Page 4 of Trick Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve)

The bartender is almost impossibly beautiful, the kind of gorgeous that makes you aware of all your own flaws.

His features are too perfect to be human, eyes that shift from green to gold to silver between blinks, movements that make pouring a drink look like a choreographed dance.

He’s wearing what might be a vest made of black scales, and his hair is as white as snow.

“Ladies,” he says with a deep voice. “Welcome.” Then he gestures to a menu that materializes on the bar’s surface, written in golden script. “And what can I start you with?”

Sera and I lean in to read the options ranging from Moonlit Venom to Dragon’s Breath to Phoenix Fire and so much more.

“Siren’s Song sounds safe-ish?” I suggest.

“Safe is relative here,” the bartender says. “But it’s a good starter. Won’t permanently alter your perception of reality.”

“That’s reassuring,” Sera says dryly. “Two Siren’s Songs, please.”

He reaches for a bottle that definitely wasn’t there a second ago, pouring from a height that should splash everywhere but creates a perfect stream.

The liquid is silver-white and literally glowing, leaving trails of light in the air.

When the man slides the glasses over to us, frost spreads across the marble in their wake.

“To making terrible decisions in beautiful dresses,” Sera says, lifting her glass.

“To not dying at our first fae party,” I counter.

“That’s the spirit. Low bars are easier to clear.”

We clink glasses and drink. It tastes like… I don’t have the words. Sweet and citrusy with a strength that lingers on my tongue with a hint of bubbles. Cold that burns down my throat but leaves warmth spreading through my chest and into my limbs.

“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, that’s dangerous. I could drink five more.”

“Right? I can feel my inhibitions dissolving. This is fantastic.” Sera takes another sip. “I might actually tell Rich how I really feel tonight.”

“You mean instead of just jumping him?”

“I can do both. I’m a multitasker.”

“Speaking of Rich…” I start, but Sera’s already gone rigid beside me, her grip on her glass tightening.

“Don’t look behind us,” she says.

So, naturally, I turn around.

Richard Voss is crossing the room toward us, and I hate him a little bit for how good he looks doing it.

He moves through the crowd like a god, people stepping aside.

Tall enough to tower over more, built like someone who kills professionally but makes it look easy.

His hair is dark and a little too long. His eyes are nearly black.

He’s wearing a tailored suit the color of midnight, because of course he is.

“He’s coming this way,” I whisper.

“I know,” Sera whispers back. “Do I look okay? Is my lipstick smudged? Can you tell I’ve been thinking about him naked for two months?”

“Yes to all three, but in a good way.”

“Hello, little witch.” He stops directly in front of Sera, ignoring me completely, which is fine, because the intensity of his focus on her is making me blush.

“You absolute bastard,” Sera breathes, but she’s already leaning toward him. “Two fucking months without a word.”

“I missed you too,” he says softly, and then his hands are in her hair, her arms are around his neck, and they’re kissing like the world is ending.

Not a polite “hello” kiss. Not even an “I’ve missed you” kiss.

This is an “I’m going to devour you, and you’re going to thank me for it” kiss.

His hand fists in her elaborate updo, probably destroying hours of work.

Her nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that I’m concerned for the suit.

Someone behind us whistles. Someone else applauds .

They don’t care.

When they finally come up for air, Sera’s lipstick is somehow intact. Definitely magic.

“Erynn,” she gasps without looking away from him, “I’m going to?—”

“Go.” I wave them off. “I’ll be fine. Try not to destroy any furniture. This place looks expensive.”

“No promises,” Rich adds, and the look he gives her should come with a warning label. He nods at me once, the most acknowledgment I’ve ever gotten from him, then leads Sera away with a hand on her lower back that’s somehow more intimate than the kiss.

“Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” I call after them.

And then I’m alone at a bar in a fairy-tale mansion, surrounded by strangers in masks and shadows, holding a drink that tastes heavenly.

“Another?” the bartender asks, and there’s sympathy in his shifting eyes.

“What’s good for ‘my best friend just abandoned me for her mysterious, probably assassin boyfriend and I haven’t been to a party in years’?”

He considers this seriously, lips pinching to one side. “Phoenix Fire. Burns away the awkwardness, gives you confidence to mingle.”

“Sold.”

He pours something that’s actually on fire. It’s beautiful and terrifying, gold and red swirling together in the glass.

