I can’t tell if we’re silent enough.My heartbeat seems loud enough to provide a steady bass line to the songs we used to dance to down on the ground level, and even the scratch of my dress against my skin could double as television static.I don’t have time to worry about that, though, when a burgundy shadow seeps across the crimson carpet of the hallway.I clamp my palm across my mouth to stop a cry from escaping.
Oh god.
His shoes come into view first, the lighting too dim to pick up any distinguishing features except for the fact they’re stained with blood as they settle into the carpet.
For a second I think we’ll get lucky.He’ll amble right past, continue down the hall so we can circle back and find the others.But of course I’m kidding myself.Now that we’ve seen the monster, the action is only going to intensify, and that starts with him pausing in the center of the entrance.I glance up from under the bar, my eyes straining to see higher.The pull at the back of my eyes does nothing to abate the throbbing pulse and panicked thrum that’s taken over my brain.
The top half of his head is cut off from sight by the corner of the bar, which is fine since I don’t want to see those black heart-shaped eyeholes again.I can’t move to see him better anyway.Not when it could make a noise or shift the material of my dress into his view.From my vantage point I’m able to see that beneath the gray,ill-fitting dinner jacket, he’s wearing a pair of black coveralls.It’s a deviation from the iconic dark green color favored by Michael Myers in the originalHalloween, but it’s a smart choice, I guess, given that he’s decided to engage in some messy business tonight.His shoulders twist toward the room, and that’s when the knife comes into view.It isn’t dripping anymore, but the stain, the sheen of blood, still darkens the blade.
It may be the fear, but I swear I can hear him breathing.A muffled inhale and exhale of someone recovering from the exertion of gutting a fully grown man against a wall.But even though it’s heavy, it’s even.He isn’t rushed, he isn’t ruffled—he just moves into the doorframe and waits.Idles with an eerie stillness until the same hand holding the knife reaches out toward the rope and a light, devastating clink of metal unhooking from metal brings tears to my eyes.The rope falls to the ground with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t step into the room.
A glimmer out the corner of my eye draws my gaze away from his frozen stance to where the red carpet and the dull, black surface of the bar area meet.The way the light from the neon strips overhead hits the single drop on the floor makes it look like a discarded sequin.It shimmers under the light like the glitter that’s speckled across my skin, but it’s unmistakably blood.
Myblood.
And the sight makes my breath catch in my throat and those tears push closer to the rims of my eyes.There’s another drop a foot or so away from the first, and then another, all of them glowing like black jewels beneath the overhead lights, forming a subtle arch around the corner of the bar.
Leading straight to me and Laurie and Jennifer.
A soft rustle draws my eyes away from the trail of blood, glancing up to see him still standing in the same position in the doorway.I can’t tell what made the sound, but that doesn’t matter when Laurie’shand drops down on top of the one I have propped up on the rubber mat.It takes all my self-control not to scream into my palm from the contact.Her hand is slick with sweat, shaking on top of my own, and then her nails dig into my skin.Hard.Hard enough I have to bite down on the flesh pressed against my mouth to counteract the sting of the almond-shaped points.I slowly turn away from the killer—his pink wool-covered head starting to move across the room in a slow, steady sweep—to silently request that Laurie pull her talonsthe fuckout of my hand.
It’s when I notice her shoulders silently heaving that I know something’s wrong.
Well,everythingis wrong right now, but something is worse.Something is scaring her more than the killer standing on the other side of the bar.
Her other palm is still clamped tight across her mouth and her wide eyes are locked, unblinking, on the space above her head.Even in the darkness I can see the stark whites of her eyes.She looks this close to hyperventilating, and when I follow her gaze I understand why.Digging my nails so hard into the rubber beneath us that the gel tips slice straight through the surface, I try not to hyperventilate myself.
If I thought the blood trail leading the killer toward us was bad, this is worse.Much, much worse.
Laurie must have brushed against the edge of the bar when we ducked behind it, because a bar towel hangs over the edge, stuck between her head and the ice bin she’s propped against.That’s not the issue, though.
The issue is the martini glass lying on top of the towel, hanging precariously over the edge of the bar, teetering over her like a guillotine every time she takes a panicked breath, slipping closer to the edge and primed to fall.
It’s the same obnoxious, wide-rimmed style I was sipping out ofdownstairs.The stem is heavy, the rim is paper-thin, and the diameter is just a little wider than the span of my palm.If it falls—whenit falls—it could land soundlessly in Laurie’s lap.But the more likely scenario is that it smashes against the ground, and even if he misses the red trail I’ve left behind, he’ll know exactly where we’re hiding.
My eyes dart to Jennifer, but if anyone’s going to give us away it isn’t going to be her.Her head is firmly between her legs, her body so tense she looks like she’s frozen, and she’s completely unaware of what is happening next to her.A luxury I do not share.
I turn my attention back to Laurie.Her eyes drop down from the glass to meet mine, and I don’t want to see that expression on her face ever again:We’re going to die.
So even though I’m afraid removing my hand will release every possible sound of terror from my mouth, I bite down on my lip, slide my hand away, and pin her with a look of my own.
No, we’re not.
I reach my injured arm out across my chest, my forearm brushing against the material of my dress and making a hushed scraping sound.I pause.There’s another rustle of clothing, but this one is farther away.When it’s followed by the slow, repetitive sound of heavy soles hitting soft carpet, I have to make myself concentrate on the glass above Laurie’s head.Ignore that the killer is walking around on the other side of the bar.
Blowing out a silent, shaky breath, I angle my arm away and restart my efforts to move toward the glass as my heart slams steadily against my rib cage.Laurie is almost puncturing the skin in my other hand while I stretch my arm across her, but I’ve become almost acclimatized to it.Numb to it.
I reach until I think I might hyperextend my shoulder.I reach until my skin stretches and the freshly coagulated wound in my arm rips, allowing fresh blood to seep down my skin.I reach until I’mhalf an inch away from the edge of the glass and I can feel the heat of Laurie’s breaths escaping from between her fingers against my skin.The whole time the glass hovers over the edge of the bar, until it dips a final time and slips farther down against the towel.Like me, it’s unable to resist the force of attraction.But instead of dark eyes and hidden tattoos or tamped down smiles and messy hair, it’s powerless against gravity, and when it finally gives in, I catch my breath as it falls.
CHAPTER 16
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to kill and be killed in return.”
—NotMoulin Rouge!
I jerk forward, hand outstretched beneath the glass, and it hits the surface of my skin.
Soundlessly.
