CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
It wasn’t quite Halloween yet, but in Salem, that didn’t matter. The streets were packed with decorations and costumed amblers. Tourists and spooks, the real and the posers.
It was easy to tell the difference. The genuinely dark souls carried their shadows with comfort, whereas the posers pranced around in an awkward, giddy display, like they were getting away with something naughty when they’d probably never done anything truly naughty in their lives.
I kept my head down as I weaved my way through the crowded sidewalk toward the house of Blake Carson, the tattoo artist I’d gone to years ago and owner of Salem Skin. Even the side streets in the residential parts of the city were packed with people, and the way my skin prickled with nerves to be around such a large mob was nearly enough to make me slink back into the shadows and disappear.
God, I wanted to. But there was that silly fact that I’d been invited to this party— me! I was wanted . And I had told myself that I wasn't allowed to back down from it, no matter how badly I swore I didn’t want to be there, sharing the same oxygen as all the people I didn't know. Shit, even now, standing outside and struggling to control the panic racing through my bones, every ounce of my body told me to turn around and run back to my cottage, where it was safe and secluded.
But a much smaller piece of me, so much tinier than my monumental panic, yelled through the static of anxious thoughts and told me to just step inside the house. Just one foot. Hell, one toe would suffice, the very tip of my boot. Just to say I had done it.
All because nobody in the entire world had ever invited me to a stupid party.
I took a deep, shaky breath and pulled the black hooded mask from my jacket pocket with trembling hands. The invitation had strictly stated that it was to be a costume party, so I tugged the hood—imprinted with a skull—over my head, ensured that my ponytailed hair was tucked underneath and hidden by the collar of my jacket.
Then, I headed up the cobblestone walkway to the open door, where I entered Blake's house, officially attending a party by myself for the first time in all my thirty-eight years on this earth.
If you could only see me now . I sent the thought off to Luke and smirked sadly behind my mask, not at all surprised to feel the familiar tug of emotion against my heart and lungs. I was quick to recover, clearing my throat and feeling the rush of embarrassment scorch my cheeks, until I realized nobody here could see me.
None of these people crowding this living room had any idea whatsoever who I was, and with that epiphany came an unusual surge of confidence.
I could be anyone.
I could be any thing .
Anonymous .
My head was held higher now as I moved through the crowd of people, all in costume. All unknown to me. Just as I felt I could be anyone, so were they, and none of them mattered.
Blake Carson showed up in the doorway of what seemed to be the dining room, wearing a leather jacket, a black T-shirt, and black jeans. He didn't appear to be in costume, and I thought that was peculiar when the invitation to his own damn party had made it a requirement.
“Hey, man,” he said by way of greeting, extending a hand to me. “Thanks for coming.”
Taking his hand in mine felt like the most daring thing I'd ever done. Forming a smile I knew he couldn't see felt reckless. We shook, and he smiled, and that was when I took note of his elongated canines.
“Nice costume,” I complimented without hesitation. No stutter. No fear.
Maybe I should wear a mask more often .
“Don't encourage him,” a blonde woman—dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz —said as she hurried past with a plate of food in hand. “He wears the same thing every single year.”
I watched briefly as she brought the plate to the couch, where she handed it to a man who looked nearly identical to Blake—the only difference being that Blake sported a beard and a longer, more polished hairdo. This other man was clean-shaven with short, mussed-up hair, and he was dressed as Captain America. There was chocolate smudged on one of his cheeks and an innocence in his eyes, one I hadn’t seen in my own reflection since childhood.
“That’s my brother, Jake,” Blake said, and I turned back to him to see he’d followed my gaze.
“Twins?” I asked, surprised by my own bravery in prying, continuing a conversation with a person I hardly knew.
Blake nodded curtly. “Yeah. Anyway, food’s in the kitchen; booze is in the fridge and the cooler by the back door. Make yourself at home.”
He slapped a hand against my shoulder as he walked past before I had time to process his abrupt change in demeanor. There’d been a defensiveness in his tone when speaking of his brother, I realized after the fact, and although I couldn’t say I knew his personal reasons for that, I also understood the need to defend and protect well.
Having a brother incarcerated for ending someone’s life would do that to you.
I moved into the kitchen, watching the world through a sheer screen of black mesh. I looked for the woman who’d invited me, scanning the crowd around the buffet table and the few people standing by the mentioned cooler.
Exactly why I wanted to find her, I wasn't sure. To avoid her maybe. Or perhaps, with the help of my mask, I'd finally found the courage to ask for her name.
When I didn't find her in the dining room or kitchen, I moved silently like a specter, following a witch and Ghostbuster through the back door and into a backyard bordered in English-style gardens. Purposefully chaotic and meticulously overgrown.
