24

The crowds filing into Hamm High looked readier for St. Patrick’s Day than Halloween. But it wasn’t Irish green, Dropkick Murphys green, being rocked on every shirt and messenger bag. It was its own shade, a neon green that had swallowed the color palette of the school whole. Pit Viper green.

Fiona sneered from the cab of Filip Moss’s truck. Normally, Halloween was one of her favorite holidays, a chance to listen to a lot of Rob Zombie, hand out candy to tiny Avengers, and go to a party wearing Alice Cooper face paint. This year, though, it felt wrong, and she knew why. All the cutout ghosts and pumpkins in the world couldn’t wipe away Peter’s stranglehold on Hamm’s teens. His presence was like a shadow stretched across her town, dark and long and impossible to get a firm grip on before it slithered away and you were left frightened as to where it might turn up next.

The secrecy that the party flyer commanded had been taken as law—Fiona would only catch muddled snippets of conversation or find shreds of torn-up flyer on the stairwell floor. The green shirts everyone was rocking were only revealed or put on at school, probably to keep parents from knowing about the plans that were in the works for Saturday. Fiona couldn’t pin down any gossip, especially with how she’d been acting lately. She only knew it was happening. They were talking about him, the Pit Viper, her Peter—

“Jones! Hey, earth to Fiona!”

She flinched as Filip snapped his fingers at her like she was some dog. Before she’d become his coconspirator, Fiona had always enjoyed Filip’s company, succinct and edgy metalhead that he was. But like the few other metalheads she’d known, he was proving brusque and unforgiving in his driven state, especially with such a heroic purpose behind him.

“Sorry,” she grumbled. “I just disappeared into my own head for a second.”

“Stay with me here,” he said. “No losing focus. If this guy is as much of a, you know, whatever he is, then we can’t let our guard down for an instant. He’s got us both at a disadvantage.”

She’d told Filip what he’d needed to know, which was most of it. She had admitted to meeting up with the Pit Viper privately and watching him use the Codex Canoris. At first, Filip had been incredulous about a book full of sonic ritual craft, but he’d warmed up to the idea when Fiona had described how Peter was using it to brainwash the teenagers of Hamm (and besides, heavy-metal dudes love a good ancient book of black magic). It was then that Filip admitted he was compromised—that he’d found himself downloading the Pit Viper’s music without meaning to and blasting the album in his truck for days before realizing what it was. He’d just figured he was getting swept up in a fad the way you sometimes did, but the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d known that there was foul play afoot. “It’s like every time I listen to the music, it makes more sense to me,” he’d told her, sneering as he deleted the album from his phone.

The hardest part had been admitting that she’d slept with Peter. Not because of any concept of slut-shame—Fiona was secure in her hungers and wasn’t going to let some dude like Filip Moss make her feel bad about them—but because she felt like she was betraying Peter by telling anyone. Even if it had been a moment of careless passion, it had been their moment, and turning it into a story point that she blurted out to Filip made it feel sordid and cheap. Filip had in turn been decent about it, simply shrugging and mumbling that everyone made mistakes—“Between us, I once smashed Tess Baron.” Still, Fiona felt torn up inside by putting such a meaningful secret out in the open.

“I’m thinking our best option is to cut power to the old mill,” said Filip. “There are still electrical wires running to the property for the motion sensor lights, to keep trespassers away. No electricity, no party.”

“All right,” she said. “Do you want to go after school today, or do we cut?”

“Neither will work,” he said, shaking his head. “Ravers are all amateur electricians. If they’re given enough time, they can rewire any structure. We need to cut the power right before the party, so that they can’t get things up and running at the last minute. That’s when we call in the council. Our folks and the police get there while everyone’s waiting for the party to pop off, and the whole thing gets shut down. Hopefully, people get arrested. Hell, hopefully every kid at Hamm High ends up in a cell, safe and secure. What matters is, this party doesn’t happen. I don’t care how powerful a hypnotist this guy is, I bet he can’t mind-control a bunch of cops with guns raised.”

Fiona sighed. “I still don’t like involving the town council. My father got us into this mess…”

Fillip looked like he was about to snap at her, but at the last minute he stopped himself and did his best to be calm. “I know. I feel you. They definitely fucked us here. But it might be for the best, you know. If we’re paying for our parents’ sins, then maybe they need to lend us a hand.”

