My brow furrows as I take in his black button-down shirt, rolled to the creases of his elbows. The casual stance. A lock of dark wavy hair falling over the front of his mask.
It can't be, though?
I'm about to turn away when he raises his arms to cross them over his chest and the shining skin of the scars crossing over his right hand catch the light.
My face must tell all because Elijah lifts his finger to the smile of his mask, reminding me to stay cool.
But what is he doing here?
Is everything okay?
Did something happen?
My blood drains from my face, leaving me cold.
Until I see the others.
Behind Elijah, Seven and Atticus move through the crowd as red lights pulse and spin, and the bass drops.
Seven's Ghostface mask cocks to one side, and I note the crack in the right side of it that wasn't there in the Matisse photo. The blood splattered in an arc up the left side that I know in my bones isnotfake.
Atticus lifts his arms to the beam separating our rooms, leaning into it to stretch out the bulk of muscle in his shoulders and biceps, not even a little hidden beneath the skin-hugging black long-sleeve he's wearing.
His skull face mask cocks alongside Seven's Ghostface one, and I know now that this isn't about a problem.
I laugh, shaking my head. I should be angry—this is a risk, and we all agreed we'd be more careful, but there are so manyMenage a MaskTokcopycats at this party, no one would ever notice them.
But I do.
I see how every other mimic at this party doesn't hold a candle to these three. They command attention just by existing. They look larger-than-life. Their presence is a tantalizing entity like a physical touch even from fifteen feet away.
I bite my lip and Seven crooks a finger at me before slipping through the throng of people, heading back through the front entryway.
The others follow him, and at first I think they're leaving and want me to follow, but then Seven walks past the front door and straight into the massive living room on the other side.
The music there is louder, the pulsing lights brighter in the dark as students dance in the space where there were sofas an hour ago.
I lick my lips, blood singing in my veins as I tap Maisie's shoulder to get her attention. "Hey, I'm going to go dance. I'll be back soon, 'kay?"
"'Kay! Oh, have you seen my vodka? I can't find it."
I frown, looking to where she set her purse down by the pool table. Fuck. I should've noticed she'd put it down. Someone probably stole it. I shake my head and lean in to make sure she can hear me clearly. "No, but I'll find us something. Don't take drinks from anyone else, okay?"
She has no idea what can happen. But I do.
I shiver at the memories. The times Jesse drugged me without my knowledge and the few times he made me take the pills of my own volition, using threats and pain as motivation.
Maisie looks at me seriously and nods. "I won't."
Satisfied she'll be okay without me for fifteen minutes, I all but race into the opposite living room, pushing through a wall of bodies to get in as the song changes.
And this one, I know.
"RUNRUNRUN" fills the room, and I squint to see through the flashing light that makes all the bodies appear to be moving in a series of freeze frames.
Someone bumps into me hard from behind, and I throw my hand out to catch myself before I can fall right on my fucking face, but strong arms catch me instead.
I gasp as I twist and find a familiar blood-splattered Ghostface holding me up. He hauls me back onto my feet and I see a familiar skull mask 'escorting' the guy who knocked into me right out the front door of the frat house.
