Chapter Seventeen
Chapter
Seventeen
Mona whistles under her breath. “Fuckin’ spooky.”
I shiver, unsure if it’s due to the frosty autumn air on my bare skin or the chilling scene before me.
Fog rolls out from the windows on either side of Arthur’s front door, lit from within by pulsing green and purple lights.
Speakers hidden behind the bushes lining the front porch croon eerily, alternating between playful melodies and haunting soundtracks.
I can hear laughter and the voices of dozens of people echoing from within as I rattle the plastic gargoyle knocker hanging on the door.
When Shay opens the door, Mona watches me with a giddy grin while I double over in laughter.
“Welcome to Duloc!” Shay declares.
She is dressed in a red velvet tunic with puffy gold-slashed shoulders and a matching beret. Her cape of the same color flutters dramatically as she extends her arms. Her dark bob, which she usually clips back on one side in a sleek style, frames her grinning face with perfect symmetry.
She makes an alarmingly convincing Lord Farquaad.
“Fucking incredible,” I say with a laugh before turning to Mona. “This is your couple’s costume?”
Mona smiles and adjusts the green ears sticking to either side of her head.
“It is now.” With dramatic flair, Mona winds her arms around Shay’s waist and draws her into a kiss.
Aside from in the deep, dark corners of the internet, I never imagined I’d have the opportunity to witness Lord Farquaad and Shrek locked in such an intimate embrace.
After they part, Shay laces her fingers with Mona’s and tugs her into the house. I follow behind, eyes on where Mona limps a little on her way in.
From the moment I step inside—careful not to let my sword bump against the doorframe as I enter—it’s clear that love is etched into every nook and corner of the home.
Pictures of Shay and her parents are plastered on every wall, alongside decorative mirrors, floating bookshelves, and even a longsword mounted above the unlit fireplace.
Despite being a big house, it’s crowded with people.
While we were getting ready, Mona told me that according to Shay, Arthur’s Halloween parties are legendary.
He’s hosted them every year without fail since Shay was old enough to walk, shifting from a kid-friendly candy extravaganza to a preteen-welcome haunted house, even hosting a horror movie party over Zoom during the pandemic.
Now that their friend groups have grown older, the crowd consists mostly of adults, and Arthur’s in the kitchen filling a cooler with beer and hard seltzers.
I stand back as Mona warmly greets him and his wife—Hana, I think.
Their costumes look just as high-quality as Shay’s, though the theme is much more romantic.
Hana wears a wide-sleeved pale green gown, and small latex elf ears stick out from under the delicate silver circlet sitting atop her long dark hair.
Arthur sports a perfect replica of Aragorn’s crown from The Return of the King and a full breastplate over a real chain-mail hauberk.
It’s an impressive display, especially when I’ve only ever seen him alternate the same four T-shirts with his faded jeans.
Arthur shoots me a quick wave and a smile just as a knock comes from the front door. He bounces his eyebrows apologetically at me, and I nod and circle back to let in the latest guest; Mona and Hana are engaged in an excited conversation about hobbits, and I don’t want to interrupt.
I open the door to reveal a villain.
But unlike at my college party all those years ago, the memory of which overlaps with this moment in my mind, I feel no urge to shut him out.
Looking quite at home against the backdrop of Arthur’s fog machines and haunting music, Wesley stands in the doorway wearing that fucking dimple and a costume that suits him all too well.
His floor-length dark maroon cape rests atop a billowing white shirt that looks so silky it begs to be touched.
The shirt is tucked loosely into form-fitting black dress pants, and where Wesley’s hands are dipped casually into the pockets, I spot silver costume jewelry sparkling on each finger.
His muted gold hair is slicked back in the style he favored during school, but for this costume, it works.
The clothes, the hair, the self-satisfied smirk—every inch of him screams Vadrien.
When Wesley registers it’s me who opened the door, he looks for a moment like I’ve impaled him with my sword: he stumbles as he steps back, his mouth falling open just enough to reveal two sharp fangs stuck to his upper canines.
I swear his eyes burn behind the bright red of his contacts as he takes in my costume.
Tight folds of velvet cling to my curves, hugging the tops of my thighs all the way up to where my dress ties in a halter behind my neck.
A pointed red tail is pinned to the back of my waist, and two red horns sprout from my dark hair, which I painstakingly styled to hang in a silky sheet down my bare back.
