Page 42 of Bonepetal
Bass leaks through the trees, a low, steady thump that makes the lake breathe fog. The house shows itself all at once—three stories of glass and wood angles, a dock lit up like a runway, a bonfire the size of somebody’s ego eating driftwood and yard chairs.
Plastic skeletons lounge in chairs with Solo cups taped to their hands. Orange bulbs string the railings; a plywood gallows someone’s handy cousin built, leans over the water for photos.
Laughter skates over everything, loud and relentless, even from the oversized driveway.
“Ground rules,” Miles says, tapping the wheel like he’s conducting. “Hydrate. If Jamie starts limbo with a broom, you tell him no. If you vanish, I’m telling the park rangers a cryptid took you and I expect a reward.”
“Let me guess. You’ve already drafted the missing person’s poster,” I say, flipping the visor down to check my face.
The witch is intact—black liner thick enough to count as armor, smoke dragged under my eyes, black lipstick steady. Hat at a cocky tilt. Corset laced tight. Sheer sleeves slipping off my shoulders. Long skirt that parts high. Boots to my thigh. A thinblack thong that’s no one’s business. And at my throat, the tooth he gave me, exactly where he’d put his mouth first.
Miles leans on the horn at a frat devil blocking our spot. “Move, Beelze-bro,” he mutters, then slides into a space with attitude.
We climb out and the night swallows us, smoke, bass, the bonfire chewing driftwood.
Jamie’s already on the deck steps, glittering like a fucking warning label. They went couple-costume this year. Jamie’s a velvet-and-mesh vampire prince, pearly white fangs flashing in the lights. Miles is his very willing snack, white shirt artfully ripped and with painted bite marks, black suspenders, and a ribbon collar stampedPROPERTY OF JAMIE.
Jamie throws his arms wide as we hit the steps. “My witch! Look at you—absolute menace.”
“Sir, this is a Wendy’s,” I deadpan, but I’m already hugging him with a smile.
Miles shoulder-checks him. “Calm down, Count Costco.”
“Excuse you—it’s Prince of Party City,” Jamie says, looping an arm around me and steering us in. “Come on, I need my hot witch for vibes.”
The deck is bouncing to 2012 bangers with random wolf howls pasted over the drops. Heat from the bonfire rolls across the boards; somebody boos a beer pong fail and then cheers like it was on purpose.
Beyond the railing, the property drops into thick woods, pines climbing straight into a sky full of stars. The moon is fat and nosy, silvering the lake and the needles.
I hook a finger under the lace bracelets I added to the costume and fuss with them like they’re fashion, not camouflage.
Skin meets bruise.
The tether answers with a cold ripple up my spine, like a hand skimming vertebrae. I shiver, blame the night air, and smile at no one.
“Costume check,” a girl with a cape says, sweeping me from hat to boots. “Witch approved.”
“Blessed be,” I say, and smile because it’s easier than speaking.
Miles puts a can in my hand. “Mostly cider. Do not sniff it. Jamie, if you shotgun by the fire, I’m calling your mother.”
“My mother? Marthalovesme,” Jamie says, glitter bright. “Shit, she’d probably help me.”
We fall into orbit.
Miles ricochets around, delivering drinks and hugs and chargers like a one-man hospitality staff. Jamie drags me to the rail for pictures and announces we’re doing the bridge of a song we screamed in his Corolla at seventeen.
I sway and pretend to drink and pretend to laugh and let the noise stick to me until the hum under my sternum starts pushing back, steady and low.
A pull I can feel in my teeth.
At the deck rail, a row of crows sits like judges. Every time I look at the trees, the dark makes a skull for half a second, then it’s just leaves.
“Bathroom? Drink? Petty commentary?” Jamie asks, reading me too well.
Miles leans in, softer. “You good? Need anything?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, just gonna take a quick walk,” I say. “Lap the trees, be mysterious.”
