Page 117 of Dance With A Devil

Fred shrugs. “You won’t die. Probably.”

“Yeah, this is Devil-grade shit,” Ryan chimes, expertly rolling a second joint. “Infused, blessed, and hexed by our local heathens. Better than church. Better than therapy.”

I eye the bag with suspicion. “Why do I feel like this is the start of my villain origin story?”

Ryan grins like she’s already lit the match. “Because it is.”

I blow out a breath. “I promised Wyck I’d read more if I could skip the party, as long as you two stayed.”

“Aww,” Ryan coos, lunging to throw her arms around me again. “You do love us, sis.”

“Back off, creeper,” Fred grunts, dragging herself into the circle.

Ryan spins and points. “Shut up and get in here. Group hug or I sacrifice you to Onyx.”

“Fine,” Fred grumbles, hugging like she’s allergic to emotion. “But only because I don’t want to die.”

Wrapped in their chaos, I feel it, that tiny flicker of calm in the middle of the madness.

Then I ruin it.

“I don’t think I want to smoke this.”

Ryan freezes mid-roll.

Fred blinks at me like I just pissed in the punch.

“Did she just say… she doesn’t want to?” Ryan deadpans.

Fred crosses her arms. “That’s not how this works. We don’taskpermission. We do what needs to be done.”

“I thought we were a girl gang,” I protest.

“We are. And our girl is about to read shit that’ll skin her from the inside out.” Ryan passes me the finished joint. “So yeah, smoke the damn thing.”

“What will Wyck say when he finds out?”

Ryan cackles. “He’ll drop to his knees and thank us. High sex is a spiritual experience. Trust me.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re both unhinged.”

“Whores,” Ryan corrects. “Say it right.”

“You’re raggedy little bitches,” I counter.

Fred pretends to be offended. “Why amIa whore? I wasn’t even laughing that hard.”

“Because you didn’t defend me.”

“Oh boo-fucking-hoo.”

I groan. “Fine. Whatever. Light it up, let’s see what all the damn hype’s about.”

“Fuckin’ A!” Ryan shouts, punching the air.

“Let’s goooo!” Fred sounds like she’s about to storm a frat house.

“You guys are insufferable,” I mumble, moving toward the closet. “I’m grabbing the journals.”