
I sighed and looked down at him. We were crouched between two booths at the festival—Mrs. Robbins’ pies to our right and gourmet candied apples to our left. “Yes, Dawson, I’ll get you a pie right after.”
“Fine.” He pulled his wand out. “But you’ve got to get this rage under wraps before it ruins the whole spooky season.”
“Thanks, Bessie! We’ll be right there!”
We sank lower between the booths at the sound of Pickles’ voice. She emerged from the narrow alley between the apple booth and the mystery muffins. Pickles skipped over to where Chip sat at the wooden picnic tables with the other sirens painting pumpkins. She had a bright smile on her face and her gray eyes sparkled.
“Can’t we leave Pickles out of it?”
I frowned. “Excuse me? You soft on her?”
“I don’t know. She’s so cute.” He smiled and gestured to the siren in question. “Look how adorable she is.”
“Adorable? She’s wearing a pink bucket hat with daisies printed all over them and matching rain boots.” I eyed her outfit again. “Her clothes are so out of style?—”
“They’re ’90s fashion. I like it. She’s got a quirk.”
’90s fashion. Weird. She wore a pale-yellow dress that fell below the knees and had little sunflowers printed on the material. Her cream-colored cardigan was buttoned over the dress. It was so ’90s it was like she’d time traveled and skipped the last two decades.
“What’s the point of the bucket hat even?”
“To prevent getting wet so she won’t shift. You know that?—”
“I know that hat won’t prevent her from being forced to shift. It’s useless.”
He shrugged. “She’s adorable.”
“She’s guilty by association, Dawson.”
He scowled. “But that means I’m guilty by association?—”
“You’re on my side, Cousin. You witnessed it all.”
He pointed his wand at me. “I’m going to drain those memories from my brain if you keep at this.”
“Bessie!” Pickles yelled as she stepped back out of Holden’s booth. “We’re coming now! Grab the tables for us?”
“Bessie? Who’s that?”
I glanced over my shoulder to follow Pickles’ stare, but I saw no one looking back at her. There were just a bunch of food booths surrounding a little courtyard of picnic tables nestled beneath the cozy canopy of the sugar maple trees whose leaves were brilliant shades of yellow. Strings of golden twinkle lights were draped between the branches. Then Pickles’ words registered. Whatever Bessie was providing the sirens, they were going to partake in that courtyard of tables. It was a perfect location, far enough that we wouldn’t be obvious but close enough to actually have an effect, not that I knew what I was doing yet.
“Bessie makes the best beignets.” Dawson moaned and licked his lips. “I want beignets with my pie, okay? After this?”
“Fine, we’ll get you a beignet—” My eyes widened. “They’re going to eat beignets next.”
“Lucky,” Dawson grumbled. “We could just be enjoying the festival too, but no . . .”
Movement in my peripheral vision made me turn and I spotted Chip at the front of the siren group. My stomach tightened into knots. Now she looked adorable, and that infuriated me to no end. No one that vindictive had the right to look that innocent. As if her black hair tied in the pigtail braids wasn’t enough, she had to go and wear baggy overalls with the pants rolled up mid-calf and a white sweatshirt underneath. The purple rain boots were definitely a nod to her purple scales, though they paled in comparison to the real color of her tail. Even with the purple ’90s windbreaker tied around her hips, she looked cute.
“’90s fashion is making a comeback, you know?—”
“It’s not a comeback if they never left,” I found myself snapping at him to prevent him from catching on to me thinking Chip Carden was cute. “Those are literal ’90s-made.”
“Vintage. That’s cool.”
“My pocket watch is vintage. That is cool.”
“I walked myself into that one,” he grumbled.
“Look, there they go. This is it.” I spun on my toes so I was facing the opposite direction I had been, with the courtyard about fifteen feet in front of us. The sirens, both male and female, had all sat down at the tables like they were waiting. “Falling right into my trap.”
“That you didn’t set, because you still don’t know what you’re going to do so really this is all coincidental.”
“Whose side are you on, Cousin?”
“I feel like eventually you’re not going to like my answer to that question.” He tapped the tip of his wand on his cheek and the air shimmered like starlight all around him, the indication he’d made himself camouflaged to his surroundings. “I’ll stand beside you, but that doesn’t mean anyone else has to see me here.”
I opened my mouth to make some sarcastic comeback when Chip and Pickles came walking out from within Bessie’s booth carrying trays stacked tall with beignets. Thick, fluffy, powdered, sugar-covered beignets. My mouth watered. In the back of my mind, I registered that Dawson had made good points about enjoying spooky season, but I’d committed myself to revenge first. Pies and beignets would be next. Dawson was already grumbling about them.
I waited until all two dozen of the sirens were at least two beignets deep, until their shields were down and they were relaxed, then I grabbed Dawson’s arm and flicked his wand. Powdered sugar exploded like fireworks one after another. The sirens squealed and jumped away from the tables, looking down at their legs like they were waiting for tails to show up. They were all covered in beignet sugar, like they’d taken a walk in a blizzard.
I cackled and dropped Dawson’s arm. “Eat sugar, fishes.”
Dawson scowled. “Fish is plural, Monroe.”
Chip wiped sugar out of her eyes, then she looked over and those bottomless black eyes met mine. She was covered in sugar. Her dark hair was spotted now. I grinned and gave a dramatic bow. Her expression remained cold and flat, emotionless. She lifted her hand up . . . and licked the sugar off her middle finger that was raised in my direction.
Dawson sighed. “The things you get us involved in.”
“You’re welcome.”
Chip licked her lips and narrowed her eyes at me. Without breaking eye contact, she sang softly, “ Take the can there on the table, point it at your face and make a label.”
I gasped. I forgot about her siren song magic. Dawson groaned as his hand shot out and grabbed the can of Reddi Wip whipped cream on the counter at the pie booth. I tried to fight it, to resist the calling, but my whole body convulsed. With a curse and a groan, my arm flew out and grabbed the other can. I watched my own body betray me as it lifted the nozzle of that can straight up to my face. My finger pressed the button and cold whipped cream sprayed from the aerosol can.
Once the task was complete, my body stopped convulsing. I dropped the can on the ground, then wiped the whipped cream off my face. When I looked up, I made brief eye contact with my nemesis before she bounced back into Bessie’s booth with a shit-eating grin. Pickles and the other sirens were cackling and throwing powdered sugar at each other. My attempt to prank them had backfired. They were playing with it.
“Would you please stop antagonizing the siren with the magic song now?” Dawson whispered.