Page 78 of All Hallows Game

Now I was frowning. “Probably, why?”

“That’s a very pretty necklace you’re wearing, but I’m not sure how I feel about everyone seeing it.”

My frown deepened. I wasn’t wearing a—oh. Oh, shit.

I crossed the room at a rush, looming over the dressing table so I could see—yep, I had a ring of bruises around my neck. I shot Misery a dark look, to which he shrugged, unrepentant.

“You bruised my shoulders, and the back of my neck, so it’s only fair.” He lifted his silken mass of hair so I could see there were indeed bruises and scratches on the back of his neck. Oops.

“You deserved it,” I muttered, sitting in front of the vanity to apply whatever makeup I could be bothered to. I lost energy after concealer, so I swiped balm over my lips and called it a day. I didn’t have the energy to curl Honey’s hair but a promise was a promise, so I grabbed the wand and went several corridors down to her room, my men trailing me now in funeral-appropriate black outfits.

I was ignoring how damn good they looked in suits, especially Tor who’d foregone a jacket and rolled his black shirt up to his forearms, showing off his tattoos. Miz’s hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, pure white against his tailored jacket, tempting my fingers to run through it. I wasn’t looking at Death. At all. I could see him from the corner of my eye and that man looked far too damn good right now. I wanted to fill my fists with his braids and climb him like a tree, and that heat conflicted with my grief and loss in a confusing way.

“Where’s Alastor?” I asked Honey when she opened the door in her bright pink fuck you dress, accepting the studded jewellery I handed her with little change in her expression.

“Fuck knows,” she muttered.

Anger burned behind my ribs. Alastor should have been here when Honey needed him. Instead, he was probably off terrorising another victim. I made the mistake of glancing at Death, wondering if he’d handle Alastor if I asked, but my stare caught on the black fabric of his suit clinging to his shoulders, hugging biceps I suddenly wanted my hands around. And oh god, that face. It was no wonder he was a god with a jawline like that, with lips so perfectly formed, eyes so enthralling that I fell into them.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he soothed me, misreading my attention. When he stroked my arm, I leaned into the touch, shaking off my arousal to focus on what was more important: helping Honey get through today, and clawing my own way through the memorial.

“Right,” I said, clearing my throat. “Time to curl the fuck out of your hair.”

“I found these from my emo phase,” she replied, her voice still empty but something defiant in her eyes as she held up two hair clips of skeletal hands with their middle fingers pointed up.

“Perfect,” I said, swallowing my pain when I pictured Byron’s grin. Our grumpy, scowling best friend would have loved us giving the middle finger to fake sympathy and over-the-top mourning. I remembered the rant he’d gone on when Rone told Honey her curse-black hair was so pretty and she wished she could pull off something so goth.

Like her compliments weren’t laced with sneering.

Now they were both dead, Rone and Byron stolen from us by Nightmare. I might not have liked all the people she’d murdered, but rage still burned that their lives had been cut short for greed and power.

Nightmare will suffer for eternity. We’ll make certain of it.

“Cat?” Tor murmured, touching my arm.

I glanced up to see Tor exchange a swift look with Death and frowned. But then Honey took the curling iron from my hand to plug it in and I was absorbed in the slow, methodical process of styling her hair.

Byron should have been here, complaining that we were taking too long, asking if we really needed every last strand curled, moaning that we were going to be late.

Byron should have been here, full stop.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CAT

Ifound out the name of the girl who lost the charm from her Dior bracelet. Miroslava Kuzmin. Mirka, her friends called her. I knew her name because she was dead, and her best friend—a tall girl with perfect teeth, a sleek blonde ponytail, and pale blue eyes—was screaming in front of the doors to Old Ford House where the memorial was taking place, a wing of Milton Hall usually reserved for donors' events. I didn’t know how the events committee managed to convince the acting dean to use this place for Byron’s memorial. Even Alastor had failed to get it for his cursed gala.

“Call it off!” the ponytailed blonde cried to Wil who stood at the entrance to the wing, dressed in a reserved navy blue suit with his sandy hair pushed back from his face, a single rakish strand falling into brown eyes that already drooped with tiredness. “This is bullshit! My best friend was just murdered and you think it’s okay to—”

“She’s not the only one who died, Rita,” Wil sighed, pushing her away with the flat of his palm to make space for us to get through. Alastor still hadn’t turned up to support his girlfriend. Instead, Honey, Phil, and I presented a united front with my guys behind us.

“Mirka deserves a memorial too,” Rita complained, her screeching edging close to sobs. I knew the feeling—hysteria, panic, pain. It was overwhelming, all consuming, and inescapable. I didn’t get angry at Rita for causing a scene in front of Byron’s memorial. This was all bullshit anyway; we’d already had the funeral, and the ballroom beyond the doors would be full of people who barely knew By.

“We’ll hold a vigil tomorrow,” Phil offered calmly, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. One of my guys made a low, unimpressed sound, probably calculating how annoyed I’d be if they ripped off my friend’s hand. “For both Mirka and Caroline. Okay?”

Rita laughed, shaking her head, her perfect teeth bared. “Nothing is alright.”

I knew that feeling. I hadn’t stopped feeling it for weeks. I avoided Rita’s gaze, keeping my eyes on the old wood flooring and trying very hard not to think about the matryoshka dolls that had been filled with bits and pieces of her friend.

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