“How do I…” I gesture at the flames.

“Just drink through them. They won’t burn if you’re meant to be here.”

“And if I’m not meant to be here?”

“Then you have bigger problems than a flaming cocktail.”

Fair point. I take a sip, flames licking at my nose. It tastes like cinnamon sugar. My spine straightens, my shoulders go back, and suddenly the dress doesn’t feel too revealing.

“Better?” the bartender asks.

“Much.” I grin, then finish the glass and set it on the counter.

I offer a grateful smile and turn toward the ballroom. Time to explore and see what a fae party has to offer.

The space is nothing like I imagined. I thought maybe chandeliers, some kind of magical elegance. But this is wild. Colors shimmer in the air like heat mirages. Music pulses from nowhere and everywhere. The energy is alive.

I linger at the edges, taking it all in. It’s a lot, but not in a bad way.

A few spirits drift nearby, transparent, soft-edged, watching. They don’t bother me. Most don’t, unless I call to them. And often I don’t even see them unless they’re attached to someone.

But then something shifts.

The air thins, tightens. A slow, cold crawl slides along the back of my neck.

I turn just as he enters the ballroom.

Tall. Devastatingly handsome. Dark hair brushes just above his shoulders. His suit is immaculately cut, but it doesn’t make him look polished. It makes him look dangerous. His jaw is clenched, mouth unsmiling, eyes scanning past everyone like the party is a distraction he’d rather not be part of.

People move around him. He doesn’t try to blend in.

And before I can talk myself out of it, I step directly into his path.

He stops.

His gaze lifts to me. “Apologies,” he murmurs, already shifting to move around me.

“You’re looking for death… Oh, crap, sorry, that came out way more ominous than I meant.

” I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“I get this vibe around you, like death is circling, looking for something. Sometimes the dead are so loud I forget to filter what comes out of my mouth. Occupational hazard.” I smile and turn away, feeling dumb for blurting out such things. Most people don’t appreciate it.

“I do seek death.” His voice stops me .

I glance back. He’s still watching me, but his gaze has dropped to my ears.

“You’re fae,” he says, eyes narrowing.

“Half fae, full-time ghost whisperer, part-time bad-decision maker,” I say with a grin. “But in truth, I was gifted with a connection to the afterlife.”

He hesitates. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then?—

“I’m hunting a pair of daggers. They are made of an ancient magic that predates this world, and they are deadly to anyone they encounter. Do you sense anything like that here?”

“Honestly? Parts of this place reek of death; many of these people have killed, and others are thinking about it.” I stare at the crowd, rubbing my temple.

“Your murder daggers could be right in front of me, and I’d probably miss them in all this supernatural noise.

But hey, if they’re that dangerous, I really hope you find them before someone decides to test them out at the party. ”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, seeming unsatisfied but not being pushy.

I’ve never been great at tracking down lost objects… so I slip away.

I step a little farther into the room and immediately catch sight of something in the back corner. A crowd gathered around someone, laughing and gasping at whatever is happening .

So I make my way toward the crowd, curiosity pulling me forward.

But as I get closer, I can feel old magic, real, the kind that makes the air taste like copper and blood.

The woman at the center of the crowd is probably sixty, or possibly six hundred because with real magic, age becomes negotiable.

Her silver hair is piled in an elaborate style held with pins that are definitely bones, tiny ones that might be from birds or something smaller.

Her dress is midnight-blue velvet that doesn’t reflect light so much as swallow it, and every finger bears a ring.

“Now then,” the woman says, voice low and as rough as grave dirt. “Who among you remembers what Halloween really is? Not the parody that many peddle with candy and plastic bones—but the truth beneath the costume.”

No one answers.

“Halloween,” she says, “is not a celebration. It’s a reckoning. The dead don’t need an invitation tonight. They’re already listening. Waiting. Watching. Because this is the hour when the rules weaken. The stories you forgot try to remember themselves. The things you buried dig back to the surface.”

A sharp prickling spreads over my skin. I don’t need the reminder; my awareness is already shifting. That buzzing at the edge of hearing, the pressure in the air that tells me the afterlife is closer than it should be.

She lifts a crimson apple from a basket full of them at her feet.

“Tonight, illusions rot. Fate demands payment in truth. If you dare ask her questions, she will answer.”

Someone in the back speaks up. “Is this some kind of spell?”