Fiona nodded. Deep down she knew that Filip was the one thinking straight; she was clouded by emotion. It was so often the opposite, her gut showing her the right way and making her sure what she was doing was right. But she hadn’t been sure of anything for a while now. Normally, Betty left her emotionally focused, mentally lean. But Fiona had been so terrified by watching Peter drop Edgar Hokes that she hadn’t grabbed her guitar on the way out. Now, Betty was with Peter.

“So how do we keep them from stopping us?” she asked.

“We throw them off guard,” he said, “by distracting the Pit Viper, stopping the show in its tracks. They’re all working for him, and if he’s telling them to stand down or hold off, that buys me precious minutes to make sure our folks get there before they realize what’s happening.”

“Buys you?” asked Fiona. “Where am I during all of this?” Filip nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. “So, bear with me: you’re the one distracting the Pit Viper.”

Fiona sneered. She knew what that meant, and it felt cheap and horrible. “Awesome. I come to you with this, and you make me the bait.”

“Jones, you can’t make this about you,” said Filip. “If this guy wanted to date me, I’d be out there in his lap calling him daddy. But no, I’ll be the guy on my hands and knees in the bushes cutting wires and trying not to get murdered by a bunch of club-kid junkies.” He must have read the look on Fiona’s face, because he raised his palms defensively. “Look, just be at the mill when he arrives. Stop him and ask if you can talk to him. Get him distracted enough that he’ll hold off the party for a few minutes. You don’t gotta blow the guy.”

She winced at his crassness. “What if he doesn’t buy it?”

“He doesn’t have to buy it; he has to give me time,” said Filip. “Don’t get me wrong, Fiona, whatever you want to say or do after we’ve shut down this party is your choice. What matters is, we keep these guys from taking our friends and neighbors.”

Fiona stared out at the crowds in front of the school, huddling and laughing and talking about the Pit Viper, and she wondered how worth saving they really were.

“I have to go to class,” she said, cracking the door and hopping out of the truck. “I’ll be in touch, though.”

“Stay in touch!” called Filip after her. “Don’t disappear on me, Jones! I can’t do this without you!”

She trudged off into school, her head down. She passed Caroline and Horace in the halls, both of whom shot her dirty looks as though they knew about her role in Filip’s plans. Clutched in Caroline’s hand was a half-crumpled flyer; Fiona could just make out the head of the snake on it.

She grimaced. A distraction for Peter. What was she supposed to do, show up in tight black leather like Sandy at the end of Grease? Bring an apple and a bottle of water, really yank on those heartstrings? Could she pull off the “Run away with me” routine again after he’d already decided she wasn’t worth his time? Or would she just have to stand in his way and weep and beg for forgiveness until he either took her in his arms or shoved her to the side?

Thinking about it chapped the edges of her brain. She missed her guitar; without Betty, Fiona felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable, constipated with emotions that needed to be wrung out through rock and roll. It dawned on her that she hadn’t listened to music in days, and she carefully reached for her headphones, fantasizing about some Volbeat or Wolfmother or Dead Kennedys to calm her down. That’s what she needed—a little music, a little personal enjoyment. Then, she could keep worrying about the impending doom coming to her hometown.

She pushed the headphone to her ear and reached for the right, her eyes softly closing in preparation for a soaring riff—

“Yo.”

Her heart shrieked in disappointment as she yanked the headphones off and turned on the person talking to her. Vince, or Swordfish, or whatever the hell he wanted to be called, was at her one side, so close that their elbows brushed. He had a stern look on his face, like he was about to deliver some lousy news to her.

“What’s up?” she said, hoping her voice conveyed her irritation. She had class to go to and music to listen to. She didn’t have time to explain how she knew the Pit Viper—

“Don’t do anything to fuck this up,” said Vince.

“What?” she asked, trying to move away.

He lurched forward, blocking her path abruptly. Fiona stepped back, shaken by his proximity. This close, she could see his solid shoulders and huge hands; she’d forgotten that he’d been the bouncer at Tess’s party, but now it was the only role in which she could picture him.

His head lowered, inches from hers, and he gave her an intense, pointed look.

“Don’t do anything to fuck this party up,” he said, quietly but tersely. He waved a folded piece of white paper under her nose. “You got me? You stay out of this. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I hear lots of things, Fiona Jones,” he said. “I hear about stories from people like Tess Baron and Caroline Fiddler. Stories about you and a person of interest, a certain DJ who’s going to be coming to Hamm this weekend. And neither you nor I need said person being discovered by our parents, or anyone’s plans messed with. Very bad things could happen to people if anyone’s alerted to secret happenings going on in Hamm. Got it? Understand? So just back off, keep your mouth shut. Everything’s fine. Okay?”

