Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Iblink hard, trying to clear the drunken blur, but it doesn’t matter—the silhouettes sharpen anyway. Bones. Bare skulls grinning through the mist, sockets hollow but fixed on me.
One tilts his head, vertebrae cracking as loud as gunfire. Another flexes long fingers, each bone clicking in sequence. The third simply stands there, spine ramrod straight, jaw slightly open like he’s about to recite a sonnet—or bite my throat out.
“Ohhh, shit.” My laugh breaks out, high-pitched and delighted. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.”
I’m sprawled on velvet, thighs sticky, hair matted, and three skeletons are crawling out of the fog like they RSVP’d to my orgasm.
One of them immediately looks down between his bony hips, then at me, then back down again.
“Okay. Rude.” His voice is gravelly, Irish lilted, and smooth all at the same time.
“You drag me back from eternal rest, and what’s the first thing I notice?
No dick. Just—nothing. Zip. Smooth as a Barbie doll.
” He gestures wildly at his pelvis. “This is some bullshit.”
I choke on a laugh, still sprawled half-naked on velvet. “You’re a skeleton.”
“Skeleton?” He scoffs, throwing up his hands, each finger bone clattering. “I am a tragic injustice. Do you know how much pussy I could get if I still had a dick? Ghost pussy. Spirit groupies. Corpse brides. Instead, I’ve got this.” He jabs at his bare pelvic bone. “Who’s supposed to sit on that?!”
“I’d sit on that,” I roll to my knees, eyes wide, chest heaving. It’s like Christmas. No. Better. Halloween.
He grins wickedly at me, the menacing shadows of his incomplete face only getting me more and more excited.
The biggest one—towering, broad-shouldered, skull already cracked in three places like he’s had some major head trauma—lets out a rattling laugh that sounds like rocks in a blender.
“I dunno, looks pointy. Could still smash.” He claps his own ribcage like it’s a drum, each hit booming through the cemetery. “Smash good.”
“Smash?” I repeat, wide-eyed, and I just know my mascara is streaking.
“Yeah!” He stomps one enormous foot down, half-burying it in gravel. “Smash is my thing.” He grabs a nearby headstone, yanks, and it comes free with a squeal of stone and earth. “See? Smash!”
“Oh yeah. Smash.” I nod my head emphatically, thoroughly convinced that all my dreams have come true. “You can smash me any day.”
The third skeleton hasn’t moved. He just stands there, perfectly straight, long arms crossed behind him like he’s about to deliver a monologue.
When he finally speaks, his voice is velvet smoke, courtly and low: “Forgive my companions. Resurrection has left them uncouth. I, however…” He lifts a single hand, skeletal and dramatic, “…I would write sonnets for the curves of your flesh, were I still in possession of pen, paper, or…flesh.”
I blink and clutch my chest, practically swooning. “Oh my God. I think I love you.”
Am I insane? Probably. Do I care? Also probably. I mean—pause. I literally summoned literal skeletons. Like, actual bones, from a grave. From a cemetery. And instead of panicking like a normal girl—curl up, cry, pee myself, call a priest—my brain is going: Yay, new friends!
My brain tries to file this under bad decisions and then under excellent decisions, but the folders are sticky with glitter and there’s a fog machine blaring so loud I can’t hear my own shame.
They smell like wet dirt and stone—the kind of cologne that belongs on an empty stage, which is somehow the most attractive smell I’ve ever been assaulted with.
My hands are shaking but not from fear—from pure, stupid, delicious adrenaline: this is everything I have ever wanted and also possibly a felony, and I am absolutely here for both options.
If sanity wants to RSVP later, tell it the party’s full. Especially when my new roommates are tall, dark, and calcium-rich.
The dickless one—Skully?—points at me, clattering indignantly. “Don’t ignore my crisis! Do you know how humiliating it is to wake up cockless?”
The big one—Bonehead?—cackles, swinging his stolen headstone like a club. “Don’t need a dick when you’ve got smash.”
The romantic one—Marrow?—bows gracefully and dramatic, mist curling at his ankles. “Or when one has eternal devotion.”
I choose to respond to Skully first. “Honestly? Kind of iconic. Like…Ken doll chic. Smooth operator.”
“Smooth?!” He howls, Irish vowels cracking across the cemetery. “Darlin’, no one gets off on smooth!”
“Speak for yourself,” I chirp, scooting closer on my blanket like I’m about to interview him for a podcast. “I’d totally sit on your lap. Bone structure’s underrated.”
Bonehead throws his skull back and laughs so loud a crow takes off from a nearby tree. “I like her. Like smash.”
