Authors: Michelle Krys
“Potentially in danger,” I correct her. “They might not even show up. It’s not like they didn’t have plenty of opportunities at the game today.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s just …” She shakes her head, mumbling something under her breath. Not for the first time, I worry that she’s just pretending she’s going over to Jessie’s for an anti-homecoming
Jeopardy!
party. That she’s going to follow me the minute I leave the house. I take her by the forearms and shake her until she looks up at me.
“Seriously, Paige. If the Priory knows anything about me, they’ll know you’re my closest friend. They could take you hostage. It’s hugely unsafe for you to be there.”
“I don’t care about that,” she says, pushing her chin up.
“But I do,” I tell her. “Yeah, my magic has improved, but I’m nothing compared with the Priory. The last thing I need is to have to look after you on top of myself. I won’t even have a chance then. Promise me you’re not going to follow me.”
She’s quiet a moment, her lips pressed into a line as a rogue tear slips down her cheek. Finally, she lets out a slow breath. “Fine. I don’t like it, but fine.”
She twines her fingers with mine and squeezes so hard it hurts, giving me a weak smile that I translate to “Good luck, stay safe, and in case you die, I love you.” It’s a complicated smile.
And then I walk downstairs.
Devon stands in the doorway, sporting the black tuxedo with a powder-blue vest and navy bow tie that we picked out because it both matches my gown and makes his eyes look impossibly blue. I could stand less gel in his hair, but that’s just me being picky—he looks great. And I feel nothing. Despite all my reassurances to Paige and Penny that I didn’t care about Devon, I will admit now that I did worry our date would somehow rekindle my desire for him, and then I’d end up being one of those lame-o girls who takes back her cheating boyfriend. I couldn’t be happier to find that the Devon-fire is safely dead.
Devon’s eyes go from my hair, linger around my on-display bust, and then move down to my legs.
“You look amazing,” he says. And even though I’m his date because there’s no one else left to ask, he actually looks sincere when he says it. “I have this.” He holds up a little plastic box with a corsage made of white orchids.
“Oh!” I turn to retrieve the box with Devon’s matching boutonniere from the coffee table, but Paige is already on it.
Aunt Penny snaps pictures while Devon slips the corsage around my wrist and I fumble to pin the boutonniere to his lapel. It feels silly to be doing all these things with him, and not just because the point of the evening is to lure the Priory out and
not
to make lasting high school memories. Though, if everything goes to plan, I’m sure that’ll happen too.
After hundreds of horribly posed pictures at various locales around the living room, Devon and I head for the door.
“Wait!” Aunt Penny calls to my back.
I spin around. Aunt Penny chews the inside of her cheek, her index finger pressed to her lips.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her eyes flit to Paige and then to Devon before settling on me again. “Just be careful, okay?”
Ew. It’s one thing for Aunt Penny to help out with my hair and makeup but another thing entirely when she gives me sex advice. Cool aunt or no.
“Careful. Yeah, sure.” I snag Devon’s arm to get out of here fast.
“Wait!”
Ugh. I spin around in the doorway. “Yes?”
Aunt Penny opens and closes her mouth as if trying to find the right words. I’m about to blurt out that she needn’t worry, because I’m not having sex tonight, when she finally speaks. “If … if you find yourself in a tough position”—she bites her bottom lip—“you can always call on Alica Frangere.”
Alica Frangere? I’ve never heard of the woman. I exchange confused glances with Paige. “Who’s that?” I ask.
Aunt Penny presses a hand to her temple, a pained look crossing her face.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She waves me away. “Just a headache. Forget about it. You’ll be fine, and have a great time tonight.” When I don’t move, she shoos me to the door. “Seriously, go, have fun.” She smiles so widely I’m forced to believe she’s okay.
Devon links arms with me and leads me outside. I crane my neck to look back inside the house until Aunt Penny closes the front door. He leads me down the three steps as though I’m a fragile doll that might break just because I’m wearing a dress. It’s ridiculous, but then I remember that Bishop and Jezebel are watching somewhere in the falling twilight, and I cling to Devon’s arm like the leading lady in some black-and-white movie all the way down the drive to Devon’s car.
Take that, jerkwad.
