8

candied-flower angel

Lark

“Okay. One last taste test.” Juniper balances a flat lemon cookie garnished with purple-and-silver-spotted petals on a spatula.

I inhale the scent of warm baked spices, dried flowers, and fresh air then shift in my seat. A tremor of disorientation sweeps over me as early afternoon sunlight glimmers through the crocheted curtains on Juniper’s kitchen window, imprinting tiny moon-shaped orbs upon the vine-papered walls and subway tile floor. The window is cracked open to counteract the heat from her oven, and each time a gust sways the curtains, the lights move around me, appearing too similar to Perish’s magical bubbles in Mystiquiel for comfort.

Those bubbles not only eased traveling, but they set a beautiful ambiance for the parties the royal family staged in the castle to welcome me that first year of my service. I wonder if Nix is receiving the same kind of treatment, and my chest quavers as the vivid image of dancing with the goblin prince beneath thousands of iridescent orbs—back before he came of age, before he wore the crown, when he was young and hopeful like me—slams into my head.

I squint so I can feel his hands at my waist, gentle, chaste, and awkward—so I can recall his nervous, berry-wine-scented breaths stirring the hair piled atop my head in a bun interwoven with jewels made of dewdrops.

Juniper crosses the room toward me, almost breaking the spell. Then the sugar-coated tiger lily catches the light and glistens atop the cookie, making the scene feel even more magical. That odd pang of homesickness, which has slumbered in my heart for weeks, startles awake, and all I want is to be surrounded by the absurdity and danger of turbulent banquets, the grunts, snarls, and growls of the attendees—their weird and feral countenances and unpredictable actions slaking my appetite for the abnormal in a way my mechanical creations never could. I’ve been so desperate for even a glimpse, I’ve started risking longer sleeping stints at night in hopes Nix will offer a peek at what she’s building . . . ​ even if it means I sprout flowers out of my ears. But I feel like she’s slammed the door in my face—her all-seeing eyelid stitched as tightly as a cyclops corpse’s on a mortuary slab.

I glance down at my left palm where a scar, hidden cleverly in my life line, serves as my most sanguine reminder. Unlike the tube-scars I earned from joining with Mystiquiel, this one was formed by a slash of magic, and the Goblin King bears its twin. I wonder if he ever looks at it, if he regrets the chance we took or the chaos we wrought—making mutants of monsters.

I struggle to suppress the lonely ache that follows each time I think of Mystiquiel. Three years in that enchanted place was all it took for me to forget how to appreciate being human. But that’s not entirely true. Even as a child . . . ​even with the love of my sister and Uncle . . . ​I never felt complete. Something was always missing, something I tried to fill with my inventions. Robots made of pieces and parts that didn’t fit together until I forced them. Just like what I did to the fey—shoving metal into their bones and pumping oil into their blood.

Juniper settles on the other side of the table where I’m seated next to Clarey and holds out her palm. Hiding my sadness, I take the treat and lift it to my mouth. The soft cookie melts on my tongue, releasing a wave of butter and citrus, then the floral flavor washes over it all, otherworldly and singular. My whole mouth tingles, even my teeth, and just like with all the other confections I’ve sampled today, a comforting bliss shuttles through my veins.

Happiness instantly replaces my grief, ushered in on a rush of memories from my childhood. It’s as if each flower is spiced by Nix’s and my past. Upon sampling their own cookies earlier, Clarey and Uncle didn’t mention anything about memories; instead, a sense of purity and happiness burned brighter with each bite, making the result just as addictive to them as goblin fruit.

“Well, is this one posh enough for the new menu?” Juniper prompts.

I nod, unable to speak for the bittersweet smile stretching my lips, allowing myself to get lost in a moment of nostalgia. But it has to be short-lived. My next act—in order to cut all ties between me and Nix so her creations stop infringing on this reality—will be to kill her flowers. And I’m not sure how I’m going to do it without anyone finding out.

Juniper believes the queer flowers spilled over from the edible flower garden she’s had growing in her boutique’s courtyard for years. That the roots grew deep and stretched across to Uncle’s plot; that they wound together underground and mutated to new geneses, and only by Uncle’s bakery burning down were they finally able to get the sunlight and oxygen they needed to bloom and thrive. To her, it’s a silver lining to the tragedy.

She thinks they’re a miracle of nature. Uncle thinks they’re some sort of mutant genus, born of goblin fruit and the king’s essence from the vials that burst in the fire. Only Clarey and I know the truth: that my own blood spun them into reality.