She stood fixed to the spot, shock running through her in waves of prickling cold. Vince kept his eyes on hers a moment longer, just to emphasize the gravity of his words, before he turned and walked calmly away.

…

For teenagers in a small town like Hamm, Mischief Night was an important ritual. The night before Halloween was all about unleashing your demons and getting a year’s worth of prank-based revenge on whatever teacher or counselor (or, occasionally, town council member) had made the previous ten months a living hell. It was even somewhat encouraged by the residents of Hamm, locals who made a big show of hiding in the bushes with hoses or hanging signs reading throw an egg—I dare you. Make no mistake, if you got caught TP-ing a house or igniting a bag of dog crap on a front porch, you got hauled back to your parents’ place and made into a spectacle in front of your poor mother. Worse kids, the spray-painters and rock throwers, were even known to spend an evening in the drunk tank at the police station. But they usually came out of it with nothing more than their name in the newspaper and an elevated sense of their own badassery. No charges were ever pressed—to do so would feel like humorless overkill. Teenagers, right?

The general consensus was that Mischief Night took the heat off Halloween, when little kids were out with their parents and prominent locals were throwing parties. Hamm was the kind of town made for trick-or-treating and outdoor decoration displays. The fewer pranks pulled on Halloween proper, the fewer complaints were received by local police from residents furious that their children felt terrorized and their costumes were ruined. The town’s teens, in turn, played along and planned their illegal fun for the thirtieth and their costume parties and slasher-movie marathons for the thirty- first.

But as Fiona left school that Friday, she heard no chortled plans for sophomoric revenge. No one called out that they’d see each other later (wink, wink) or that tonight was going to be killer. Even since her recent self-imposed social exile, she’d still been able to pick up on a rumor or two (plenty of them being about her, of course). Gossip wasn’t hard to intercept at Hamm High—no one was graceful enough to truly keep anything secret, and none of the secrets being whispered were that scandalous.

But this Friday, the escaping crowds were almost eerily quiet. Everyone from her class left school with a sense of duty in their eyes. The most she overheard was the occasional soft- spoken, “Saturday.” Not even Halloween—Saturday.

Everyone was being extra careful, she realized. No one wanted to be the person who blabbed too loudly about the old mill and got overheard by a nosy parent or teacher.

Especially not Fiona.

…

The next morning, Fiona checked her email and phone frantically, and only afterward admitted to herself that she’d been hoping for a message from Peter. Her mind had been circling this day in an ever-tightening orbit, and now that she was at ground zero, she almost hoped that it would all turn out fine. In her fantasy, the email waiting for her explained that he’d canceled the party, booked them a flight, made arrangements to house them in a monastery somewhere where the monks had set up a practice room for them in the basement.

In the fantasy, Peter apologized. He said he’d made a mistake, and that all that mattered now was their future together. He told her that he loved her.

But there was nothing. Fiona hated herself for feeling disappointed.

Her mom and dad had left for that Saturday’s town council function—preparing for the children’s parade downtown— without her. She stared at her mother’s note, telling her to get some rest and requesting her presence later on that night. She could read between the lines: the less Robert Jones had to see his daughter right now, the better. Since their conversation in the city, he’d treated her like she was invisible. Tonight, though, they finally wanted to have another talk, all three of them. This one would most likely be less of a sympathetic confession and more of a hard position on her recent behavior. Too bad she’d be out at the mill, trying to save the town.

She shuddered at the thought of what was ahead of her. Filip’s idea of a diversion sounded fine in practice, but with Peter actually standing in front of her, staring her down, it would be more difficult. She wasn’t sure she could lie to him, much less do so convincingly. If she was going to throw herself at him, it would have to be for real.

If he said yes, she’d do it. Even after finding out what he had intended for Hamm, she’d still run away with him. She’d give it one more chance. Maybe she could make the guy she knew, the brilliant and hilarious dynamo who lived for music, the guy he was all the time. Maybe, with enough nourishment, his noble side would come out on top.

A normal Saturday felt like bullshit given the circumstances, but she tried her best. She made breakfast but felt sick after three bites of a bagel. She flipped on the TV, but the loudmouthed real housewives she found there just made her feel annoyed and anxious. She thought about going for a walk, but the idea of strolling among kids dressed as monsters made her feel out of place and pessimistic. And anyway, where could she go? With only her bike at her disposal, it meant pretty much one place outside of Hamm—the city, which she kept picturing as a maze of gray blocks with huge albino snakes slithering among them.