All I can say about the drive to Elysian Park, where we’re meeting up for photos with the group who went to Bianca’s party, is thank God for Jay-Z. I don’t know how I ever thought Devon and I were a good match, but in the many instances of awkward silence and stilted conversation that occur in the short drive, it has become very clear that we’re not. We’re
so
not.
Devon circles the parking lot and finds a spot at the rear. He opens my door for me, and that’s where the chivalry ends. He spots his friends climbing out of Jarrod’s car a few rows over and practically sprints over to join.
Right away I see one of the Amy/Ashley twins and Julia with their respective football-player dates, but it’s only as I get closer that I spot Bianca. It’s kind of hard
not
to spot her, with her white-blond hair, tanned skin, and hot-pink, painted-on dress that scoops low at the neck to show off her ta-tas.
Something like anxiety grips me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around her after her sort-of apology. It was much easier when my feelings weren’t so unclear (read: when I hated her guts).
Bianca smiles as I approach, a proprietary arm linked around a disinterested-looking college-age guy with an acne problem who I instantly recognize as Sebastian. He gives me a not-so-subtle up-and-down appraisal that Bianca catches the tail end of, and I can practically see the friendliness drain out of her, like it’s my fault her date is a douche.
She passes a critical eye over my dress. “Nice, did Sears have a sale?” Amy/Ashley laughs, and I shoot her a hard look that shuts her up.
So it’s like that now? Bianca knows my family has a hard time with money, knows
just
what buttons to press.
“That’s funny, Bianca. And I assume you found your dress in the children’s section at Barneys?” I say, bringing to light her little secret. “Because there’s no way that thing”—I circle a finger around her tiny dress—“was made for anyone over ten.”
“Oh, come on, girls,” Jarrod says. He produces a twenty-sixer of Jack Daniel’s from the backseat. “It’s homecoming. Have a shot.”
I cross my arms and look away.
“I’ll have one.” The swish of liquid tells me Bianca’s snagged the bottle from Jarrod. “I’m not a
loser,
after all.”
Must
remember
priorities. Must not punch her in the ovaries.
“Hey, that must be the photographer,” Julia says.
“ ’Bout friggin’ time,” Bianca says. “We’re not paying her just to stand around the parking lot. If we’re late to our dinner because of this I am so going to lose it.
Lose
it
.”
I roll my eyes. At this rate I’d be pleased for the Priory to come swooping in, just so that I can throw Bianca in their warpath.
I’ve almost convinced myself this is true, but when my cell phone buzzes in my handbag, I feel like I might have leaped out of my skin if my corset weren’t so tight. I glance at the caller ID, and my heart picks up its pace. Paige. I casually wander a few steps away from the group to answer.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Any sign of the Priory yet?” Paige asks.
“No, and don’t say the P word. Jessie could hear you.”
“I’m in the bathroom, and I’m just really nervous, okay? Call me as soon as you know what’s going on.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I stow the phone in my purse and rejoin the group for photos.
And then it’s another wonderfully awful forty-minute drive to the Athenaeum in Pasadena, the venue for this year’s homecoming dinner and dance.
A ripple of fear runs through me as Devon leads me to the entrance of the massive white stucco building. Because here’s where I leave my protection behind. It was easy to be sort of confident about this whole thing with a practiced warlock and witch out there watching my every move, but when I go inside, Bishop and Jezebel—and the Family, but they won’t arrive until we
really
need help, so as not to tip off the Priory—won’t follow.
I take a slow breath and remind myself that they’ll be watching closely, that Bishop wouldn’t let the Priory get too close without charging inside to help
I don’t even have to enter the Athenaeum to know that Fairfield High has pulled out all the stops to make this year’s theme come to life.
The stone path leading to the entrance has been transformed into a drawbridge, complete with fully costumed, sword-and-shield-carrying guards standing sentinel at the entrance. As we enter, a herald blows a trumpet draped with a flag, then announces to the room that Lady Indigo Blackwood and Sir Devon Mills have arrived. Next to him, a woman in a crinoline gown plays the harp. It doesn’t stop there.