Juniper has already transferred offshoots into terra-cotta pots, which now line the balcony of her and Clarey’s two-story condo. She’s taking care only to use a half dozen or so flower heads from each bunch for our tastings, intending to plant the rest in her boutique’s garden where she hopes they’ll flourish—as soon as the weather is favorable.

For the past nine days, it’s rained nonstop. Finally, the sun decided to make an appearance this morning, a short reprieve before the cold front moves in late tonight, forecasted to bring light sprinkles of sleet but no accumulation of snow quite yet. A frost-free Thanksgiving Day gives our town something to be grateful for, I suppose.

“Grant us an adjective or two then.” Juniper leans across the table, pencil in hand, prepared to write. There’s no question the flowers are bespelled, brimming with that same emotionally manipulative magic Uncle’s Goblin-Roonies and Fairy-Cakes possessed, yet without needing Perish’s royal blood to tame any ill effects. It’s like somehow the goblin fruit essence has been distilled into these petals as something safe for human consumption—a poisonous snake that’s been defanged.

But I can’t tell Juniper those details.

Clarey waits with a thesaurus open at his elbow, studying me hard, although I know it’s less about what I’m going to say than about what I’m hiding. He left for Chicago before we could discuss what happened as the rain began at the bakery’s remains. While he waited for his flight to take off, he sent texts from the airport, telling me his BAHA was picking up more voices and sounds. Then followed the pointed questions, asking about the flowers, about the paint he saw streaming out of my fingertip.

I refused to answer any messages while he was gone, but last night he came home. And now, with us all spending the holiday together, I’ve run out of ways to avoid him.

“Clarey, pay attention.” Juniper ruffles the white streak flopping over his forehead fondly with the pencil’s eraser. “I’d like to be done in time for lobster stuffing and Waldorf slaw.” He shifts his gaze back to the pages filled with synonyms, yet I sense him counting the minutes till we can be alone.

Once upon a time that would’ve been because he wanted to hold hands, or hug, or even maybe kiss. That fairy tale has been fractured beyond repair. Just like every nursery rhyme and childhood lullaby I grew up hearing. The only one that turned out to be true was Goblin Market, because you must beware of goblin men. They’ll steal your heart and choose your sister instead.

My teeth clench tight, and Clarey glares at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time, waiting for me to speak. He’s not the only one whose patience is wearing thin.

We’ve been at this since Uncle and I arrived at ten this morning, and have managed to cook up and name five new confections in the last three hours. So far, we have Hibiscus Brights, Lavender Lushes, Rose Charms, Jasmine Zests, and Lilac Wisps; the foundations of each are Uncle’s earliest icing, cookie, and cupcake recipes, the ones he perfected for me and Lark when we were kids, pre–goblin fruit era.

Having tasted several of the petals to be sure they were safe for consumption, Uncle is once again relying on faerie magic to elevate his recipes, but instead of baking enchanted fruit into them, he’s embellishing them with the sparkling, ornate flowers that drizzled from my fingertips. Except Uncle doesn’t know they came from me, and integrating them into his recipes is in part to align with Juniper’s suggestion that they reboot his bakery with new recipes, while also sending out a message to Perish.

Uncle’s convinced that if he profits from the flowers in any way, it will lure the Goblin King back across the veil. His logic relies on the assumption that Perish is greedy and won’t want us exploiting any of his magic without him reaping benefits.

What Uncle fails to realize is that Perish is more concerned with Mystiquiel’s welfare than with any personal gain. He’s a selfish creature, but only in that he cares for his kingdom above all other life.

Now that he has the chosen Architect, the one who will end the need for any others, he no longer requires anything from the humans.

“Nix?” Juniper presses. “Any descriptions come to mind?”

I clear my throat once the cookie slides down and floats safely in my belly. Managing to loosen my tongue, I say the only adjectives I can think of to describe a memory of catching stars and moonbeams with Nix—of the way, even now, my fingers and toes twitch in a pantomime of reaching for the sky in honor of those tender moments of pretend: “Buoyant. Floating.” The words taste sour on my tongue. I don’t want to betray these memories. I’d eat these cookies forever if only I didn’t lose pieces of myself with each bite; feeding the symbiotic channels between my sister and me is draining me of any chance at a normal life.

Clarey’s jaw flutters as he flips through the thesaurus, mouthing the word “float.” He moves his finger across and down the f columns, stopping mid-page. He says, “Okay, how about ‘breezy’?”

