Page 2 of Mourning Wings

Isettle down beside her, the grass cool against my legs.Sheglances at me briefly before returning her attention to the butterflies, andIwatch in silence.

There’sa tranquility in her presence that washes over me.

Whenshe finally speaks, her voice is soft, almost fragile. “Hi.”

1

VALERIA

Present

Musicpulses through the walls.I’mwedged in a corner of the living room, clutching a glass and trying to disappear into the wallpaper.Theplace is packed with people laughing, talking, dancing.It’soverwhelming.

Thisis one ofEbonridge’stopHalloweenparties, where all the socialites and the best of the best go to see and be seen.

Itake a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of alcohol.

Everyoneis dressed up for the holiday.Iglimpse down at my own outfit: a sequined pink top and matching skirt.Then,Iglance over my shoulders at the pink butterfly wings strapped to my back.AtleastI’mdressed the part.

Myfingers keep tugging at my costume, trying to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles.

Ilook around, hoping to see a familiar face, someoneIcan latch onto for a semblance of comfort.Unfortunately,Idon’t know anyone here exceptIsabel, who promptly vanished into the crowd, off to have her own fun, leaving me to navigate this chaos alone.

Iconvinced her to come to this party in the first place, soIshouldn’t be upset that she’s enjoying herself.

Despitehow muchIhate crowds,Ilove spooky season.There’ssomething magical about this time of year—the crisp air, the eerie decorations, the costumes, the thrill of ghost stories and horror movies.

Eventhe most mundane settings become enchanting and a bit sinister, allowing people to embrace the macabre.

There’san honesty in the darkness thatIfind oddly reassuring.

Whileothers might seek comfort in the familiar and bright,Ifind mine in the shadows and stillness.

Myattention is drawn back to the party.

Everyonelooks so comfortable, so at ease with each other.There’sa group of men in the center of the room, all wearing the same white mask with hollow eyes and eerie, expressionless faces.It’shard to tell if they’re supposed to be famous horror characters or some kind of cult.Theymust be part of theWhitmores.

Themystery of their costumes intrigues me, andIcan’t help but stare a little longer, hoping for a hint that might reveal their identities.ThelongerIlook, though, the more unsettledIfeel, butIcan’t pull my eyes away.

Oneof the guys catches me staring and turns to look directly at me.Myheart skips a beat, and a flush creeps up my neck to my cheeks.Hisgaze, hidden behind the mask, feels intense and unnerving.Iswallow hard, trying to play it cool, but my body betrays me asIshift my weight from one foot to the other and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

Itake a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the moment stretches on, my pulse spiking faster.Hishead tilts slightly, as if he’s acknowledging my curiosity, and a chill runs down my spine.Idart away, my heart pounding in my chest.

Iweave through the crowd, feeling like an outsider, a ghost haunting the edges of this lively, colorful world.Mythroat tightens, andItake a sip from my glass, the bitter taste of my drink unappealing.

Themusic shifts to a new songIdon’t recognize but everyone else seems to love.Itry to smile, to look likeI’mhaving a good time, but it feels forced, unnatural.Mycheeks ache from the effort.

WhydidIthink it was a good idea to come here?Rememberthe plan,Valeria,Iremind myself.

Awoman dressed as a cheerleader stands beside me, looking almost as uncomfortable asIfeel.Buther slightly glazed eyes and unsteady stance suggest she has had a bit too much to drink.Sheseems to be alone, nervously glancing around, as if searching for someone.

“Hi,” she says after a moment, her voice shaky. “Nicecostume.”

“Thanks,”Ireply, smiling softly. “Yourstoo.”

Wemake small talk for a few minutes, and she introduces herself asLisa.

Eyesdarting around the room, she leans in closer, her breath warm and smelling strongly of alcohol. “Watchout,” she whispers, her words slurred.

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