Chapter Eighteen
Chapter
Eighteen
The rest of the evening passes in bursts of color and sound.
While I’m careful to have only another drink or two—I’m not about to get messy in Arthur’s house, despite the fact that he’s called rides for a couple of people, including one partygoer whose face was so green that it no longer matched the pasty bald cap of her Pitbull costume—I can’t remember the last time I felt this…
drunk. There’s a warmth in my chest that feels new, and my limbs feel light and bubbly, like I could float away at any moment and disappear into the stars.
I’m happy.
Tonight’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.
With my help, Mona does crush Arthur in that game of beer pong, though he has the last laugh.
Later, feeling cocky, I challenge everyone to a test of strength: arm wrestling.
I beat Mona, Colin, Wesley—who flushes a bright red when he loses—and Shay, who puts up a surprisingly good fight and lasts much longer than the others.
But it turns out Arthur has hidden strength underneath his baggy shirts and jeans, and I’m only too happy to surrender my title to the High King.
Colin gets the drunkest of us all, and Wesley has a hell of a time speaking to him in a cartoonishly high-pitched version of Vadrien’s Eastern European accent, which has Colin bent over as he releases laughter so loud and shrill that I can compare it only to a screeching eagle.
After a while, I disappear into the bathroom to fix my lipstick, but I have to pause for a few extra minutes when my eyes start to flood unexpectedly with tears.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Shit, shit, shit—”
I’d left the door cracked open, and at the worst possible time, Shrek materializes in the mirror behind me. Mona takes one look at my face, and her eyes go wide. “Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I swear.”
“You’re fucking crying, Reagan, what’s—”
“I’m not, not really, I—” I stare up at the fluorescent lighting and blink rapidly. “God, this is embarrassing,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just—I’m having a lot of fun. Aren’t you having a lot of fun?”
“Oh, honey,” Mona says. She passes me some toilet paper, and I press it under my eyelashes, catching the tears before they fall. I won’t ruin my makeup for this.
“I hate it, but I miss them sometimes. I miss the friends we had,” I admit, and the admission makes the pressure build behind my eyes all over again.
“Or at least, I miss when we got to do things like this. I know it’s new and that half of them probably still hate me, but it’s just…
it’s nice. For tonight, it’s really nice. ”
“Reagan!” Mona croons my name sympathetically and folds me into a tight hug.
“I miss them sometimes, too. But tonight has been so fun, and honestly, nobody hates you. We just take a bit to warm up to, don’t we?
” She laughs again, and then her eyes narrow playfully.
“But speaking of warming up…I followed you in here to ask what you two were doing out there.”
I wince. “Colin was the one who challenged me to the chugging contest, I didn’t—”
“Not what I’m talking about.”
I coyly purse my lips and continue to dab on color. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Are you trying to seduce the villain, Reagan?” Mona teases. “Is that how you’re going to defeat Vadrien?”
The door creaks open wider, and Colin, of all people, shoulders his way into the bathroom. “Oh my god, are we talking strategy in here?” His eyes are feverishly bright.
Mona dissolves into a fit of giggles as I grin and shake my head. “Well, not quite—”
“Because I have a really good idea,” Colin interrupts before pitching his voice in a dramatic whisper. “But you can’t tell Wes.”
“Didn’t your last idea involve filling a pit with blood?” I ask.
Colin scoffs. “This one’s different,” he insists. The slurring of his words makes them extra convincing. “Are you going to hear me out or not?”
“Please,” Mona says. “Do tell.”
“Oh, I will.” He sways a little as he locks eyes with Mona. “Because if this really works out, Moss is going to be the one to save us all. Here’s how it needs to go…”
We spend the rest of the night sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, drunkenly hatching a plan to save the kingdom. It will take effort on Mona’s part, but it may just work.
Even after Arthur kicks us out with a booming laugh, for the second time that night, I can’t remember when I last had this much fun.
As a tiny spear sinks into her thigh and draws blood, Sindra’s hand flashes to her side on instinct, where her sword would usually be. But the tailor just smiles up at her apologetically and continues making alterations, promising to be more careful with her needle.
Sindra clenches her fists at her sides, tail flicking irritably behind her. For the thousandth time, she has to remind herself that this was her idea.
For much of the week, the party had argued over their course of action, circling through the same ideas they’d had before the bats arrived. But when Sindra spoke up for the very first time, they had gone slack-jawed at her suggestion.
“I think we should go to the coronation,” Sindra announced.
It had been Mortimer who broke the long silence to politely inquire, “Are you quite out of your mind?”
“I mean it,” Sindra said, slapping her palm on the table. “I think we should go.”
Vera and Antoni scoffed at the same moment, and Moss asked, “But why?”
Once they read through the invitation, which detailed a masquerade ball that would be held in celebration of the coronation, it became obvious that the event was, of course, a trap.
Prince Vadrien hadn’t even gone through the effort to hide this fact.
Already skeletons had begun to circle Zaska, more of them than Antoni confessed he had ever seen in one place.
They didn’t attack, not yet, but no one had attempted to leave, either.
Great hulking, stinking undead creatures prowled the streets, and Sindra suspected that on the night of the masquerade, many of the townsfolk and Vadrien’s select special guests would be shepherded to the castle.
She couldn’t say what plans he had for them. But she didn’t want to find out, so they had to get the crown before then. It might be their last chance.
“For one, we haven’t got much of a choice,” Sindra admitted. “But it would also allow us to merge our ideas, yes? We’ll split the party—”
Gasps all around. “Split the party?”
“—yes, and we’ll each have a separate task. Part heist, part secret strike team, part attack, and…” She had paused in that moment to take a breath. “Part distraction.”
