Chapter 17
The cemetery looks different at night. Less tragic, more theatrical.
Like the shadows are playing dress-up in moonlight and fog.
Fairy lights drape lazily from the limbs of old trees, swaying like ghosts in the breeze.
Dotted across the vast grounds are clusters of low-burning bonfires, each one staked out by a different group.
The jocks. The stoners. The drama kids with too much eyeliner. Death never looked so alive.
Morella pulls her car into the neatly paved lot near the cemetery gates.
She cuts the engine and steps out, black sequin halter dress catching the firelight in flashes.
The neck straps cross each other and fasten at the back of her neck.
No sleeves. No jacket. Just glam and confidence, and heels. Stiletto ones.
I shut my door and glance down at the ground beyond the lot, where the grassy cemetery path begins. It’s soft from yesterday’s rain, uneven with the occasional root.
“How are you walking in those?” I ask, half-genuinely curious, half-incredulous.
Morella smirks, fluffing her hair. “Witchcraft, obviously.”
Headlights sweep across us before I can reply. A dark SUV rolls into the lot, big and boxy, the kind of vehicle made to haul people, gear, and secrets. Rafe.
He kills the engine and climbs out, the door shutting with a solid thunk. He rounds the back of the SUV and when his eyes find me, something cold flickers in his expression. Not disgust exactly. Just… disapproval, dressed in a familiar shade of irritation. I roll my eyes and turn back to the party.
The three of us head in, winding through the narrow, heavily walked path into the deeper part of the cemetery where the bonfires burn.
Some are louder than others. Laughter. Music.
A bottle breaking somewhere. Our group’s bonfire is tucked in a semi-circle of gravestones and old tree trunks, already occupied by a few hockey guys and their respective girls.
I hesitate just behind Morella, scanning for somewhere to sit that isn’t next to Rafe. But bodies shift, someone moves, and the only space left is directly beside him.
Fantastic.
I lower myself onto the log, keeping a polite inch of space between us like it might protect me from his general disdain. The boys are already mid-conversation about strategy, lines and rotations and some scrimmage they’ve got coming up. I tune it out. Until I notice someone new joining the party.
He walks in like he was summoned, backlit by fire, tall and sharp. His eyes skim the circle, cool and bored, and land on a girl perched on a faded folding camping chair across the fire from me. He stops in front of her.
“Move,” he says, voice like iron wrapped in velvet.
She jolts like she’s been struck and grabs her friend, both of them scattering without a word.
Archer settles into the chair that is now his.
I look to the other chair left vacant by girl number 2.
The open spot practically begs me to take it, but before I can shift, Silas swoops in, flopping into place with his usual infuriating swagger.
“You’re kidding me,” I mutter.
“What, you don’t like sitting next to the grumpy Rottweiler?” he says, jerking his chin toward Rafe.
I say nothing.
Silas pats his thigh. “You could always take a seat on Daddy’s lap.”
I gag. “I’d rather take my chances with the snapping chihuahua,” I mutter, glancing toward Rafe. “Fewer teeth.”
Morella snorts, eyes lighting up. “Come on, sharp tongue. Let’s get drinks. You feral boys want anything?”
“Coke,” Rafe mutters. “I’m DD.”
“Liv. In a cup,” Silas adds with a wink.
Archer doesn’t say anything. He just watches the fire like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.
Morella rolls her eyes and hauls me toward the drink table stationed near a crumbling mausoleum. It’s manned by a senior who probably thinks this counts as community service. Coolers, plastic cups, and too many sticky bottles crowd the folding table.
We linger, half stalling, half pretending the drink options are more interesting than they are. People drift in and out, some laughing too loud, others already unsteady on their feet.
“Yo, what’s up?” Trent strolls over, flannel shirt hanging open over a worn band tee, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like he’s already too warm.
His hair’s a little messy in a way that looks unbothered but not careless.
His eyes land on me first, then shift to Morella.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you two anywhere without your guard dogs. ”
Morella smirks. “We let them off-leash for five minutes.”
“Brave,” he says, eyeing the punch with suspicion. “Hope it’s not one of those ‘drink this and meet God’ situations.”
“You drank that stuff last time,” I say, watching him pick up a cup. “Said it tasted like watermelon battery acid.”
“It did. Still does.” He shrugs, pouring anyway. “But it kind of grows on you. Like mold.”
He leans against the edge of the table, content to hang out, shoulders relaxed and presence easy in the way most people have to fake. “So… how’s the transfer experience going? Social minefield still blowing up under your feet?”
“Eh. I’ve got the major territories mapped out. Jocks, stoners, drama kids. Still figuring out what the rest are.”
“Stick with the stoners,” he says. “We mind our own business and bring snacks.”
“Hard to argue with snacks.”
He lifts his drink in a lazy toast. “See you around, Liv. I hear a new blunt calling my name.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
He drifts off toward the smaller bonfire tucked against the back fence, where the usual stoner crowd is perched on tombstones and making fun of each other between puffs of something I’m not going to ask about.
Morella watches him go, then turns to me with the slowest, most dramatic eyebrow raise I’ve ever seen.
“You like him.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You so do.”
“He’s just… not awful.”
We head back toward our bonfire. Silas is leaned back in his chair, elbow propped up on the armrest, jaw resting against his closed fist like he was just lounging.
