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For a second, I’m almost too outraged to speak. “TheBishop?”
“Yea.”
“Zacharyis in New York?”
“Yea, man.” Iakov laughs, a bark of laughter like the growl of a wolf. “Hold on, man, gotta go. Your girl’s doing body shots, Fletch, and she’s got my girl between her tits.”
My mouth drops open, and I don’t have time to even formulate a response. Iakov’s already hung up.
By the time myprivate cab stops at the foot of Sophie and Evan’s apartment building in Tribeca, I’m practically seething with fury. The fact that every last one of the Spearcrest Kings—a group of friends whichIcreated, from scratch, with my bare hands—are in New York, at this party,with Willow, and that Istillwasn’t invited is a slap to the face. I might not be a jumbled salad of emotions the way the rest of them are, but I can still sense an insult when one is dealt.
Inside, I find Sophie and Evan’s apartment door wide open, music blaring out. Every room is filled with people in costumes dancing to trite Halloween music. The lights are off, strings of coloured flashing lights strung along the ceiling, turning the space into a kaleidoscope. The smell of perfume and sweat andalcohol is thick in the air, and warm bodies bump into me as I boulder my way through the apartment in search of a particularly heinous witch.
I find her next to the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. She’s dancing with Iakov and Theodora, all three of them looking absolutely ridiculous, while the Blackwood siblings watch on with fond smiles from the height of their elegant superiority.
I’m not looking at any of them—all I can see is Willow.
Her witch hat dangles from her shoulders by its black ribbon, her skin gleams with sweat. Her mouth is open wide with laughter, and the drink she’s holding in her hand splashes down her arm, running over the nightshade flowers tattooed over her scars. The red pentagram on her chest is now a smear of crimson sparkles.
She looks like a mad witch, she looks like every wet dream I’ll ever have.
I go to her without even pausing to greet my old school friends; I take her by her flushed face, fingers plunging into her sweat-streaked hair, and I kiss her full on her laughing mouth for no other reason than I want to so badly I could shatter like glass from the want.
Her eyes widen for a second, and then she melts into the kiss, laughing into my mouth. She throws her arms around me, plastering the length of her body against mine, her thigh sliding between my legs. She kisses me back sloppily; her tongue tastes like vodka and pomegranates.
“You’re lucky all your friends are taken,” she slurs into my ear when we finally break our kiss with a wet gasp. “They’re allsomuch hotter than you.”
“None of them have what it takes to handle a woman like you,” I reply in her ear. And then, dragging her with me by her waist, I turn to address Iakov and Theodora with frosty hostility, “Keep your hands off my witch, both of you.”
Theodora, dressed like a pretty pirate, shrugs and turns to Iakov, who is now aggressively waving his head up and down, a bottle of vodka in his fist, his skeleton make-up smeared. Iakov catches Theodora under his arm, and the two of them dance away, waving their heads like lunatics—but in perfect synchronicity.
“Blackwoods.” I greet Zachary and his sister on my way past them.
“Fletch,” Zachary answers with a smirk. He somehow manages to retain all his dignity despite wearing a matching pirate costume to his girlfriend.
“Willow’s weirdo boyfriend.” Zahara greets me back with a sneer. She’s dressed in a red dress and long red hood, and there’s red glitter smeared around her mouth and nose—presumably from the body shots.
When I drag Willow past her, Willow throws out her arm to catch Zahara’s, howling, “Zarooo, let me be your wolf, I’ll eat you right up!”
Zahara laughs huskily. “I’ll text you the address to my hotel room.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, pulling Willow away from Zahara with a glare aimed right at Zachary. “Keep your sister away from my girl, Bishop.”
“Zaro does what she wants.” Zachary laughs and shrugs. “Youkeepyourgirl away from mine, Fletch.”
I turn and am almost thrown off my feet when Sev, a crown askew across his forehead, throws his arms around both me and Willow. He kisses my cheek and then Willow’s and meets my glare with a radiant smile. His lips are smeared with blue glitter.
“Ça va, les amoureux?” he asks blithely. And, without waiting for an answer, he adds, “I’m engaged, by the way!”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve been engaged since Spearcrest.”
“His fiancée is a mermaid,” Willow whispers in my ear in tones of awe.
The mermaid in question appears, lacing her arms around Sev’s waist and propping her chin on his shoulder. With her milky contact lenses and the long ribbons of her dark hair and the blue swirls of glitter across her face, I can understand why Willow thinks Anaïs Nishihara is an actual mermaid.
Sev, drunk and beatific, continues, “No, I mean, we’re actually engaged. I asked her, I actually proposed, properly this time, and she didn’t even sayno!”
“She should have,” I tell him.
