“The beak breaks the shell. The shell bleeds truth,” he says. “Blood must be offered to enter the aviary.”
My soul briefly leaves my body to go Google what the fuck he just said. The vibe he’s giving is somewhere between ‘guy who talks to mannequins’ and ‘guy who might keep teeth in a jar.’
I get the sudden, overwhelming urge to gift him something, the way villagers used to leave out food for gods they didn’t want to piss off.
I reach into my purse and pull out the emergency candy bar I’ve been saving for my next sobbing-in-a-parking-lot moment. “This is for you,” I say, smiling the way people smile when a bear sniffs their picnic basket.
He accepts it with the trembling reverence of a man touching God’s toenail. “The nougat will silence the feathers. For now. The beak will remain clean until the solstice. The pecking shall commence.” Then he bows like I’ve just knighted him with chocolate. “Tell the knives they are remembered. The coop never forgets.”
I stare at him like he just offered me a prophecy wrapped in poultry shit and hallucinogens. “Uh-huh.”
I swear to God I hear faint windchimes as he slips back into his apartment.
The door creaks closed behind him.
I stare at the empty hallway.
“I need more therapy.”
But now. Kira.
I pull out the bottle of glitter slime with the flair of a feral art witch who’s just been blessed by a poultry cryptid, because that’s exactly who I am now.
I unscrew the lid and flick fat globs of sparkly, viscous warning all over the door. It spatters over the lipstick, trails down around the blade, oozes like Barbie blood. Then I toss a handful of loose glitter on top for garnish.
Now the door reads like a cursed Valentine’s card from a sleep-deprived banshee.
I smile. Job done.
Sticker heart. Threat energy. Glitter crimes.
Check that off the list.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jett
The knock is soft. Too soft for her.
My jaw clenches as I stalk to the door, blood still dried on my knuckles, her pink scrunchie riding my wrist like a goddamn collar. I yank it open without a word.
She’s there. In my fucking hat. Wearing a pink sundress, barely covering her ass. Heels. Thigh highs. And in her hand? My glove.
Black. Fingerless. Cursed now, probably.
She’s not smiling. Not really. Just watching me like she already knows what’s about to happen and daring me to pretend I can stop it.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
That’s all I give her. One last out.
Her yes isn’t even a word. It’s a smirk. A tilt of her chin. A heartbeat of silence. Then a whispered, “Yeah.”
I snap.
One second she’s in the hallway, the next I’ve yanked her inside by the waistband of her skirt. The door slams behind us with a hollow bang, the lock clicking like an executioner’s bell. I shove her back against the wall, one hand braced above her head, the other already fisting in her stupid cotton-candy hair I can’t stop dreaming about.
“You wore the hat,” I growl, breath ragged. “You wore the fucking hat.”