At their wide-eyed, frazzled stares, she grinned. “It’s our best chance of success. And can’t we admit that it might be—just a little bit—fun?”
Once she laid out the details of her proposed plan, their protests became less vehement. Antoni and Vera were pensive, and Mortimer looked dangerously giddy.
Grinning with her tusks on full display, Moss had been the one to point out, “You’ll need a dress, then, won’t you?”
The memory fades as the tailor holds up two different fabrics against Sindra’s skin. Sindra points to the one on the right and looks over her shoulder to ask, “Are you two finished?”
For their part in the plan, Mortimer and Antoni needed costumes of their own.
Antoni gives an impatient nod while Mortimer runs the pad of his thumb along the midnight velvet of his coat’s sleeve.
He was the first to endure alterations, and he hasn’t taken his costume off since.
He looks, truth be told, quite fetching in it.
“I believe so!” the wizard affirms.
“In that case, could I ask you two something?” Sindra casts an apologetic glance to the tailor. “Privately?”
The tailor murmurs, “I’ll fetch the last of your fabric,” and disappears behind a curtain.
Antoni steps closer, salt-and-pepper brows drawn low over his eyes. Mortimer clasps his hands behind his back and waits for Sindra to speak.
Sindra quietly clears her throat. “Do you know if Vadrien lived in Moros? Was he a citizen here, before everything happened?”
Antoni’s expression turns dark. “Not to my knowledge.” He huffs. “If so, how could he do such a thing to his own people? Why do you ask?”
Sindra wets her lips. The vampire’s words, spoken with unsettling assurance, still echo in the back of her skull: You are nearly half mine already.
She suspects that, even after everything, the captain’s trust has its limits.
If he gets it in his head that Vadrien has any sway over her, he might cut her down just to be safe.
But the information she may have is too important to keep to herself.
“He visited my dreams—not on purpose, I think. I believe the bite…connected us somehow. I witnessed one of his memories. He was exiled to a place called Frozenfang Pass. Was that something that used to happen?”
Mortimer’s violet eyes sparkle with interest behind his spectacles. “Yes, it happened all the time, from what Master Kaelenas told me. King Ursan was known for exiling all of his perceived enemies, guilty or not.”
A shadow passes over Antoni’s features. “King Ursan was not as beloved as some of those who came before him,” he says slowly, “but he did what he thought he must to protect the kingdom.” Sindra can’t help noting his tired tone, like he’s used this excuse so often that it’s lost its shine.
Is he trying to convince himself? “Who are we to question the will of Garren’s chosen? ” he finishes bitterly.
Mortimer scratches his ear and looks down at the ground.
“You should question everything,” Sindra says harshly. “Always.”
Antoni’s mouth twists into a scowl. “I did. Perhaps that is why I did not recognize Vadrien,” he says darkly.
“I attended every sentencing I could; it felt like my duty, to witness it. But they sent me on so many scouting missions in those days. Said I asked too many questions.” He heaves a heavy sigh.
“So I suppose it’s possible that he could have been one of them. ”
Sindra crosses her arms over the bodice of her gown. She wants so badly to pace, but the dress needs to be hemmed, and she’s wary of tripping over her feet.
“What difference does it make?” Antoni speaks up again. “Morosian or not, Vadrien has made himself an enemy to everyone in this kingdom by bleeding the land dry. He has to be stopped.”
“It means we must ask ourselves where his power came from,” Mortimer says matter-of-factly.
“He only claimed the throne a few years ago; how is it that he went from exile to near monarch? We know nothing of his allies or how far his influence reaches. We need to know if putting an end to him will be enough to end this curse.”
The color drains from Antoni’s face, despite his expression remaining hard and determined.
“It’s not a question we can answer now,” Mortimer murmurs. “But after tomorrow, I hope we may see things more clearly.”
Sindra has been to battle many times, yet this feels like the most dangerous thing she has ever done.
The bridge leading up to Vadrien’s stronghold is crowded with guests and undead. As she advances slowly forward, with Antoni and Mortimer standing to either side of her, her long skirts rustle against her legs.
Like a great monster, the castle rears up before them.
Dozens of spires reach upward to pierce the sky, silhouetted against a horizon that bleeds a dark, angry red, staining the clouds like a bruise.
Mist rolls out across the moat and from between the branches of the trees that stretch out behind the castle, seeping through the iron bars of the gate and snaking around their feet.
The castle itself might have been beautiful if it hadn’t fallen into such disrepair.
Its gray stone is blackened with age, and the remnants of dying vines cling to its walls.
Half of its windows are shattered, leaving the wind to whistle through them in a haunting, echoing cry.
The other guests shuffle nervously, waiting for the gates to swing open.
In some cases, it’s obvious to see who has been under Vadrien’s thumb for a long time.
They—noble people, mostly—crowd near the gates, dressed in extravagant finery, eager to meet the only person with the ability to promise them even a semblance of power.
They see this evening as an opportunity, perhaps, to make a deal with their kingdom’s newest devil.
But others were clearly rounded up against their will. Blacksmiths still dressed in their leather aprons and bakers with flour-white fingers wring their hands and cast nervous glances at the skeletons that line either side of the long bridge leading up to the castle’s gates.
A single screeching note rings out from inside the castle, then a squat skeleton shuffles out, violin braced on its shoulder. As it launches into a dark romantic melody, the gates swing open.
Those at the front rush through; bone-white skull-like masks are forced upon any guest who arrived without a costume. Sindra lingers as the crowd parts around her, and before Antoni makes his way ahead of her—he has his own goal to accomplish; they all do—he murmurs a reminder at her shoulder.
“Don’t forget your mission, Sindra. Your entire purpose here is to distract him. Do whatever you must.”