She sat in her room and blasted music, hoping it could reboot her sanity the way it had done so often in the past. She tried the chiller stuff: the Pixies, Jefferson Airplane, The Hurray For The Riff Raff, Hawkwind. None of it worked. Peter occupied every love song’s melody, loomed behind every bridge and chorus. She could feel his power aimed hungrily at Hamm and imagined him bent over his turntable in that shadowy tomb of a warehouse, his fingertips skimming the pages of his ancient book, his lips mumbling arcane passages. Sound bars leaped on laptops and tape players until the darkness glowed a flickering blue that made his eyes look like twin galaxies…

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked to it excitedly, only to discover Filip calling her.

“What now?” she said.

“Real nice,” said Filip on the other end, a symphony of hammer strikes and yelling in the background. “Why aren’t you downtown? I wanted to go over final plans with you.”

“My parents didn’t wake me up in time,” she said.

“Okay, so come by now.”

Fiona prickled with anger. First he was casting her as bait, now he was ordering her around? If not for her, there wouldn’t even be a plan. “I’ll be there, Filip. Calm down.”

“You’ll be there? You’ll be where, when?”

“I’ll be at the mill right before the party—”

“The Goring Steel Mill covers almost two acres of land,” said Filip. “There are six entrances. Which one are we meeting at, Jones?”

“Jesus, Filip, then I’ll meet you at your place beforehand!” she snapped. “Calm the fuck down!”

There was silence on the other end, and then Filip calmly said, “Don’t be getting cold feet on me, Jones. This is serious.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. “Someone threatened me at school this week! I’m scared I’m going to get beaten to death!”

“Who?” asked Filip.

“A kid named Vince, who Horace calls Swordfish,” said Fiona.

“No idea who that is,” said Filip. “But keep an eye out. If you see him lurking around, let me know. This is good. We’re finding out who he has on his side.”

“Yeah, that’s great, Filip,” she said. “If he comes crashing through my window and smashes my skull in with a crowbar, I’ll text you.”

“Did you think this was going to be easy, Jones?” he said. “Of course we’re getting threatened. Of course people want to hurt us before we stop this. This isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery, dude, this is crime. Nasty characters are involved. People might get hurt tonight. We have to be ready for that.”

“How comforting. Awesome bedside manner, Filip.”

“Don’t get soft on me. Call me if you need me. Otherwise, my place, seven.” Then he hung up. Fiona stormed to her room, shaking her head. She’d been up for just over an hour and already she wished she had never gotten out of bed.

…

The doorbell rang, yanking her out of sleep.

She sat up and wiped crumbs from her eyes. Outside her window, the sky was fading from afternoon to evening and the occasional pod of costumed kids shepherded by a single parent trundled slowly down the street. The parade would be over. Her mom and dad would be home soon.

She’d slept for longer than she’d expected to. It was like her heart was working overtime, and it had wiped her out. She’d lost the day, she realized—lost any chance she had of backing out of Filip’s plans, or even giving up and offering herself to Peter one last time in exchange for her classmates. By now, Horace and Caroline were probably filling their backpacks with glow sticks and Gatorade. By now, Peter’s crew was loading the back of a car, and he was staring past the city skyline and out to Hamm, where his revenge was finally waiting for him.

A bowl of candy was sitting in the foyer by the front door (thanks, Mom), but she found herself holding it out to a FedEx delivery guy, heavyset with nerdy glasses.

“Are you Fiona?” he asked. When she nodded blankly, he handed her a tablet and said, “Sign with your finger.” Then he handed her a large but light box, took a bite-size Mr. Goodbar, wished her a happy Halloween, and went back to his truck.

She took the box back up to her room, stunned and a little worried by its arrival. There was no return address, and the label was home printed. For a second, she imagined a bomb delivered by one of Peter’s cohorts, that PM creep or someone else, but the package’s size and relatively manageable weight didn’t suggest that. She shook it and heard the contents inside flop around amid the rustle of tissue paper.

Fiona used a key to cut the tape on the box and carefully opened it.

From a bed of orange paper and black leather, the Ace of Spades stared up at her. Carefully, her throat swelling and her eyes stinging, Fiona pulled out the custom guitar case, the one she’d lusted after on their perfect day.

A note tumbled from its folds. She bent down, picked it up, and opened it. Inside, in Peter’s scrawl, it said, Samurai of old.

Fiona let out a choked sob. It was a peace offering, an extended hand. He wanted her to know that after everything that had happened, he still wanted Fiona by his side. If she wanted to, she could go to him, put Betty in this case, and then she and Peter could join hands and walk out of this town and into—

She froze. Her romantic fantasy hit a brick wall with a sickening thud.

