Page 57 of Switching Graves

“Laugh all you want,” Beatrix grumbles from my left, fighting her new box of tarot cards into her backpack while keeping up speed. “But Matilda has never been wrong.Ever.”

My skin tingles with goosebumps.

“That may be true, but it obviously had nothing to do with us, so why did it seem like she was trying to scare us?”

“Maybe she’s lonely. It can’t be easy being the village crazy lady,” Ava laughs, earning a scowl from Beatrix.

“She seems gifted,” I point out. A Valeria woman, if I had to guess, based on her empathic nature. “I thought you said no one in Nocturne Valley has gifts anymore.”

Ava shakes her head. “I said most people don’t. Matilda is one of the most obvious exceptions. She’s a Luminara. I don’t think many people like her because of it.”

So, not empathic. Psychic.

“Doesn’t seem like she cares,” Jonah observes.

“No, she doesn’t. Why should she, when she can think for herself and they’re all still running around like little hamsters on a wheel?” Beatrix’s tone is much more combative than usual, and her words give me pause.

“Let’s just get out of here,” he says, ignoring his sister’s scowl at his dismissal.

Me and Ava don’t put up an argument. We walk in silence to the town’s center with me dragging my gown and Beatrix swinging the plastic bag full of tarot cards and crystals she threw in while checking out. No one speaks the entire drive when we take the first taxi who finds us back into Ravenshurst.

30

Sonny

If I had any hope of bailing from the Falconry, Ava and Beatrix squashed it by slamming their fists into my door at the ass crack of dawn on Saturday and insisting to spend the day with me. In truth, my curiosity has officially gotten the best of me. Skipping the event feels like I’ll be missing out on witnessing an odd, once in a lifetime social experiment. I’m genuinely intrigued.

That doesn’t change the fact that having them here, insisting that I go, makes me want to dig my feet into the ground and refuse even harder.

Ava attempts to tame my hair while Beatrix paints my face with a light dusting of makeup, lecturing me about covering the splatter of freckles dances across my nose and cheeks. Jonah controls the music and entertains us with his wild daring stories until Beatrix swipes some dusky red lipstick across my lips just as Ava shoves the final bobby pin against my scalp. We fight to pull the black dress around my curves, and then they step back to examine their hard work.

“Hot damn,” Jonah catcalls from behind them, resting his chin on one hand as the other drapes across his abdomen. “Forget a snack. You are a whole freaking meal.”

Ava and Beatrix mumble their agreements, causing my cheeks to heat in embarrassment. Poppy usually garners all the attention while I linger in the background, where I’m comfortable.

We take a few photos and they force me to promise a full rundown first thing in the morning before I’m sent on my way to hobble across campus in my new high heels.

The Falconry Ball is held in the historic ballroom of the Landry château—an enormous space that’s otherwise closed off to students and staff outside of special events. Perfectly polished floors reflect the ambient lighting from way above, where chandeliers line the center of the alcove ceiling. A large mezzanine with matching light fixtures wraps around the room for those on the second story to gaze at the activity happening on the main floor. And for any mysterious, masked men to narrow in on their dates for the night.

No expense was spared in the making of this part of the home, and it appears to be one area that the school hasn’t torn into or altered to fit their own purposes.

A man dressed in a full tuxedo greets me inside a doorway that’s set ablaze to hand me a champagne glass that appears out of nowhere, then quickly moves on to the three women behind me.

I shuffle off to the side and out of the way to examine the fire more closely, reaching my hand out to feel it when I realize there’s no heat radiating from the glowing flames. To my surprise, it’s completely cool to the touch, and the stained wood door frame appears unaffected. I gaze at it in wonder, fully appreciating the work of what has to be pyrokinetic gifts.

Allowing my feet to carry me into the space slowly, I take in every detail—from the beautiful architecture to the groups of my classmates gliding past me from every direction, masks securely in place. Their nervous anticipation crackles in the air, soaring off in every direction. It takes a concentrated effort not to be overcome by it myself.

I know I’ll never make it out of here if I succumb to the panic that’s clawing against my chest.

Cocktail tables line the room beneath the mezzanine and once I’ve fully absorbed the sheer magic of the space, I rush over to grab one in the back that appears unoccupied and take in the surrounding crowd.

I’m glad I splurged on the more expensive gown, though I still feel like a cheap, knock-off version of the women surrounding me. Even my lower classmates have secured the top of the line gowns for the event, as if they somehow anticipated being invited long before receiving their package.

Actually, they probably did.

And I’m just a misfit, trying to squeeze into a mold that isn’t mine. All for the slim chance I’ll run into someone who will help my future.

As soon as that familiar, ugly envy begins twisting vines around my chest, I try to stamp it down but it only tightens its grip. My head pounds in the rushed rhythm of my heartbeat as blood somehow pumps harder through my body, deafening my ears to the surrounding sounds.

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