Page 28 of House of Hearts

New fear unlocked: a ghost jumping me in the shower.

It’s ten times worse as I walk through the Little Garden Halloween night.

Emoree always believed Halloween was a bridge between the living and the dead, and I hate to admit I’m starting to believe that, too.

After recent events, it doesn’t seem all that far-fetched to believe there’s a thin veil between both worlds, that someone might easily pull back the curtain and cross to the other side.

The whole campus shivers with the late-October chill.

There are fog machines spurting thick mist in a variety of wild colors, bright pink burning into neon orange.

Paper lanterns illuminate the outdoor walkways, and streetlamps are festooned with cornstalks and ribbons.

Every street features stacks of pumpkins, their faces carved out with the jagged edge of a knife.

“The Cards went all out this year,” Birdie tells me with a swish of tulle.

She’s a dead bride tonight, her skin tinged an asphyxiated blue and her eyes hollowed in black.

Her costume might be straight out of a Tim Burton movie, but her image sends me back to the ghost in the shower room, her skin bloodless and strange.

“ You went all out this year,” I shoot back, gesturing at the product of nearly two hours of work.

I’m intimately aware of how long it took to assemble her outfit because I was there for every second of it.

From the slathering of paint on her arms to the white streaks of exposed ribs, fake bone curling out from a sheared hole in her gown.

“Do I look terrifying?”

I’ve seen terrifying plenty of times at this academy, and I can safely say she’s not even close. I give her a thumbs-up anyway. “You look amazing.”

Quieter now, she leans in to ask the real question. “Are we going to talk about your plan?”

My plan has been tweaked several times over since I first brought it up in the clubhouse, but the morbid essence of it remains the same: Halloween night, when the campus is a riot of strobe lights and fog machines, we’ll use the distraction to get into the Hart family mausoleums and scour the grave sites for Percy.

It’s not the best look to go in as a large group with shovels, so we’ll be splitting up.

The bulk of the group will be on “distraction duty,” and Sadie, Birdie, Calvin, and I will split up between the four mausoleums to see what we can find. Which, unfortunately, could be nothing at all.

“I have no idea what Tripp has arranged, but I’m willing to bet it involves contraband fireworks and God knows what else.” I snort. “?‘Illegal explosives’ has his name written all over it.”

“All he said was ‘You’ll know the sign when it happens,’ which is infuriatingly vague,” Birdie says as she adjusts her wig. “I won’t lie, this whole thing is freaking me out a bit. Between the séance and you seeing ghosts and all this paranormal stuff. I know we signed up for it, but, God.”

She leads me through the Little Garden, and all around us, the air is alive with the smoke of a bonfire.

Kids swarm around, their outfits ranging from cheap gags to all out masterpieces.

A toilet paper mummy sits beside an impressive Frankenstein; a realistic siren saunters past a Party City Wednesday Addams.

Our whispering is cut off by the sound of Amber’s real-life banshee wail when she sees us.

She’s in full Big Bad Wolf attire—a white granny wig, old-lady curlers, and a whiskered “snout” of brown and black eyeliner.

Oliver’s eyes are ( finally ) shot with exhaustion, but he’s still putting on a good show of matching his girlfriend.

He’s her very own Little Red tonight, with an exaggerated long hood and a wicker basket in his hand.

“How did I just know you wouldn’t be in costume?” Amber jabs an accusatory finger my way and points out my incriminating red-and-white-tartan skirt and black tights. “One of the few nights you can ditch this uniform, and you’re still in it? On Halloween, of all nights? Have you no shame?”

“I have a lot, actually,” I argue, with a poke to her inflated cheeks. “Which is why I’m not borrowing another outfit from you. If you recall, the dress from Joker Night was trashed at the end of it.”

“So? Dry-cleaning exists,” she tuts before rummaging around in her bag and whipping out an eyeliner pencil. “Here, make yourself a cat or something. This is ridiculous.”

“Fine, yes, Mom,” I relent, uncapping the black pencil and quickly streaking three cat whiskers on each cheek and a black dot on my nose. “Happy?”

“It’s half-assed, but at least you’re not completely costumeless.”

Music floats up from an army of outdoor speakers; it’s a classic playlist composed of songs like “Monster Mash” and “Thriller.” Whoever is DJing for the night is hit with boos as a censored song blasts over the speakers—granted, the boos are coming from a kid in a white ghost sheet, so it’s hard to tell whether he’s actively pissed or super in character.

The next thirty minutes are spent entirely at Amber’s whim.