Inside, the Athenaeum looks like I’ve just stepped into King Arthur’s court. Swaths of deep red fabric hang from the ceiling, gathered in the center by an ornate gold chandelier. Navy pennant banners are slung between each of the turret-peaked white columns that act as a perimeter around the long dining room tables—each of which is draped in alternating red and gold tablecloths and is decked, buffet-style, with everything from whole cooked turkeys to dessert trays, flower garlands laced between the acres of food. But by far the most noticeable of the themed decor is the giant papier-mâché dragon whose spiky green tail snakes around the columns, its fire-breathing head looking out toward the dance floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they passed around samples of the bubonic plague at dinner, for authenticity’s sake.
We mill around inside, admiring the decor, until, at the urging of the herald, we take our seats in the dining room.
I’m not hungry, but I pick at my dinner anyway—strength for battle and whatnot. By the time the butlers (seriously) have cleared the table, there’s still been no sign of the Priory. I do get another call from Paige, though, which I let go to voice mail. The girl can be annoying, God love her.
The soft dinner music cuts out to a DJ, who blasts Top 40 music through giant speakers set up in all corners of the room. The lights dim, and we’re ushered onto a dance floor teeming with artificial smoke and strobe lights. Just like in King Arthur’s court.
Still no Priory.
I must say, it’s hard to find a rhythm when you’re worried about a sorcerer killing you at any moment, but I try, because the whole point is that I appear to be casual, that I don’t look like I’m trying to lure the Priory out so we can reclaim the Bible and kill them.
Minutes turn into hours. The bottle of JD makes the rounds, and soon the dance floor is a writhing mass of teenagers bumping and grinding against each other in a formal-wear orgy.
The end of the night nears, and it becomes obvious the Priory isn’t coming, that they must have been on to our plans, when the music abruptly cuts out. My pulse drums harder than the beat of the club music still echoing in my ears.
But it’s not the Priory—just Mrs. Malone, dressed in an embarrassingly tight sequined dress, tapping the microphone onstage. There’s a table draped in red velvet behind her, atop which sits a large and a small version of the same jewel-encrusted gold crown.
“I trust you’re all having fun?” Mrs. Malone asks, nodding as if she knows the answer already.
The crowd erupts into cheers.
Mrs. Malone smiles brightly. “All right, you’re all probably wondering why I’m interrupting your evening, so I’ll cut to the chase.” She pauses, and the crowd grows quiet. “It’s time to announce this year’s Fairfield High homecoming king and queen.”
Her last words are muffled by raucous applause.
Mrs. Malone waits a moment before holding up a hand for silence. “First, the homecoming king.”
The students roar. Our principal sweeps her gaze over the crowd, clearly loving her part in all the excitement.
“Over one thousand students voted, and it was unanimous: this year’s homecoming king is … Devon Mills!”
Whoa—an underclassman won homecoming king.
The football players lead a “Devon, Devon!” chant, and the rest of the crowd joins in.
“Come on up here, Devon.” Mrs. Malone waves him over.
Devon high-fives his friends before he jogs onstage. He bows low so that Mrs. Malone can place the larger gold crown atop his gelled blond hair, then waves to the audience in his best royalty impression.
Mrs. Malone returns to the microphone. “Doesn’t he make a charming king?” She allows the crowd a moment more of applause. “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for.”
The DJ begins a drumroll.
There’s a commotion on the dance floor, and Mandy Allard is pushed to the front of the crowd, rolling her eyes and smiling widely in her sad attempt to be humble.
Mrs. Malone continues. “It was a close call this year, but the votes are in; this year’s Fairfield High homecoming queen is … Indigo Blackwood!”
The crowd erupts into the same raucous applause that Devon received.
“What?” Mandy and Bianca say together. My jaw is somewhere on the booze-slick dance floor.
I couldn’t agree with them more. Me? A junior? Homecoming queen? After everything that happened? After falling out with Bianca and after befriending the girl everyone thinks is the school’s biggest loser?
It has to be pity, I decide. People feel bad for me because Mom died.
Hands push me forward, and I stumble onstage, squinting against the bright light and the flash of cameras in the audience. I bend down like Devon did so that Mrs. Malone can place the crown on my head. It’s heavier than expected, and I straighten carefully so that it doesn’t topple off. And then, finally, I allow myself to look out at the audience.