Chapter 6 Chelsea
Chelsea
“And that’s why you should enter Winnie the Pooh. It’s got cozy vibes, so it’s totally safe. So…” I smile at the ten-year-old girl, who’s trying to decide between entering Winnie the Pooh or Dracula. “What do you think?”
She frowns. “It’s been a hot minute since I’ve entered a book, so I’m going with Dracula.”
I suck my teeth. “Then we’ll have to get permission from your mom.”
She looks around quickly. “Never mind. Pooh it is.”
I smile to myself. That’s what I thought. “All right. Take the book to the counter where you’ll be rung up.”
As she walks away, I shake my head. Kids never change. Always trying to enter books that are off-limits. I was probably the same.
Who am I kidding?
Of course I was. Pushing limits is the point of being a kid.
I grab a stack of books and head to the shelves to put them back when the door bursts open and my sisters Dallas and Emory enter.
Dallas is decked out in her usual jeans and cowboy boots, while Emory is total comfy-sweater person. Her cardigan is two sizes too big, and underneath she’s wearing leggings and sneakers.
But it’s the expression on their faces that makes me put down the book I’m holding.
“Chelsea,” Dallas screeches, rushing over and grabbing my arm. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Emory cocks her head as if to disagree. “Oh, she’ll believe it, all right—most of it.”
I cross my arms. “My curiosity’s piqued. What is it?”
Dallas thrusts a sheet of paper in my face. It’s invitation-sized.
What the hell?
“Read it out loud,” Dallas asks. “I can’t get enough of this.”
Emory just shakes her head. “And I’ve already gotten too much.”
Dallas shoots her a dark look, and Emory grins wide in response.
I slowly take the paper. As soon as I touch it, cold, feral magic snakes up my arm, and suddenly I’m taken back to the moment I touched the powerful wizard’s hand and our magic entwined.
The paper slips from my fingers.
“Butterfingers,” Dallas complains before picking it up and offering it to me again.
My pulse spikes as I stare at the page. Part of me wants to take it and experience that strange magic again. The other half wants to run screaming in the opposite direction.
Dangerous. It’s so dangerous.
Just like him.
I swallow down a knot in my throat and take the paper, steeling my muscles as magic seeps into me.
“Do you not feel that?” I ask.
Dallas frowns. “What?”
“The magic in this.”
My sisters exchange a look. Emory frowns. Emory, the empath—the sister who should experience this creepy, strange magic—isn’t clocking it.
“Nope,” Dallas answers.
My magic has always been sensitive. This feels targeted.
But I’m probably overthinking it.
I glance at the deep purple paper and read the words that are inked in gold. “By invitation of the Nightmare King: Every eligible lady in Castleview is invited to a ball that will take place tonight at his manor in the Nightmare District. Eight p.m. sharp.”
As soon as the last word is out of my mouth, the invitation turns into a puff of dark smoke that evaporates.
But even though the invitation is gone, my stomach fills with ice.
“Can you believe it?” Dallas asks. “The Nightmare King invited us to his house. Oh my gosh! What do you think it’s like? What should we wear?”
I scoff. “You’re not going.”
“I’m not going? Even Emory’s going.”
My jaw drops. “Crossing the barrier is risky. You both know that.”
“No,” Dallas replies. “Mama says since this is an official invitation, the king has granted all of us safe passage. We’re golden!”
I scoff in disbelief.
Dallas claps her hands with glee. “Besides, the barrier only stops nightmare magic from coming here. People cross when there's official business. It's just, no one's ever been invited before.”
I place a hand on my hip. “And what if that’s a lie? What if his plan is to lure us in and trap us, hook us up to some weird machine and give us nightmares until we die of fright?”
Emory’s eyes go wide. “You’ve certainly had a lot of time to think about this, haven’t you?”
I grab the stack of books and walk through the store, placing them back on their shelves as my sisters follow.
“No, I haven’t thought about it, but it makes sense. He stays on his side of the barrier. We stay on ours. That’s the way things are. Besides, have you ever heard of anyone going over unless they have business?”
“No,” Dallas admits glumly.
“Exactly.”
“But Chelsea, this is the perfect excuse to see what it’s like. We all know the stories—it’s eternally dark and deeply gothic in the best way ever.” Emory bats her lashes at me. “Please. You’ve got to come. It won’t be fun without you.”
I shove the last book into place. It hits the back of the bookshelf with a hard thud. “No, thank you. I’m not going to meet the Nightmare King. Not over my dead body.”
“I’ve got your dress all picked out,” Ovie says as she enters my room.
“For what?”
“For the ball at the Nightmare King’s manor.”
“I am not going,” I yell so loudly the bricks lining the wall tremble, clicking together. “Sorry, House. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Ovie lowers the dress in her hands and taps her foot. “Oh, you’re going to this ball. I might’ve canceled yours so you wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum in front of our guests, but this is a different one, and you’ll be there.”
“Who says?”
“I say,” a deep voice booms.
The walls rattle hard as the ghostly apparition of my grandmother sweeps into my bedroom.
Nana might be dead, but she’s still scary as fuck. Her white hair is pinned up, and the silver brocade dress she wears shimmers under the lights.
Her magic doesn’t work by the same rules as ours does. She’s more powerful now than when she was alive.
And House is afraid of her.
It usually rattles to warn us she’s coming.
“I did not return from the other side to watch my granddaughter throw away our family’s magic, and I sure as hell didn’t put on this dress so I could sit around the house all night and listen to it rattle.
” She takes the gown Ovie’s holding and drops it into my arms. “So get ready. Now. We’re going to this ball whether you like it or not. ”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I drop my gaze in shame. Man, it sucks to be in your twenties and still be scolded by your grandmother.
And a dead one, at that.
I take a look at the dress—it’s soft pink with tulle lining the strapless bodice. A cascade of even more tulle covers the skirt. When I walk, I’ll ripple like water.
Dammit.
I’m a sucker for a great gown.
I’ve even got pink sparkly sneakers I can wear under it, and I silently promise that whatever happens tonight, I’m not losing my shoes.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll get dressed.”