There are seven thousand group photos in a Halloween-themed photo booth, followed by a traumatizing attempt at bobbing for apples in a steel tub (hello, transmittable germs).

It’s only when Amber tries dragging us to make bonfire s’mores that I’m able to break away.

“Actually, do any of you know where Calvin is?” I ask, and no matter how nonchalant I try to sound, my question is still met with a jostle to my ribs and Amber’s “ ooooh! ”

“I think I saw him at the gazebo,” Oliver answers beneath his red cape. “He’s so loud he’s usually hard to miss.”

If I had any humor left in me, I might chuckle at that, but with the shower nightmare still lingering in my mind, the only thing I can think of is the plan ahead.

I’m careful to not draw suspicion as Amber turns around, giving Birdie a silent plea to come find me when she’s able to.

Once we’re all assembled, we can wait for whatever wild thing Tripp has planned for his “signal.”

It doesn’t take long at all for me to find Calvin sitting inside a crowded gazebo. The ceiling is draped in ropes of ivy tangled up from the latticework sides and a string of fairy lights hanging from the rafters.

Calvin’s dressed for the weather as a vampire in a red velvet fitted coat, a billowing cape, and ruffled sleeves. The costume suits him too well. His eyes skirt over mine in the dark, and I ease into the empty space beside him.

“You make me feel overdressed,” he jokes, and his gaze lingers a little too long. “A cat, huh?”

I sniff to mask my embarrassment. “Don’t ask, Lockwell.”

“Claws out already?” he taunts. “You’re in luck. I like it when a girl is feisty.”

“That’s too bad because I like my men silent.” I retract my imaginary claws and ball my fists against my knees. “What made you choose Dracula tonight?”

“There’s something alluring about becoming someone else for a night,” he answers wistfully, tipping his head back to soak in the moonlight. “I’m sure if you asked Sadie, she’d psychoanalyze that statement and rip me to shreds, though.”

“I could, too, if you gave me a minute.”

His lips curl wryly. “I know better than to give you a second.”

His eyes are trained on me as I hear the ring of a cocky junior blowing into the mouth of a dumped-out glass Coke bottle. “All right, spin the bottle. Who’s first?” the guy taunts, puckering up for the air. His fake kiss has some other guys breaking out in laughter.

“What are we? Twelve?” a girl taunts with a roll of her dark eyes.

“Twelve and a half.” The original guy grins. He scans the crowd desperately before his shit-eating grin lands on Calvin.

“Cal, why don’t you kick us off? C’mon, man, that will get the girls to stay.”

Calvin throws me a sheepish look, his Casanova attitude momentarily set back to an expression I’ve rarely seen on him: anxiety.

“I…I’m not sure.” He winces, wiping a bead of sweat from the back of his neck.

“Calvin, Calvin, Calvin!” The circle has started chanting for him like a guy at a college frat party being told to chug.

“Worried about your girl being upset?” someone jeers, and now I instantly recognize the emotion on his face. Horror. The disgust of anyone assuming I’m of any importance to him.

“Thought you lived for this kind of thing,” I retort icily. What was it that he said back when we first met? I’d never dream of kissing you.

My cheeks burn, and my throat feels horrifically dry all of a sudden.

“Anyway, if you’re going to do it, do it fast. We need to be out of here when Tripp gives the signal.”

He arches a brow, and it’s clear he’s searching for something in my eyes, but for what, I couldn’t say. Whatever it is, he seems to reach some final verdict and nods grimly to himself, gulps, and then plasters his typical playboy persona back on.

“All right, then,” he announces with a cocky gleam in his eyes. “I’ll bite.”

He probably does , a wild part of me muses, and I’ve never been so relieved that my thoughts are trapped in my head.

Some girls I don’t know chitter like a flock of lovesick birds. Preening and fluttering in hopes of catching his eye. It’s a record-scratch moment as he leans in and grabs the bottle, everyone frozen in anticipation and pleading with the gods that it will point their way.

It spins and spins and spins some more, and when it finally lands, it’s so close to me that even I need to catch my breath.

But it isn’t me. That’s clear from the sharp gasp and giggles to my left. The chosen girl smooths a wayward strand and tucks it shyly behind her ear. She’s pretty—warm, sun-kissed skin, hair in an immaculate fishtail braid, her face painted with iridescent mermaid scales.

He cradles her cheek, leaning in only after she gives a shy nod. It might be all of five seconds, but it lasts a lifetime in my head. I’m consumed by the sight of his lips pressing against hers and the brush of his fingertips against her face.