“Insane, desperate, and half-dressed,” Skully mutters, pacing with his bony fingers scratching at his ribcage like he’s searching for a pack of smokes that isn’t there. “Classic horror slut behavior. Respect.”
“Final girl behavior,” I correct primly, tugging my nightgown higher instead of lower. “I’m making it a thing. Slutty final girl—new and improved. I refuse to die before Act Four.”
Marrow lowers himself gracefully with a clinking of bones on bones, kneeling in front of me like I’m a queen on her velvet throne.
He lifts my hand in his skeletal fingers, cold and sharp against my skin.
“Your flesh is radiant,” he whispers reverently, sockets staring straight into me.
“I would memorize every vein, every shiver. You are art, incarnate.”
I melt, legs parting shamelessly. “Okay. Yeah. You get me.”
Bonehead stomps closer, dragging his stolen headstone like a caveman with a club. “Poems? Smash poem!” He slams the stone down beside me so hard the blanket rips and a ton of my crafts go flying. “See? Romantic.”
“Romantic?” Skully cackles, leaning against his own grave like it’s a bar stool. “You’re one head injury away from writing Hallmark cards, mate.”
“Hallmark! I know Hallmark!” Bonehead smacks his chest like a drum again. “I don’t need cards. Got smash.”
And somehow, God help me, my pussy flutters.
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my own tongue. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is…this is the best night of my life.”
I throw my hands up like I’m hosting a game show.
“Okay, okay—hi! I’m October, but everyone calls me Toby, because October’s a mouthful and Toby’s cuter.
Like a dog. Or a demon. Or a demon dog. But I definitely prefer October.
It’s my favorite month after all and I think I’m worth the extra syllable. ”
I point at the big one. “You? You’re Bonehead. Because, duh. You’ve got smash energy and I respect that.”
My finger swings to the sarcastic one lounging like he’s auditioning for a punk rock afterlife tour. “You’re Skully, because your whole vibe screams Hot Topic clearance rack, and I mean that as a compliment.”
Finally, I point at the dramatic kneeler who I'd totally sell my soul to. “And you’re Marrow. Because you look like you’d read me a sonnet while stealing my teeth for a scrapbook.”
I clap my hands together. “Boom! Names sorted. Now we’re friends. Or lovers. Or frenemies. Honestly, I’m open to negotiations. But whatever it is…it’s forever.”
They don’t even seem put off at my cocked head, too-wide doll eyes, and over-enthusiastic smile. This is love.
Bonehead beams, pounding his chest so hard it rattles his ribs. “Bonehead! Yes. Good name. Strong name.”
Skully snorts, tipping his skull like he’s raising an invisible cigarette. “Figures. I get stuck with the Saturday morning cartoon mascot name.”
I lean toward him, whispering conspiratorially, “Actually, I chose it for you because I imagined you’d be the type to skull fuck me without mercy and I’m into that.”
“Oh fuck me,” He groans. “Where’s my dick? I need my dick!”
Marrow bows his head low, voice syrupy with approval. “Marrow. The core of existence. The marrow of life. A gift, bestowed by lips I would gladly-”
“Okay!” I cut him off, fanning myself with a paper plate. “We’re good with the names then. Everyone’s happy. Moving on before I spontaneously combust.”
The Ouija board, forgotten in the grass, gives a little twitch under the mist, but I ignore it because Bonehead is already looming over my picnic spread like it’s a buffet.
“Food!” he roars, grabbing the Tupperware of deviled eggs and holding it aloft like a trophy. “Smash eggs!”
“Don’t you dare,” I squeak, lunging forward to snatch it back. “Those have tiny pitchforks in them! They’re themed. Do you know how long it took me to make them?”
Bonehead frowns, skull tilting. “But…food.” He tries to shove one into his mouth, except of course he doesn’t have lips. Or a tongue. Or anything, really. The egg plops straight through his jaw, slides down his ribcage, and splats on the grass between his feet. He stares at it mournfully.
Skully doubles over, cackling. “Christ, mate, you eat worse than a bulimic pigeon. You’re a fucking sieve.
” He plucks a finger sandwich from the tray I so lovingly made and tries it himself.
He lifts it dramatically to his teeth—except his teeth are just…
bone. It crumbles instantly, black crumbs cascading through his jaw and raining onto the ground like confetti.
He stares down at the mess. Then back up at me. “Delicious.”
I snort, clenching my thighs together to ease the ache there. Because, apparently, I’m a freak.
Marrow, at least, attempts decorum. He crouches gracefully, skeletal fingers lifting one of the cupcakes as though it’s a priceless relic. “Ah,” he murmurs, voice low and poetic. “Dark as midnight, crowned in sugar. A confection worthy of an epitaph.”
I clutch my chest, swooning. “Say more things like that.”