“Tiger-Lily Breezes. Brilliant!” Juniper scribbles the final title and practically skips over to help Uncle store the leftovers.

Together, they transfer the last few sugared tiger lilies to a box containing the cooled iced cookies. Uncle’s quiet . . . ​introspective. Since the appearance of the flowers over a week ago, he and Clarey both have renewed hope that we can get back to Nix.

The first few days, Uncle searched for ways he might use them to open the veil somehow, by pressing, drying, or boiling them to make color-tinged water. When each attempt resulted in black withered petals and rotted stems and leaves, Uncle chose instead to preserve the freshness and colors—and thereby the magic—by using an egg white wash on the petals, coated with ultrafine sugar, then storing them in airtight canisters.

Normal candied flowers can keep for months this way, so who knows how long enchanted ones will last?

A loud thud sounds beside me as Clarey shuts Juniper’s ancient thesaurus. He taps my crutches where they lean on my chair and motions toward the hallway with his chin, indicating we should take advantage of our guardians’ preoccupation.

“Hey, we’re going on a walk,” I say over my shoulder, hobbling behind Clarey toward the front door. I wince as the underarm pads chew at the tender skin beneath my T-shirt where they’ve rubbed me raw from too much unnecessary use. Small penance for maintaining so many big lies, I guess.

“We’ll be eating at three.” Juniper tries to rub a smudge of icing from her cheek, smearing it instead. Uncle smirks as he uses the corner of a towel to help . . . ​the first real smile I’ve seen from him since I’ve been home. It’s amazing what a little hope can do for someone. The loss then rebooting of the bakery has brought them closer. Together, they came up with a plan to combine Wisteria Rising and Enchanted Delights into one exclusive shop that specializes in organic treats and fresh-cut florals and herbs from a courtyard botanical garden. They coined the name Wisteria’s Enchanted Tearoom & Arboretum, and Uncle took his insurance check to the bank as a down payment on the donut shop that stands between their businesses.

Juniper’s half of the combined buildings won’t change much, other than one wall coming down. On her side, she’ll continue to sell the vine clippings, fresh flower jars, and arrangements she’s known for; Uncle’s will be a new café specializing in edible floral treats—made of organic ingredients—which will also be served in Juniper’s courtyard alongside her herbal teas.

Renovations begin next week, and the calendar is marked with New Year’s Day as the grand opening. Maybe I could’ve found redemption for my sins by reviving Uncle’s dream bakery through this magical coincidence. Unfortunately, my angel’s halo feels more like a noose around my neck, since I’m planning to crush his hopes and dreams again.

I turn to Clarey. There’s somberness and longing in his eyes as he watches Juniper and my uncle, and I’ve no doubt he’s missing Nix. I nudge around him into the hallway, a not-so-subtle reminder we’re on our way out. He whistles for Flannie. She shows up with her tail wagging, ready to go.

I offer my hand, slow and cautious. She nuzzles it, even allows me to scratch her ears, but then whimpers and prances backward when I try to adjust the ESA vest Clarey placed on her earlier, in case for any reason he needs to prove she’s his support animal while we’re out. Her mechanical leg clicks off tempo with her clacking claws on the entryway tiles. She senses my deceitful nature and I respect her for that, even though it hurts.

Catching my downtrodden expression, Clarey squeezes my elbow. “A week ago she wouldn’t even sniff you. I call that progress.”

“I wish she’d let me look at her leg.” I lift Nix’s black hoodie off one of the pegs on the wall and slip my arms inside before zipping up. “The joint torques could use some tightening.”

“Or you could just make her a new leg for Christmas.”

He knows how much trouble I’m having staying focused on my projects lately. I’ve revamped several gadgets I made as a kid but can’t seem to move beyond that. Maybe he thinks if I have a deadline, I’ll manage to get something new done. I haven’t shared the real problem behind my inability to work on my inventions: nothing holds the same sense of wonder upon completion that it once did. How can devising a braided pneumatic actuator for a biorobot compare to creating an entire world out of nothing but conceptions? To envision something and see it assembled instantly without lifting a pair of wire cutters or needle-nose pliers, activated without a motor or battery to power it . . . ​it’s more addictive than Uncle’s enchanted treats.

I pull the hood over my twin’s hairstyle, settling on a good response to Clarey’s suggestion. “I’m stressed enough trying to catch up with Nix’s classes so I can start school after Christmas break.”

“Sure, I get that.”