Betty.

The longer that fact rolled over in her head, the heavier it felt.

She opened her hands, and the leather guitar case fell to the floor.

He had Betty at his place. It was in Peter’s possession.

Fiona’s brow furrowed. Her hands clenched; her fingernails bit into her palms so hard that they oozed blood. Fiona felt one layer of armor after another clap down over her heart, until it was a red-hot mass of riveted steel and spiked chains.

Fuck her classmates. Fuck Filip, fuck her dad, and fuck Hamm. Fuck this guitar case. Fuck all the noble, superheroic aspirations that she was supposed to be doing this for, and fuck what might have been. Peter had Betty, her best friend, the tool with which Fiona had carved her personality out of stone. In a dusty loft in some dank industrial warehouse, Betty was sitting there wondering what the hell had happened to the awesome sister who’d once wielded her. Wondering when Fiona had become just another chick feeling torn up about a shitty guy. Betty was disappointed; no, Betty was pissed. Fiona had resurrected her from her pawnshop limbo only to abandon her in the home of a hot DJ who would probably just add Betty’s hollow carcass to his collection of utterly destroyed gear. And she hadn’t even gotten to be in a band yet.

Was that all there was? Did all those nights of cathartic venting and untamed riffs mean nothing to Fiona? Because it sure seemed like it with Fiona here, messed up over a boy while clutching the expensive gift he’d bought her, pining to be his sweetheart instead of just hunkering down, gritting her teeth, and getting her fucking guitar back.

Fiona realized she was standing again. A glance in the mirror showed cords rising out of her neck. She felt crazy, unhinged, unstable, but then again, given the stakes, she was prepared to lose her mind. This was her gut speaking, and her gut wanted Betty back, now. Now was not the time to brood alone in her room like some emo shmuck who wrote sad songs about the girls he’d cheated on. Now was the time to rock and roll.

She opened her desk drawer and produced her girl-gang emergency kit—a pink-handled switchblade and a can of mace she’d bought with Caroline and Rita on a city trip last year. Even the small knife and purse-size pepper spray felt like too much—she’d made it this far in her life without stabbing anyone, and she wanted to keep it that way—but if there was ever a time to break out the heavy artillery, it was now. Who knew what they’d be up against?

The doorbell rang. She ignored it, caught up in her fury. A second ring, and Fiona groaned and headed to the stairs. One set of trick-or-treaters, and then she was done.

She snatched up the candy bowl a second time and yanked open the door. The boy in the Halloween mask outside was surprisingly tall. She started to say so, but then he tackled her.

Bite-size candy scattered across the floor. Fiona cried out in panic and struggled, but her attacker’s muscles were wiry and hard, and he kicked the door closed before any passing neighbors could see them. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, pinning her own arms to her sides and stopping her from reaching the knife and mace in her pocket. The other slapped a damp rag over her mouth. She realized what was happening and began screaming in the same instant, but every shriek brought burning chemical air into her lungs.

“Hush,” said a familiar voice in her ear.

The room around her blurred, blended together, and sank out of view.

…

Light, first. Then noise, rhythmic, insistent.

She sat up, shaking her head, a blast of dizziness and nausea overcoming her the minute she tried to think. What had…where did…

The sound again, less muffled—a knocking at her door.

“Fiona!” yelled her mom through a pillow. “Your father and I would like to have a word with you, now.”

Fiona shook her head. What had happened—

She recoiled as it came back to her—the man in the mask, the chemical rag. She patted herself down and realized she was fully clothed, nothing bruised or broken, in her bed, wearing her shoes. A scan around her room showed nothing noticeably missing or destroyed. She wondered if it had been a nightmare, but her pounding head and the sting in her nostrils suggested she’d inhaled something poisonous. She was glad she hadn’t been assaulted, but the nonsense of it baffled her.

Why did the intruder just knock her out and leave here there? It felt like…a waste of time.

Her eyes flew to the window—darkness, night. She pulled out her phone—8:42 p.m.

Filip was alone. If he’d come by looking for her, she hadn’t heard him. Someone was trying to keep her from getting to the mill.

8:42. The flyer had said nine. She could still make it.

Fiona burst out of her bedroom, nearly trampling her poor mother along the way. Her father came out of their living room, and their eyes briefly met, hers no doubt wide with panic and terror. Then she was out the door, on her bike, and pedaling as hard as her legs would allow.

Maybe Filip had cut the power. Maybe no one had shown up.

It wasn’t too late. There was time.