What was she supposed to do now?
Alexander was on his way here, and she didn’t know what to say, and on top of that—
“Miss, would you like one?”
Onny jolted. She looked up to see one of the servers carrying a platter of blood-red drinks. Onny had taste-tested them with her mom earlier, some kind of fizzy pomegranate juice. Was it her imagination, or was the love potion in her wrist pursetinglingjust then?
“Two please!” said Onny.
Drinks in hand, she walked over to an empty high table and set down the drinks. Her heart pounded as she took out the love potion and poured it into one of the glass flutes.
Here was the moment.
Here was the thing to say:
What would you do if I told you this was a love potion?
She could picture the mock-serious grin on his face as he reached for his drink: “Well, cheers then.” It would be the complete opposite response of someone like Byron,whose very presence would probably make the potion curdle on the spot from the sheer power of his condescension. Just then, a tall shadow fell over her. Onny’s skin erupted in goose bumps. She’d never noticed how Alexander smelledreallygood. Not swathed in cologne or sweat, but crisp and clean, like freshly laundered silk she wanted to wrap herself in.
“You’re blood-spattered,” said a familiar voice. “Sacrifice go wrong again?”
Wait a second.
Onny’s brain felt like it’d been whiplashed. She looked up toseenotAlexander standing in front of her… but Byron Frost. He was wearing a brown leather apron, tall brown boots, and dark elbow-high gloves, and a pair of steampunk gold-rimmed goggles lay perched in his black hair.
“It must have if you’re standing next to me,” said Onny.
“Who are you supposed to be?”
Onny sighed, gesturing at her outfit. “I’m Erzebet Báthory, obviously.”
“The Hungarian countess who murdered girls and bathed in their blood?”
Onny was temporarily stunned. She had fully been expecting to inform—and in her own intellectual obnoxious way, had been rather looking forward to telling—everyone the obscure historical inspiration behind her costume. Byron knowing who she was felt both weird and satisfying and horrifically timed.
“Well, you know, everlasting youth and all that,” said Onny quickly. She drummed her fingers on the table, waiting for Alexander. He met her gaze over the crowd and smiled again.
Byron followed her line of sight and rolled his eyes. “He dressed up as a Scotsman? How original.”
“And what are you supposed to be? A butcher?”
“I’m Frankenstein,” said Byron, plucking at his leather apron. “Obviously.”
“Yeah, super obvious, considering most people wanting to dress up as Frankenstein would go as his monster—”
“Which would be incorrect,” said Byron. “Dr. Frankenstein, the scientist, versus Frankenstein’s monster, which he created. Huge difference.”
“I’ll let the news team know,” said Onny hurriedly. “Can you badger me later? I’m in the middle of something.”
“What, guarding two nonalcoholic beverages that will inevitably be spiked by our enterprising classmates?”
“Yes.”
Alexander made his way to her.
“What is this, some kind of pomegranate juice?” asked Byron.
Onny didn’t spare him a glance. She was too busy rehearsing the love potion’s incantation in her head, her grandmother’s words moving through her.
