He peels the lid back and inside is a single cupcake sitting in a black paper cup with white icing and a scythe pressed into the top in red sugar. The black candle jammed in the middle is the trick kind that relights itself even after you think you’ve won the battle against it.
Reaching into my desk, I pull out a lighter I keep stashed in there for when I’m in the mood to inhale the bitter and sweet taste of cigar into my lungs. I light the candle, watching as the flame dances along the wick, and then I blow.
It fades out only to reignite seconds later.
I blow out the flame again and this time when the flame flickers back to life, a slow smile curves my lips as anticipation for the fight curls up my spine.
The intercom buzzes to life when I press the button on the side of my desk. “Take the boy home.”
Zavid arrives quietly, ushering the boy from the room just as quickly as he came.
I watch the candle burn until the wax runs like blood and the sugar scythe sags. “You want her to see you. You want me to see you. You want all eyes on you, don’t you Reaper?”
She may not be in the room with me, but there’s a dangerous stirring in my gut that tells me she’s hearing every word I say.
I pinch the wick between my forefinger and thumb and watch as it goes out with a little scream. Then I flip it over and stick it wick down in the icing for extra measure.
“It’s too bad, really, that you will not get the spectacle you want. Bring your candles but know that it will do no good. Hers will always burn brighter.”
The bond tightens inside my chest until it feels like a leash I’d kill even the gods to keep.
Three nights, my little rebellious fox. Three nights, then I claim you in front of the world.
twenty
Cressida
All Hallows Eve
Thepastmonthhasbeen a fever dream I haven’t woken up from. Not in a bad way, but more of a what-the-actual-hell-is-my-life kind of way. One minute, I’m living with the trauma ghost of my dead best friend, and the next, in a plot twist nobody saw coming, she’s alive and moonlighting as the Reaper, dealer of forbidden drugs and destroyer of worlds.
Out there somewhere, Giselda is playing her twisted little games and people are dying because of it. Some of them don’t even know they’re on her chessboard until the blood is already pooling under their feet.
We’ve spent the last week hunting her and stalking leads until our eyes burned, yet we’re no closer to her than before. Each lead we chased peeled back another layer of the girl I thought I knew,revealing something darker, colder. The city keeps bleeding under her scythe, and I keep waking up with Konstantin’s heartbeat banging against mine like a fist on a locked door.
But in between all the hunts, all the blood, is a bond that refuses to quieten. We’ve found time to strengthen it. To carve out space for our relationship. I’ve been going on full-blown, candlelit, stalker-vibe dates with a Bratva boss who stares at me like I’m his salvation and his ruin all at once. Konstantin has been . . . sweet. Not in the flowers-and-rainbows kind of way. No way in hell. That’d be too boring for either of us. He’s been sweet in the ‘I had the head chef of a five-star restaurant flown in just to make you pumpkin ravioli and then growled at anyone who looked at you for too long’ kind of way.
Konstantin worships me and sometimes it’s so intense that I don’t know whether to cry or combust. But it’s not all romance and heated nothings whispered in my ear. There’s still the looming weight of Giselda. The bond that’s been brewing between Kon and I, and the way my abilities keep pulsing—sharper, stronger, like my lie detection’s starting to dig into people’s souls instead of just skimming the surface.
And still tonight, right now on All Hallows Eve, this girl who loves horror movies, and bonfires, and peeling latex scars off her face at midnight is walking into a cathedral to bind herself to a monster. Because nothing says spooky, twisted, fated fairytale like swearing eternal loyalty in a candlelit cathedral while ghosts metaphorically scream from the pews.
My favorite holiday and my favorite bad idea all rolled into one.
What more could a girl ask for?
They say you know who you are by the time you get married.
If that’s true, then I’m vengeance in black satin, rebellion stitched in lace, and stubborn as hell in combat boots.
The cathedral is hauntingly beautiful. Stone arches with vaulted ceilings, stained glass that bleeds color across the floor like a kaleidoscope of sins, and more lit candles than you’d find at a seance. The aisle is long and dramatic. Ridiculous really, but it’s fit for queens and monsters. Which is perfect since I wear both labels proudly.
Konstantin insisted on the cathedral because it’s tradition for him and I insisted on the colors for my act of rebellion against it.
Black wedding dress with blood-red flowers.
I look like a gothic fairytale villain, and I love it.
Kingston stands at the closed doors, waiting to walk me down the aisle. He takes one long look at my gown, at the boots, at the ink-black veil combed into my hair, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes run over me again, his scowl sharp, but behind his eyes, I find that wicked laughter.
