I try to inhale but my lungs won't cooperate. Black spots dance across my vision. I'm going to faint, going to hit the floor, going to?—
Dane pulls me against his chest, and the blood smell hits me first. Deer blood, coppery and warm, mixed with pine and gun oil and the scent that's distinctly him. His arms wrap around me, and I focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear. On the way his hand moves up and down my back.
"They don't just want you," I whisper into his shirt. "They want me too."
"I know."
"I'm going to die here. We're both going to die here."
"No." His voice is absolute, leaving no room for argument. "I've survived worse than this. And I'm not letting some vindictive bastard with a camera take me down now."
"But—"
"Listen to me." He pulls back enough to look at me, and his gray-blue eyes are fierce. "I spent fifteen years as the Ferraro family's best asset because I'm good at two things—killing people and staying alive. Whoever sent those pictures thinks they have us cornered. They think we're scared, passive, waiting for them to make their move. They're wrong."
Dane stands here holding me up while my mind is spinning. I didn't do anything wrong and they're coming for me anyway—whoever "they" are. I don't like this at all, not one bit.
But I sort of like his arms around me a little more than I should.
What's happening to me? And why now, five years later?
7
DANE
"This is a terrible idea," I say for the tenth time as we pull into the parking lot at the diner and I see the ridiculous outfits some of the people streaming through the doors are wearing. When I agreed to this shit, I didn't think I'd be the only one with sense in my head.
"You've mentioned that." Sloane checks her reflection in the visor mirror, adjusting the slinky black dress—the same one she wore the night I found her. I picked up heels for her in town last week, practical black pumps that she's somehow made look dangerous. My flannel shirt hangs over her shoulders as a jacket, completely undermining whatever aesthetic she's going for. "I think you look great as a grumpy hermit. Very authentic."
"I'm not in costume."
"Exactly. You're playing yourself. Method acting." She grins at me, and I realize she's actually excited about this. Two weeks of fear and paranoia, and a small-town Halloween dance is enough to make her happy.
I cut the engine and pocket the keys. "Remember the rules. You're Sarah, my sister. We grew up in Vermont. I joined the army, you went to nursing school, we haven't seen each other much until recently."
"Got it. Boring backstory, no details, stick to the script." She opens her door and steps out into the cold night air. The dress is completely inadequate for October in the mountains, but she doesn't seem to care.
The diner's been transformed on the inside. Orange and black streamers hang from the ceiling, fake cobwebs cover the windows, carved pumpkins line the entrance. Music pulses from inside—something current I don't recognize. Through the windows, I can see dozens of people in various costumes, laughing and drinking.
Ellie greets us at the door, blonde hair sprayed an alarming shade of purple, wearing what appears to be a witch costume complete with pointed hat. "Dane! Sarah! You made it!" Her green eyes are bright with alcohol and excitement. "Love the costumes. Very… minimalist."
"We're not big on dressing up," I mutter.
"Clearly." She ushers us inside, where the noise level increases dramatically. The diner's tables have been pushed to the walls, creating a makeshift dance floor. A DJ set up in the corner pumps out music while people gyrate with varying levels of coordination. The bar along the back wall is three-deep with locals getting drinks.
Miles waves from across the room, stocky frame squeezed into a superhero costume I don't recognize, and Travis is dressed as a biker, which is basically his everyday look with more leather.Mira works the bar in a red devil costume that shows more skin than any outfit I've seen her wear, amber eyes tracking me as we enter. Christ, I didn't know she'd be here or I'd have dropped Sloane off at the door and left.
"Drinks?" Sloane asks, already heading toward the bar.
I follow, staying close. The crowd's thick, mostly people I recognize from around town. Gideon Strath from the hardware store is dressed as a scarecrow and Eamon Holt, who plays Santa every year, is ironically dressed as the Grim Reaper. Sheriff Carver stands near the door in his sheriff's uniform—either he's in costume as himself, or he's on duty. Either way, his presence puts me on edge.
Mira pours us drinks—beer for me, something fruity for Sloane. "On the house for the antisocial hermit who finally decided to join civilization."
"Thanks," I say dryly, dropping a twenty in the tip jar anyway.
Sloane takes a long drink of whatever concoction Mira made her, then turns to survey the room. "This is fun. When's the last time you did something fun?"
"I have fun."