He lets it drop, like I hoped. He doesn’t need to know that I recently soaked up everything Nix had learned over the past three years in my absence; it’s the one advantage of our magical connection I’ve been grateful for. The tutor helped me tap into her reserves without even realizing it.

Clarey shrugs into a plaid blazer with red and violet flowers embroidered along the suede lapel and elbow patches. All I see when I look at it is my sister’s talent, warping through my blood. I can’t help but wonder if he chose this particular jacket just to get under my skin, but keep my suspicions to myself as the three of us step out into the brisk air.

Sunshine toasts my face an instant before a cool gust, heavy with the scent of rain-slogged leaves and grass, chills my cheeks. The gutters are all flooded, the streets filled with gurgling brooks; fallen autumn leaves dock like colorful boats around the curbs, and streaks of mud and mildew stain the sidewalks.

Clarey’s hair flutters, teased by the wind. He places a fedora over his head to shield his BAHA. “You didn’t answer my texts, but I know you got them.”

“About the voices.”

“About her voice.”

I sigh. “Because it didn’t make any sense. Growing stairs—what even is that?”

Clarey holds his hand above Flannie’s wagging tail, letting the tip brush his skin as she sniffs at a series of muddy cat paw prints on the sidewalk. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were in the castle. You saw the inner workings.”

I rake Nix’s combat boot through a shallow puddle, rippling the sky’s reflection. “So my sister reached out to you from beyond just to say she was going up the moving stairway.” I’m not sure if I’m angrier at the possibility of her reaching out to him in the first place or that she’s doing it while purposely shutting me out.

“She also said ‘Get help,’ and there were the sounds of more wings, and creatures growling all around her. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

My jaw tightens. “No, because it only proves you imagined it. She’s their Architect. You don’t realize how revered that makes her. The adoration and protection Perish will lavish on her. She’s not in danger, Clarey. This is all you, being obsessed with getting her back. Because you feel guilty for having to leave her. Do you think she would want you stalled like this? Unable to move forward?”

He glances at his fish-scaled shoes.

I raise an eyebrow, strumming his exposed nerve like a banjo string. “She wasted all those years I was gone with regret. She’d be furious if you did the same.” The tactic makes my stomach cramp. It’s a low blow, because it downplays my sister’s devotion to me, but I’m still not convinced she missed me at all. And his resulting silence provides the perfect segue to a safer topic. “So how was your trip? Did you eat turkey and dressing at the retirement home? Was it pureed?” I grin and point my finger into the air. “Aha! There’s something to be thankful for. Working teeth.”

Clarey clenches the leather harness that frames Flannie’s vest. “No dice, Lark.” His eyes turn on me, amber and blue spotlights in the sun. “I want to know why you aren’t telling your uncle where the flowers really came from. That stuff dripping out of your finger . . . it wasn’t human. There’s residual magic in you. This could be the break we need to cross the veil and get to her. And here you are playing Thanksgiving roulette.”

I smirk at the mention of the game Nix and I invented for this time of year, later inviting Clarey to play along once we formed our little threesome; the goal is to shout things to be thankful for in rapid succession, each of us trying to outdo the others with the absurdity of our choices.

“Stop smiling,” he snaps. “You need to take her rescue seriously. It’s like you don’t even care that she’s gone.”

My cheeks burn. “And it’s like you don’t even care that I’m back!”

Clarey’s face falls. “That’s . . . ​that’s not true, Lark.”

“Lark. You used to call me your little gearhead. Why did that have to change? Why did any of it? Do you realize how much I’ve lost since I’ve been gone? My mom’s Goblin Market picture book is ruined . . . ​my dad’s pocket watch stopped ticking. Every keepsake left of my parents has been wrecked; even their pictures and our birthday were faked.” I don’t even mention that I was home for my birthday for the first time in years, or at least the day after, having come back on November first, and yet no one suggested celebrating, because Nix had been left behind. But didn’t they celebrate her birthday when I was gone? “Then there’s the things I missed out on,” I continue, not willing to lose my edge. “Things I’ll never get another chance to experience. Things I could’ve done with you . . .” I drag off my hood to expose hair, piercings, and makeup to the light of day. “And how do you think it feels knowing that even now, just to have a future, I’ve got to be Nix? While also knowing I can never be . . . ​especially to the one person who wishes most I could.”

Clarey glances around us, looking miserable, either because of the conversation itself or out of worry we might be overheard. But the streets are abandoned; people are in their homes, sharing happy family times.

