Page 15

“I’m not really a partier…” I grimace as she slips on the new shirt.

Elodie flips one of her long corkscrew tendrils out of her face. “Don’t care,” she says. “You’re going.”

“I just unpacked,” I try instead. “You saw what I have—I didn’t think I’d need that many clothes since there’s a uniform—”

“You can borrow something from me.” Her eyes glitter with intent, and she props her hand on her hip once more. “You’re not getting out of this, so I suggest you accept your defeat with grace.”

With a groan, I flop back onto the bed, blowing out a second breath as a lone silver-white strand of my hair falls directly over my lips and eyes.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. Ipswich is a fresh start, after all, and what better way to enter the next chapter of my life than going to a college party?

Normalcy. That’s what I wanted, right?

Even as I contemplate that last strained, hopeful word, I can’t escape the truth. The dream I’d had last night is another reminder. Ghost stories and dead witches aside, I’ll never be truly normal again. Anything from the last year and this point on is simply a mask I wear to fit in with the rest of the world, because the last place I belonged burned down a long time ago.

CHAPTER 6HAVEN

There is something extraordinary about him, Trish. I can’t explain it. It’s as if my soul has found its mate. I know this wasn’t planned, but I’m already pregnant, and he asked me to marry him. I said yes. The thought of rejecting him physically pains me. I love him, and I think he loves me too.

—EXCERPT OF A LETTER WRITTEN BY JENNIFER WARDWELL TO HER SISTER

A few hours and a few failed attempts to get out of it later, I follow Elodie down a dark path through a thickly wooded forest. For the twentieth time in as many minutes, I swat away a buzzing insect that threatens to dig its nasty little teeth into my throat like a miniature, far more annoying vampire. I glare at the back of Elodie’s head, silent promises of retribution stewing as I long for the back seat of the rideshare that dropped us off at the edge of the driveway that led to this path.

Even if the guy’s car had smelled like canned cheese and old cigarettes, I’d take it over the vicious little bugs swarming. “Ugh, how much farther?” I snap.

“Almost there,” Elodie says, humming as she walks surprisingly fast in the strappy sandals she donned before we left.

I smack my arm and wonder why the hell the bugs seem far more keen to suck my blood than hers. “Are you sure we’re even allowed to be out here?”

Elodie’s snort is followed by her answer. “No one cares if we’re out here,” she tells me. “Most townies avoid this place like the plague, but for your information—we were invited.”

“We were?” I dare her to confirm. ’Cause we seemed to be stretching it. “Or you were and I’ve become your unwilling sidekick?”

A crack echoes—like someone’s foot stepping on and breaking a branch. I whip my head around to stare back the way we came. When no one steps out onto the path lit by the moon and Elodie’s phone flashlight, I face forward once more.

“You make a cute sidekick,” Elodie tells me. “Though you’ve got main-character energy with your eyes and hair.” She peers back at me over her shoulder. “Is it dyed?”

As if called forth by her comment, a strand of white hair falls forward into my face, and I blow it out of the way before stepping over a fallen log. “No,” I say with a grunt as another insect sneaks past my defenses and lands on my arm. I slap it and keep walking. Elodie’s only response is a quiet hum. Trying to convince her it might be a better idea to go back is useless, I decide.

“Why do townies avoid this place like the plague?” I ask instead.

The light from Elodie’s phone flashes, blinding me as she turns in my direction. Holding up a hand to ward off the worst of it, I squint back at her.

“Because this is the Bishop family’s property,” she tells me. “It stretches pretty far—well outside of Salem and Ipswich and toward the coast.”

“And what, exactly, are we doing here?” She directs the light forward again, and I blink away the spots dancing in front of my eyes. “I thought you said to avoid the Sons of Salem—isn’t Bishop one of them?”

“Well, yeah…” Elodie’s voice tapers off. I might not be able to see her face, but I can picture the pinched look she must be making as she tries to think of a way to explain her earlier words and current actions in dragging me out into the middle of bum-fuck nowhere for a damn party. It doesn’t take long.

“Ezra Bishop throws a party like this every year,” she confesses. “And sure, I don’t think you should really try to get involved with any of his friends—including Cameron Goode—Ipswich is small, and good parties are hard to come by.” The outline of her shoulders shifts up and down as she shrugs. “A party is a party.”

To say I’m thankful to hear that there aren’t going to be parties like this often is an understatement. In the spirit of being supportive, though, I don’t say as much to the only friend I currently have.

“Okay.” I wave a hand as a loud buzzing sound dives toward me. “That still doesn’t explain why most townies hate coming here—is it because they think these guys are witches or what?”

“Something like that,” Elodie replies. “It’s also because the Bishop property is haunted.”

“Great,” I mutter. Just what I need. “More ghosts.”