Page 79 of All Hallows Game

I didn’t think it was a coincidence that Mirka was Russian. Nightmare was fucked up to see it was poetic, honouring her victim’s culture. It felt like salt in a wound, and I’d barely known the girl.

I kept my stare on the floor as Wil opened the heavy doors to Old Ford House, and then we were through, away from Rita and her loud, raw brand of loss, and surrounded by a different kind of loss. I stiffened, swallowing the lump in my throat when I thought about how Byron would have hated this air of theatrical sadness.

Real grief didn’t snap pictures for Instagram in front of the garlands of tasteful flowers and fairy lights, like it was a photo op and not a memorial. Real grief didn’t lean against the buffet table crowded around a phone playing whatever Premier League match was on. Real grief didn’t spot Honey and I, like sharks circling for blood, and rush over to squeeze my hand. I was gutted to hear about Bryan, he was always so terribly nice when we spoke.

“Alright, let’s not crowd the poor girls, shall we? This is a memorial not a meet and greet.” I glanced up, grateful to find the diminutive form of Carmilla Poppy storming over to us in a white skirt suit, her signature poppy pin on her lapel and crimson glasses perched on the bridge of her nose through which she gave our audience a searing look.

When the supposed mourners blended back into the crowd, Carmilla’s expression changed to one of genuine sadness. “How are you girls doing? Actually, don’t answer that, what a stupid question. Just know we’re all here for you, and some of us aren’t livestreaming their support.”

“Who?” Phil demanded, straightening to her full height and glaring at the gathered people like she was ready to fight them all.

“Harmony Madigan,” Carmilla sighed, shaking her head. Her red-brown bob was so full of hairspray it didn’t budge.

“I don’t fucking think so,” Phil snarled, giving my arm a squeeze as she stalked past me like a woman on a mission.

Carmilla watched her go with a smile, then turned back to us. “Don’t be afraid to sneak out if you need a break. No one will judge you.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. I wanted to run away right now. Death’s hand settled on the small of my back, offering stalwart comfort, and I managed to raise myself a little taller.

It was one night. I could get through one night.

“Right, well I’ll stop hassling you,” Carmilla said with a sad smile, her eyes lingering on Honey and I before she looked at the three men behind us. “Come find me if you need anything, girls.”

When she left, I could breathe—at least until the next mourner would approach us. For now, I’d take advantage of the peace, however temporary.

The committee had done a beautiful job, I had to admit. The old stone walls were covered in swags of white diaphanous fabric and blue velvet, twinkling lights wrapped around them, turning the medieval space into something softer. The same colours were echoed in the tables, the sporadic seats arranged at the outer edges of the room, and the stage area where I hoped I wasn’t expected to give a speech.

There was a huge picture of Byron’s scowling face near the stage, with a platter of food offerings beneath it, and it brought a smile to my face even as tears pricked my eyes.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Tor offered, moving into my side to lay a longer kiss on my cheek. “Honey, do you want anything?”

“I want Byron back,” she replied flatly.

“If I could make that happen, I would,” Tor said, sympathy in his voice. His kindness to my friend made me fall even deeper in love with him. “How about a white wine spritzer?”

She nodded dully. “Thanks.”

I hooked my arm with hers, wishing I had words of comfort. Instead, I just stuck close and hoped my presence was as reassuring as hers was to me.

I sensed Misery about to pull back, his self-loathing almost palpable, so I reached out and snagged his wrist with my free hand, keeping him close. I met his eyes, telegraphing everything I couldn’t say.

It’s not your fault. It was all Nightmare. You can’t be to blame when it wasn’t your choice. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you when I’ve been there too, I’ve killed too.

But I just squeezed his wrist, running my thumb over his pulse, that irregularity—the pulse of a dead man.

I was glad when Tor returned with drinks, even just for something to pull me out of my head. Honey clutched her glass in both hands, jumping when Wil came through the door with a sigh, already tired after bearing the brunt of Rita’s grief.

“You okay?” I asked, my chest squeezing when the look he gave me drowned in apology and grief.

“Am I okay? You’re the one grieving.” He risked losing a limb with my men nearby to draw me into a long, squeezing hug. “You’re a good friend, Cat. A really good friend. You don’t deserve anything bad. I’m so fucking sorry about Byron’s death.”

I hugged him with one arm, refusing to let go of Miz even if it meant almost spilling my drink on the back of Wil’s suit jacket. “That’s the only genuine thing I’ve heard all night.”

Wil drew back with a wince, casting a look around the glittering room full of black-tie fashion and coiffed hair dos. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

He caught a glimpse of my men’s faces and backed up a step. “Well, let me draw some of that attention away from you. Where did Phil go? She’s supposed to do the introduction speech with me.”

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