“Who else would it be?” demands Lys, irate. “Getting you close required the element of surprise. How do you plan to drive a stake through his heart when he’s watching you approach?”
“Like I told you, I’m an excellent shot.”
“Arrogance killed the cat,” quips Lys.
Asher lifts a brow. “I think it was curiosity, actually.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be.”
“I’mgoing to break,” announces Cyrus, to no one in particular.
“If it was Keeling,” says Asher, ignoring him, “then why didn’t he sign his name? Why the secrecy? If I was trying to rattle you, I’d want you to know it was me.”
Lys contemplates Asher narrowly. “You want to rattle me, Thorley?”
“I think you’re rattled enough. You don’t need my help.”
“I’ll wear it,” says Shea.
The balls scatter, pinging dully off the felted rail. “Choi,” barks Cyrus, “you and Sunshine take solids. We’ll play Little Hill versus Mercy.”
“I’mMercy,” gripes Tristan.
“I’ll wear the dress,” says Shea, a little louder this time.
The only answer is a softthudas Lys sinks his ball in the corner pocket. He looks more devil than boy in this lighting, his pupils distending as the monster resurfaces. She feels the same resurfacing deep inside her chest, the sucking gasp of sense breaking through the shell of her euphoria. They are doomed to be forever each other’s inverse, the two of them teetering wildly between extremes.
You’re making each other sick.
He sinks a second ball. A third.
“This is what I’m talking about,” mutters Tristan. “It’s a break and run every time.”
“I say we burn the dress,” suggests Cyrus. “We can send the ashes back to the Flatwood.”
“That’s a bad idea,” says Asher. “Feels like poking a bear.”
Cyrus tosses him a look. “Good thing you’re here for your muscle, not your brains.”
“Let’s assume, for a second, that the dress did come from Keeling,” says Asher, ignoring the jab. “If you send him a box full of ashes, you’ll be making a statement. The wrong one. What we need to do is—”
Shea snatches the white cue off the table. Four sets of eyes lift to hers. Three of them human. One of them black as the River Styx.
“I want to wear the dress, Lys.”
His mouth corkscrews into a scowl. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“It was sentto me,” she reminds him.
“Inmyhouse.”
His eyes are inky in the dark, his stare uncompromising. She’s met with the sudden compulsion to snap his cue stick over his head.
“I’m getting pretty sick of everyone telling me what I can and can’t do,” she says, and drops the ball into the nearest pocket. “Oh no. Looks like you scratched.”
