I narrow my eyes. “You’ll actually listen?”
Evander’s smile is slow, unsettling. “Only if you keep telling the truth.”
My breath stutters, traitorous. Because part of me is already picturing it—the cemetery, the crypt, the blood. And them.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Candles. Lanterns. Blood. Costume. Camera. That’s it. You three don’t get a cameo.”
Corwin laughs. “We’ll see.”
28
Agatha
“You said there’s a cemetery.We use that.”
Corwin grins like the cat who got the cream. “We’ll make it bloody for you.”
“Prop list?” Evander questions. “Tell us what to buy.”
“Black pillar candles, not the cheap scented ones. Lanterns. Two, maybe three. Oil or battery, I don’t care. I need them to be lit but dim. A cheap fake pickaxe or something that looks close to one. A heart, if you can find it. Fake blood is useless on fabric unless you know what you’re doing, so I need corn syrup, cocoa powder, red food coloring, and a little blue for depth.”
Corwin whistles. “Teacher voice turned producer. Hot.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “I need an outfit too. I was going to wear a short little black dress with black lingerie underneath. Think you can get that too?” I raise my brows at them.
Garron nods, like he’s committed every word to memory. “We can get all that.”
Corwin raises his hand like he is in my classroom. “I said it earlier but I volunteer to hold the camera.”
“You’ll drop it the second you get hard.”
“That’s slander, Little Horror.”
“It’s statistical,” I smirk. “You have the self-control of a raccoon.”
Garron barks a laugh. Evander’s eyes stay on me. “What do you not want?” he asks. “Tell us the lines now.”
“I said you’re not co-starring.” I cross my arms, looking at him stubbornly.
“You can’t have a Bloody Valentine shoot without the miner. Without him, it’s just a hot gothic girl strumming her clit in a crypt….boooring,” Corwin mocks.
I sigh. “Fine. But no masks,” I tell them. “Not for me. Maybe for you, if you're behind me far enough that your faces will not show. I decide what makes the cut. I own the edit. You don't argue.”
Corwin opens his mouth. Garron snaps him a look, and the mouth shuts.
Evander’s eyes hold mine. “If we’re going to play this game,” he says softly, “then you need a word. One that ends it. One that makes us stop.”
My throat tightens. A thousand possibilities spin through me. Stop. No. Red. Simple words, easy words. But those weren’t respected before. They were laughed at. Twisted. Turned into permission.
Evander leans closer until his voice is a whisper. “Say it, Agatha. What’s your word?”
The word that comes to mind isn’t safe. It’s poison. It’s a memory. My lips tremble. “Psalm fifty-one.”
The room tilts. The bathtub flashes behind my eyes, water cold enough to burn, Michael’s hand shoving me under while Debra whispers that Psalm like it was bleach for my skin. My pulse stutters, my stomach lurches. I taste vinegar.
Corwin frowns, confused. “The fuck kind of word is that?”
Evander doesn’t blink. He just nods. “Then Psalm fifty-one it is.” His gaze flicks to his brothers. “If she says it, we stop. No arguments.”