A classic devil costume—but it’s more than that.
I’m also wearing my favorite knee-high heeled black combat boots, and I strapped dark leather bracers to my forearms. The rest is thanks to Mona’s skill; she strung a shimmering belt across my hips and arranged delicate ropes of silver chain mail to drape perfectly from the scaled pauldrons on my shoulders.
I flex my grip on the foam sword stuck through the belt on my side.
The moment feels charged, the air thick with the anticipation of how two enemies might move against each other—until a plush creature’s head appears over Wesley’s shoulder.
Colin grins at me from the mouth of a bright blue dragon onesie, the head barely managing to fit over his curls.
His eyebrows fly upward as he looks over my costume.
“Okay, Slay-gan,” he says.
Jesus.
That seems to break Wesley out of his spell, and as we all laugh, Colin pushes past me into the house. Wesley lingers outside, his gaze softer now. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
My lips twist into a coy smile. “Same idea, huh?”
“Same idea.”
“Perhaps I should cut you down where you stand,” I muse. “Win the campaign while I have the chance.”
“You of all people know that playing D&D isn’t about winning,” he says. “And you can’t kill me for good while I’m outside of my coffin.”
A thrum of tension stretches between us. Antagonism? Banter?
Is Wesley flirting?
His eyes sparkle as he watches me. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
His gaze snakes across the doorway, and I finally realize why he’s still standing on the porch.
“Oh, fine. Come in.”
We follow Colin’s spined dragon tail as he shuffles into the kitchen, leading us to the coolers and snacks. I hear the door open again, and when I turn to look over my shoulder at the group that walks in, I freeze. I step—unconsciously, I swear—toward Wesley.
His hand rises to hover over my bare back, though he hesitates right before his skin makes contact. “What is it?”
I shake my head infinitesimally, but it’s enough to jostle the horns on my head.
“Owen is here.”
Motherfucker.
Before I have time to think about it, I hook my elbow through Wesley’s arm and steer us toward the drinks. God knows I’m ready for one now.
I’m struggling to open a can of seltzer—Mona convinced me to wear long black press-on nails—when Wesley takes it from my hands and pops the tab.
He plucks his beer from the counter and then directs us into a hallway somewhat out of sight from the entryway.
I consider grabbing Mona to warn her—knowing she’ll make a distraction if I ask her to—but she’s still deep in conversation with Shay and her family.
“Which one is he?” Wesley asks. He presses his shoulder against the wall, nearly knocking into a framed photo of Arthur in plate armor. Wesley forms a barrier between me and Owen, blocking me from his sight.
I perch up on my toes to glance over his shoulder. My eyes nearly roll into the back of my skull. “Jon Snow.”
Wesley huffs a laugh. “Oh. I didn’t see him, but that sounds fitting.”
I frown. “How do you figure?”
“From the little you’ve told me, it’s clear he doesn’t know anything.”
I feel a surge of affection that I rush to stomp down, so I glance again in Owen’s direction. It’s enough to rile me back up. “I don’t know why he’s here,” I snap, exasperated.
Wesley shrugs. “He’s probably played at Game Knight before. Maybe he met Arthur or another mutual friend there?”
That…makes sense.
“We could leave,” he says.
I straighten my spine. “I’m not leaving. He’s not going to make me leave, not when we just got here.”
“Okay,” Wesley says evenly. “What do you want to do, then? We could just ignore him.” He crosses his arms over his chest and rests his head against the wall. I still don’t know if Owen has even noticed me, but I imagine his stare boring through Wesley like a laser, trying to see through him to me.
Wesley shifts closer until his face is mere inches from mine. If it weren’t for my heels, he’d be looming over me. His voice is soft. “Do you want to piss him off? Make him jealous?”
Oh.
My jaw tightens. It’s a fun proposal that I would have accepted from any random stranger I’d met at a bar—I might have even suggested it myself. But from Wesley?
I say, “I don’t need you to do that for me.”
I think, I don’t know if I can handle you doing that for me.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But I will, if you want me to.”
I peek over his shoulder again. As I suspected, Owen’s eyes are trained on us, a divot between his eyebrows betraying his confusion and annoyance. I snap my gaze back to Wes.
“Okay.”
“Tell me what to do.”
I like that he doesn’t immediately assume. I sway forward a little, close enough to see a fraying white thread on the top button of his shirt. My lips hover over his neck. “Can you put your hand on my back?”