It felt fitting to find her there, standing to the side of a weeping willow, a black cup in her hand as she spoke with a woman donning a head of purple dreadlocks. She was oblivious to my presence at first, and I was grateful, as the gown she wore stopped me dead in my tracks, reminding me instantly of embarrassing Victorian goth wet dreams I’d had in my late teens.
The ribbons laced through the corseted top were cinched tightly enough to emphasize her waistline and the voluptuous, rounded swell of her breasts, accentuating a cleavage I was struggling to tear my eyes from. The full, flowing skirt dusted the ground, only revealing quick glimpses of the sparkling black heels she wore on her feet. Her jet-black hair was piled into a cool and purposefully messy nest that would’ve made Helena Bonham Carter proud, and to it, a veil was pinned, distorting my view of her face.
I hated that I couldn’t stop staring.
I hated the thoughts that were going through my head.
The things I wanted to do to her. The things I wanted her to do to me. Things I never should’ve wanted in the first place, and I knew without a shred of doubt that it was then that I should turn around and leave.
I’d held up my end of the self-imposed bargain. I’d entered the party; I could say that I’d gone. It was time to go, yet not only did I not leave, but my damn feet kept on moving toward her. One foot in front of the other, walking as if I were floating on air through the yard.
She turned from the dreadlocked woman to watch me stalk in her direction, and although the night was dark and the veil kept her features soft and shadowed, I could clearly make out the curve of her black smile.
“You came,” she said, both genuinely surprised and—dare I say it—happy.
“You knew it was me,” I stated, my voice low, and not at all paying attention as the dreadlocked woman smirked like she knew something I didn't before walking toward the house without announcing her leave.
My mystery woman in the Victorian gown didn’t falter for a second as she reached out and lifted my hand in hers. Instinct warned me to pull back, to snatch my hand away, and still, I didn’t listen to an intuition I'd seldom ignored in the past.
I let her impossibly smooth fingers clench lightly around mine as she said, “You don’t exactly blend in.”
She was talking about my tattoos, of course, but the comment dug deeper beneath my skin, grazing against something I’d kept locked away and guarded. I was reminded then of my heart, as if I needed to be, and, God, it was beating so loud.
Can she hear it?
“I try,” I muttered, watching the way her long black thumbnail traced one thin strand of ink etched along my middle finger.
A shock of electric heat zapped my nerves, and the hairs along my arms stood on end. I swallowed audibly, and she must’ve heard because she looked up to where my face was. Her eyes struggled to meet mine through the barriers of her veil and my mask, and yet she managed to succeed.
“You should try harder,” she replied, her voice not unlike a satisfied cat’s purr.
I caught myself chuckling before I could stop the sound from rumbling up from my chest. “I thought I was doing a pretty good job, to be honest with you.”
“Well, I can't speak for anybody else, but …” She released a deep breath as she nodded, lowering our conjoined hands, her thumbnail still tracing that webbed line. “I see you.”
I lifted my chin, looking down at her through hooded eyes concealed from hers. “And what if I don't want to be seen?” I challenged past my heart, thumping an irregular tune in my throat.
The woman tipped her head with consideration before laughing gently through her nose. She shook her head slowly—hardly noticeable to anyone who wasn't paying attention, but I was. She tightened her hold on my hand, reminding me she hadn't yet let go and neither had I, as she took a step closer. There were mere inches of space between us, and a breeze blew past, carrying with it a spicy blend of cinnamon and black pepper, filling the gap between our twin black forms.
With her chin tipped up, her face aimed toward mine, I was glad for her veil. I was even gladder for my mask. Glad for the things that kept her from witnessing the turmoil on my face and the hope in my eyes as they dropped to stare at her full black lips.
“But I think you do, Spider,” she said quietly, using that nickname again that I both loved and hated, only for the fact that she had nothing else to call me. “And I'm glad that, of all the witches in this city, you chose to catch me in your web.”
My lips parted softly to speak, though my tongue ceased all ability to form words as she released my hand and walked back toward the house, daring me with a crook of her lithe finger to follow.
But if I could've, I would've told her I hadn't chosen her. I would've said she'd come along when I least expected, landing on one silvery strand of my carefully crafted life of secrecy and solitude when my back was turned. I would've mentioned that she possessed the ability to leave, to fly away and never see my face or speak to me again, and I would've gladly let her.
Unless I just forgot where I'd laid the sticky shit down , I thought as I followed, lured by lace and tulle, cinnamon and black pepper.
Maybe, if I'm not careful, I'll get caught with her.
And would that really be so bad?