Rafe looks like someone told him the team got benched.
Archer has slouched into his chair, his head hanging on the backrest. His hood pulled up.
He very well could be asleep right now. His arms are crossed and his chest rises and falls in perfect rhythm.
Morella tosses Rafe a can. “Soda, as requested.”
Sitting down Morella says to Silas. “What’s got your thong in a twist?”
Silas’s eyes cut to her. “Maybe I’m just tired of watching everyone pretend she fits in.”
Morella’s smile is instant and lethal. “And yet somehow you’ve managed to convince people you’re more than just a charity case with a nice face and a daddy complex.”
The group goes still. Archer has slightly lifted his head and is peaking from under his hood.
Silas’s mouth twists, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. “At least I don’t have to buy my friends and fake my personality just to keep anyone around.”
That’s when Rafe moves.
“Silas,” he snaps, voice like gravel under pressure. “Take your damn anger out on the right person.”
Silas doesn’t even blink, just redirects.
“Right,” he mutters. “Tell me, Liv. Trent gonna roll you one so the blunt and the cunt can be passed around at the same time?”
The fire crackles and the silence is instant. I wish, with everything in me, that I’d stayed at the damn drink table. I stand without a word. The log shifts beneath me, but I don’t look at anyone. Not Rafe, not Silas, not even Morella. Especially not Morella.
She moves like she’s going to follow. “Liv.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. I shrug her off gently but firmly. “I just need a minute.”
She watches me, unsure. But I don’t give her time to argue. I just turn and walk.
The further I go, the colder it gets. The noise fades behind me until it’s just the sound of my boots on damp grass and the occasional creak of old trees shifting overhead. Fairy lights give way to shadow.
I find a place beneath a twisted oak, next to a crumbling mausoleum. I sit with my knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them, and stare out at nothing. I shouldn’t care. He’s just a stupid, bitter boy with too much money and a big mouth.
So why does it feel like his words took something with them when they hit? Why does it always feel like that? Why do people go out of their way to be cruel, and why, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m above it, do I still feel like I’m bleeding afterward?
Why does it matter what Silas St. John thinks of me? I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees, like maybe I can fold myself small enough to stop feeling it.
Eventually, the chill starts to bite through the layers of my clothes, and the silence starts to feel too loud. I stand slowly, brushing off the back of my pants, and make my way toward the path. I don’t want to go back to the fire. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
Morella’s car is parked near the edge of the lot, tucked in a corner beneath a massive willow.
I focus on that, on not unraveling in the ten minutes it’ll take to fake normal again.
I round the edge of the small chapel used for funerals, hands tucked into the sleeves of my sweater, when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Yo, hey! Liv?”
I turn, startled. It’s Trent.
He’s walking with an easy stride, one hand holding a plastic cup, the other stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. There’s no urgency in him. Just that soft, baked-in confidence that makes him feel safe to be around.
“I saw you heading out,” he says, slowing as he nears. “Thought I’d say bye before you disappeared into the mist like some Victorian ghost.”
I huff out a small laugh. “No mist. Only me.”
He smiles and stops a few feet away. “Good air out here. Quiet. You, uh…” He gestures vaguely. “You always sneak off during parties or is this a special occasion?”
I shake my head. “Just needed a little reset.”
“That’s valid,” he says, then leans casually against the side of the columbaria next to me. He lifts his cup a little. “Don’t worry, I won’t offer you any. It tastes like regret and backwash.”
I smirk. “A true connoisseur.”
He grins and shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”
I lean back against the cool stone of the building, arms still loosely crossed, but I don’t move away when he shifts slightly closer, just enough to raise one arm above me and rest it against the chapel wall.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d even talk to me,” he says after a moment.
My eyebrows lift. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head. “You’re kind of hard to read. In a cool way. Like, you walk around like you’ve seen the end of the movie and didn’t like the twist.”
That makes me laugh, actually laugh, and it surprises both of us.
“Wow,” I say. “That was either poetic or mildly concerning.”
He laughs too. “I’ll take both. Keeps people guessing.”
There’s a beat of quiet between us.
I glance up at him, eyes catching the curve of his easy smile in the low light. “I don’t mind being hard to read,” I say, voice softer than I meant it to be.
“Good,” he replies, one side of his mouth lifting a little higher. “Gives me a reason to keep trying.”
A flush rises under my skin before I can stop it.
I look down quickly, suddenly too aware of how close he is, how good it feels to be seen without it turning into something sharp.
My gaze lands on the scuffed stitching on my boots, and I let it anchor me for a moment.
Until movement flickers in the dark behind Trent, and everything inside me goes tight.
My body stiffens instinctively. “Shit,” I whisper under my breath.
Trent blinks, his smile slipping into confusion as his head tilts. “What?”
I don’t answer. My eyes stay locked on the figure cutting through the firelight. Trent follows my gaze, glancing over his shoulder.
Silas.
He’s stomping toward us, all clenched fists and narrowed eyes, like he’s been holding something in too long and finally decided who to bleed it on.
Trent turns back to me, the tension rolling right off him. He drops his arm from the stone wall and shifts to stand beside me, still holding his drink, completely unbothered.
“Oh,” he says simply, like someone just told him the forecast called for rain. Then he lifts his cup slightly and settles into a looser stance, ready for an all out war.