I growl to recoup his attention. “She chose to be the martyr. She stepped in and ruined my plan to dethrone Perish. Otherwise, we could’ve all been together this year.” I almost choke on the astringent lie, but the sugarcoating of jealousy makes it easier to swallow. “Really, is it so much to ask that we do one traditional thing today? No turkey, no pumpkin pie, no wishbone to break. Now we can’t even play a stupid game. It’s been three years since I’ve had a holiday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Clarey admits, having the decency to look ashamed. Nice that one of us still possesses that quality. “You’re right. So . . . ​okay. What I’m thankful for: that I bleed red.” He casts a sly glance my way.

I huff a laugh. He’s developed a sardonic streak since I’ve been gone. Good for him. “All right, I see this holiday is no longer Thanksgiving. It’s Pranksgiving.”

He tilts his head. “Because I just pranked you?”

“Because fate has decided to use today to show me how different I am from the people I once felt at home with.”

Clarey studies me hard. “So what? Your blood’s messed up,” he says, using my own snark to trap me. “That could actually be a good thing. If you tell your uncle and stop keeping it secret, maybe we can help you. By figuring it out, we could get Nix back, and then life will be normal for all of us again.”

“Normal. How are we supposed to explain me coming back from the dead?” Or that I still feel dead. I focus on where my hands clench the crutches. The jacket cuffs hang low on my wrists, covering the scars there and on my forearms from the cords and sparks I left behind, frayed and fizzing inside the core of Mystiquiel.

After sharing consciousness with so many otherworldly creatures, will I ever feel alive again? My brain’s all wrong, powering only one light instead of thousands connected to a string circuit; even my heart is a singular bulb, stuck inside a series of dead sockets. No, there’s no more normal here.

My bangs fall across my eye and I tuck a long strand behind my ear, changing tactics. “You sure you want to have both of us back? Then you’d have to actually choose. Think you’re up for that?”

Clarey pierces me with another glare. “I’d rather have you both here as just friends than have her lost to us. Wouldn’t you?”

Refusing to answer, I swing-step my crutches over the puddle, which forces Clarey to grab Flannie’s harness and follow. “Okay, let’s logic this out. You keep saying my blood looked like a rainbow. But the storm had already washed my cut before you saw it. And then there was the lightning. It was just a flash of the flowers reflected on the raindrops along my hand.”

Clarey’s gaze narrows. “I thought you might say something like that.” He fishes around in his left pocket where he sometimes keeps his harmonica then surprises me by pulling out an X-Acto knife used to carve details on his latex masks.

“Prick your finger.” The miniature blade sparkles silver in the sunlight as we pace side by side.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” I stall, mid-step. I really do admire his craftiness, even if it irritates me.

He holds out the tool, his chin cocked—looking more like a hardened man than the timid boy I used to know. “One tiny cut. That’s all it will take to shut me up about it.”

I frown. I scraped my knee a few nights back while out on a bike ride. The blood stayed red, even in the fresh air. It drizzled down my leg and touched the ground, and nothing grew. The next day, I pricked my thumb purposely and had the weird experience again . . . ​prismatic flowers blooming under the bed in my room and along my wall where the tiny droplets of blood spurted. Took me hours to rip them up and discreetly discard them in the contained blaze Uncle had going in our living room fireplace.

I reasoned it out. Since the doctor took blood from my arm on her house visit upon my return to this realm and the blood that filled the syringe was normal, the anomaly is tied to my hands. I’m assuming it has to do with Nix using her own hands to create. It’s like I’m being haunted by her art. Even while I’m refusing to look at any of her spirals at home, I still can’t escape her shadow over me.

I was actually planning to fake a fall today . . . ​scrape an elbow or shin, as a way to get Clarey off my back. Would’ve worked, had he not insisted my finger be the test subject. The boy’s too smart for his own good.

Balanced on one crutch, I shove his wrist in hopes he’ll drop the tool. He tightens his fingers around the handle, accidentally tilting the blade. The tip razes my left palm above my life line, and blood beads at the site. Before either of us can react, we hear a familiar voice from across the street.

“Hey you two, wait up!” Jin’s colorful braids poke out from the edges of a yellow beanie like the tentacles of a tie-dyed squid. Her girlfriend, Brooke, strides alongside her, carrying a straw beach tote filled with clanking spray-paint cans.

“Dammit, Clarey!” I snarl, unable to finagle my crutches fast enough to stop my blood from drizzling to the sidewalk.

