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“Stay out of trouble,” she says.

And then she climbs out and slams the door shut and gives me a little half-hearted wave before walking around to the trunk to collect her suitcase. I watch her in the rearview mirror, memorizing all the little movements that have started to become familiar to me—the way she pushes her hair back from her neck, the way she tucks her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket, the way she stands with one hand on her hip, looking down at her phone.

Then she looks up, suddenly, and meets my gaze in the mirror. I jerk it away, my heart pounding.

Don’t let her go.

I can’t tell if the voice is from the gods or my own desperate thoughts. Either way, I don’t listen. I watch her wheel her suitcase up to the entrance of the inn, her eyes still on her phone. When she disappears inside, I pull the car away from the curb, taking deep, steady breaths, breathing in the humanity spilling out of the buildings. If I concentrate, I can still sense her, a beacon rising out of the noise.

Yes, I’ll wait until after Halloween to take my revenge. It’s only a few days away, and I need time to make my plans anyway. I can get creative with this if I want.

And I can watch over Penelope, a ghost she won’t even know is here.

21

PENELOPE

The Clifwell Inn is a lot fucking nicer than the motel I stayed at last night. There’s a proper lobby with antique furniture and an ornate front desk and a filigreed water dispenser filled with cucumbers and mint to infuse the water. Halloween decorations everywhere, too: lots of dark Victorian gothic knickknacks and fake cobwebs and a big animatronic witch that cackles when I walk past.

Adrian texted me the room number while I was driving into Clifwell with Victor, and I head straight for the stairs, my fingers tight around the suitcase handle. I keep thinking about Victor watching me from the rearview mirror of his car, how my skin prickled beneath the weight of his eyes. I keep thinking about how I almost didn’t want to get out of the car at all, how I almost told him to keep driving until the gods sent another sudden snowstorm to trap us together.

But I didn’t. He’s a Hunter. I will not get moony over a Hunter, especially a Hunter who fucking killed someone while I was asleep one building over.

The fact that him whispering about it to me made me come harder than I ever have before in my life—well, that’s irrelevant. I don’t date Hunters, because I know firsthand how heartbreaking it is to love one.

I drag my suitcase up the carpeted stairs, follow the signs pointing to room eight, Adrian’s room. It’s at the end of the hallway, next to a window that looks out on the street below. I glance out, half-hoping to see Victor’s shitty car.

It’s not there.

Focus, I tell myself. The last forty-eight hours were a detour. I’m back where I need to be. Victor’s gone. I’ll never see him again.

God, why does that thought make me feel so damn sad?

I rap on the door, probably harder than I need to. It takes Adrian forever to answer, although I can hear him shuffling around inside. When he finally does, he only opens the door a crack.

“C’mon, man,” I say. “It’s me.”

Adrian’s eyes narrow through the crack between the wall and the door. “You shall no longer take things at second or third hand,” he says flatly.

Immediately, panic surges up into my chest. Something’s wrong if he’s using our code, and it takes me a minute to remember what this particular line means. He’s asking if I’ve been compromised. At least I remember the all-clear easily.

“I have heard what the talkers were talking—” I don’t need to finish. Adrian swings the door open and ushers me inside, slamming the door shut as soon as he can. Then he slumps up against it, letting out a long, slow breath.

“What’s going on?” I let my suitcase drop to the floor, my heart hammering. Adrian pushes his hands through his shaggy hair. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look this shaken up.

“You didn’t see any cops in the lobby, did you?”

My skin goes cold. “No. I didn’t see cops anywhere. Adrian, what’s going on?”

Victor. Well, Victor and his murder back at the Mountain Thistle Motel. My stomach knots up with a sick, cloying dread, and I hate myself for even entertaining the notion that Victor’s Hunter bullshit wouldn’t get connected back to me somehow. Hell, maybe he lied from the beginning. Maybe he put my name down when he registered. Maybe he fucking planted my hair or⁠—

“I don’t know, exactly.” Adrian pushes off the door and paces across the room, which, like the rest of the inn, is gorgeous. A big window that looks down at the street below, two impeccably made-up queen beds, a fucking fireplace in one wall. “But Sarah told me there are a bunch of cops up at Wolrath’s house.”

My throat goes dry. Sarah. Adrian’s contact, the one who works on Wolrath’s staff and who snagged our party invitations.

Maybe this isn’t about Victor’s murder at all, then.

“They know what we’re planning?” I say, hoping to god that’s all it is. Adrian and I can hightail it out of here, and I can pretend the last few days never happened.