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With Christopher’s spell, hearing us should be impossible, but Mom’s ears have always been a curse. They made sneaking Daemon in—or sneaking myself out—next to impossible as a kid. I suck in a breath and hold it as she comes closer, then closer still, and Christopher squeezes my hand. Her face is near enough, I can smell the wine on her breath and feel the warmth of each exhale.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My pulse pounds as she stares directly at me.

Christopher nudges my ribcage and pushes me along the wall, just as she reaches out to touch us. Sterile metal greets her instead. Frowning, my mom glares at the mortician as Christopher continues to push us toward the exit. “Why is her eye messed up?”

“We scoop them out and replace them with glass ones for the visitation,” Sam says. “You caught me as I was preparing her, ma’am.”

“Hmm…” She returns to Martha’s side and bends over, whispering something in her ear that I can’t quite make out. Meanwhile, Christopher and I tiptoe away from the cooling room. As we turn the corner, I watch Mom kiss Martha’s forehead and wipe moisture from her now puffy, red eyes. “You deserved better.”

Straightening, she clears her throat and says to Sam, “You’ll have her ready by sunrise.”

It isn’t a question.

They continue speaking, but I don’t hear it. Christopher pulls me too far away—down the hallway, to a window located in another embalming room. There’s no corpse here, just empty tables and surgical implements. He lets go of my hand, and the spell breaks, turning us visible.

My stomach whirls. Adrenaline surges through my veins as I peek at the open archway and wait for Mom to spot us.

“Ann, we have to go,” Christopher hisses, snapping my attention back to him and the now-open window. Awkwardly, he helps me climb to it, giving me a boost by letting me step onto his hands. It’s not very graceful.

It’s even less graceful when I jump and tumble into the manicured grass.

Christopher follows close behind, rolling into a somersault as he lands like some kind of parkour stuntman.

“Who even are you?” I ask as I brush the dirt and grass off me. Thankfully, my jeans protected my knees, but they still sting a bit.

All smiles, Christopher pulls me off the ground. “You don’t get to be my age without learning a few tricks. Come on. We’re not safe yet.” Holding my hand, he drags me into the parking lot where three cars now sit. My mom’s, Sam’s, and… Christopher’s?

His black sports car looks like a ratty pickup truck from the 1960s—rusty and blue with a flat tire. The glamour flickers as soon as we touch it. Back in the mortuary, dark silhouettes enter the visitation room, and I point to them before scrambling into Christopher’s car. He fumbles with the keys for half a second as those dark silhouettes pass the pulpit, then the pews.

“Come on,” Christopher groans, settling into the leather seat beside mine. He jams his keys into the ignition, and the car purrs to life. The silhouettes vanish for a moment—entering the room with the caskets where there are no windows. Any second now, they’ll emerge at the entry. But it doesn’t matter. Tires squeal as we peel out of the driveway and onto open road, and for the first time all night, my chest loosens and I feel like I can breathe again.

When we reach the highway, Christopher and I exchange a glance.

And then we laugh.

13

WINE AND PUZZLES

“My God, today has been a long day,” Christopher says, carrying an oversized pizza box into the living room. It’s from my favorite pizzeria, although I don’t remember mentioning it.

Barefoot, I sit on the floor in the center of his condo, at a low-lying table that’s sleek and black. He joins me at it, setting the box on his plush white carpet. Next to our feet are two empty wine glasses and a bottle of red so dark it looks like blood.

The wine glugs and sloshes as Christopher dumps his bottle into our glasses, pouring it until they’re obscenely full. My mom would consider it a social faux pas, but after the day we’ve had, I’m not complaining. Hell, I’m not even convinced it’ll be enough.

Christopher is right; today has sucked, and I’m totally drained.

“Is there a reason we’re sitting on the floor and not in the kitchen?” I ask, a little surprised by the choice given how pristine the place looks. He doesn’t give the “I eat like a heathen” vibe.

Christopher smiles at me. “I like to unwind in a very specific way.” He grabs the sides of the table and pulls, yanking off the top to expose a recessed interior. Inside is a half-finished puzzle of what looks to be a stuffed bear with a ribbon around its neck. Cute. Daemon and I used to do something similar when we were younger—except it was building LEGO kits rather than sticking cardboard together. The idea of zoning out, letting our minds rest, and hunting for corner pieces is insanely appealing.

I don’t hesitate. I reach in and pour myself into the task, and Christopher chuckles. “I’m so glad you’re into this. I didn’t think you would be.”

“Puzzles are good distractions.”

“They are.” Christopher sips from his wine glass as I sift through the mountain of mismatched pieces, the sound of scraping cardboard filling the room. Minutes pass in amicable silence.