His eyes widen as a lustrous rainbow speckles the cement. Groaning, I crush the sprouting stem, leaves, and petals with my boot, sealing them between my sole and the sidewalk. I shove my hand into my jacket pocket and situate it around the crutch handle just as the girls reach us.

They’ve already been by my house twice to check in on me. Both times I made Uncle say I was napping, unprepared to put on my Nix facade for friends who once belonged to us both but are now only hers. I knew I was going to have to see them at some point and map out some new dynamics, but there couldn’t be a worse time than in this moment, with a garden blooming inside my pocket.

“We were starting to think you were avoiding us, Nix.” Jin furrows her eyebrows. I don’t know her well enough anymore to gauge if she’s teasing or serious. Then I catch the glint of amusement in her dark gaze that I remember seeing when we were in middle school. “Stop looking so scared, girl! We know you just wanted time with your squeeze here. Now that you two are official and all.”

Flannie bounces up and licks Jin’s chin—a blessed distraction. While she and Brooke fuss over the border collie, I toss a frown to Clarey and mime: Official. Who told them that?

Clarey mouths the words Aunt Juniper and rolls his eyes. His aunt came to the conclusion after catching the two of us with our heads together one too many times whispering about Mystiquiel things. We let her believe it in hopes she’d give us wide berth with our privacy. A hot blush races from my cheeks to my ears. If only Jin knew how far off base she is.

Brooke elbows Jin. “Shut up, you’re embarrassing them. We just wanted to go with you over to the Riverwalk. You’re headed to the graffiti trail, right?” I’m about to say no when the blond cheerleader motions to the streaks of color seeping out from under my boot’s heel. “Oooh, is that a practice scrawl?” She nudges me aside so she can view it.

I drag my sole across the sidewalk on my shift to the right, hoping to leave the flowers as nothing more than smears. Clarey coughs when a pulpy stain remains where my foot rested.

“Weird-looking paint.” Jin squats down to get a closer look.

“Yeah, it’s some of that puffy kind,” I answer.

Jin frowns. “I thought they didn’t make that in spray cans because it clogs the nozzles.”

Nix would’ve known that, you idiot. Sweat beads along my nape, prickling like icicles as the gusts of wind turn colder. I shiver, glancing at the clouds gathering overhead. Looks like the cold front’s moving in sooner than expected.

“Can I see one of the cans?” Jin asks.

“We don’t have them anymore.” Clarey steps between us, gesturing to the hooded city trash receptacle a few feet away. “We were testing them, but I guess the texturing element separated from the color. We couldn’t get a good stream and had to ditch them.”

I give him a look of appreciation for his quick thinking. I can’t possibly paint a mural in front of other artists. There’s no way my stick figures will pass “Nix muster” under professional scrutiny.

“Yo, what?” Jin turns her full attention to Clarey. “You’re coming, too? That’s awesome!”

“No, no.” I flick a glance at Clarey’s strained expression. “He was just helping me test the paint. He’s not up for being around all those people today.” I piggyback on Jin’s subtle referral to Clarey’s enochlophobia. Even though his fear of having a panic attack at congregated events has improved somewhat, it’s not inconceivable that he may have lapses from time to time.

“I get it,” Jin says, always sympathetic. “But the murals are huge. You can hang way back and still see without having to talk to anyone. This is our last chance. The city won’t be inviting schools to take part anymore after this year. Plus, the theme is Christmas, and no one can bring out the dark side like our Nix.” She then looks pointedly at me. “Tons of towners will be there, so it’s the perfect chance to resurrect your St. Krampus. He’s legendary! We’ll need him to decapitate all the holly berry angels and gingerbread elves Brooke’s planning to paint with the third graders.”

“Hey!” Brooke grumbles.

Jin barks a laugh and captures the crocheted scarf around the blonde’s neck, tugging it playfully.

Clarey throws out one last attempt at escape. “We don’t have any more paint. We were headed back home so Nix could grab some. We could just meet you there later.”

Or not at all. I raise my eyebrow.

Brooke shakes the tote at her side, clanging the cans together again. “No need. We have plenty. We’ll share!”

Pulse pounding, I wriggle my fingers in my pocket. The stinging sensation on my palm yields to a tickle that feels like flower petals filling the space between my skin and the fabric.

Clarey and I exchange helpless glances as both girls spin me around on my crutches in the direction of the trolley. He and Flannie follow at our heels and I squeeze my fist tighter around the crutch handle, praying the pressure can stave off the blood and stop the magical flow. Otherwise, the entire town of Astoria is about to witness the freak show I’ve become.