“Oh,” he says, doing a sort of I-didn’t-see-you-because-of-my-mask gesture, “hey. Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I say, pointing at his werewolf mask then adjusting my own eye mask in solidarity. “Convention hazard. They should assign handlers.”
“Yeah, handlers. Right,” he says, nodding his furry head, then laughs a little. “I love your outfit.”
“Thanks, I’m kind of sweltering under all the layers but it’s worth it,” I say, smoothing my dress down. “You must be roasting in yours? Do you want some water?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m cool. I mean, I’m notcoolcool, I just mean I’m OK. Thanks though.”
A group of Cyanfide demons next to us crane their necks and point, and l look round Fake McKinley to see Damon Van Schwartz walking through the lobby. Walking with Charlie Chamberlain, who’s half-heartedly wearing a black eye mask on his forehead.My cheeks warm as Damon Van Schwartz laughs and claps him on the back. Debbie is close behind, chatting with Sadie who looks adorable in a purple sparkly dress and matchingmask.
Fake McKinley has to physically turn his whole body to see what I’m looking at.
“So, you were pretty, um . . . psyched about the competition in there. That’s a great prize.”
“Right? So exciting,” I say absently, still watching Charlie Chamberlain.
Debbie suddenly trots ahead and swipes a door open, ushering everyone through. Is that some sort of secret place for VIPs?
Before Charlie Chamberlain follows them, he stops and looks around the bar. Everyone is watching him, wondering what magical things are laid out for him behind those doors and wishing they’d had his catlike reactions so they could have saved their own TV star. He lingers in the doorway and then, just to rub it in, looks right at me.
I hope he’s good at non-verbal because I am so consumed with jealousy right now, I shoot off all the swears via my eyeballs and folded arms. A smile plays on his lips, then he lets the door close behind him.
A cold bottle is suddenly thrust in my chest and I gasp at Roxy, who’s simultaneously grabbing me and marching me from Fake McKinley. Practically in an arm lock as if I’m some kind of felon, I’d like to add. I look back at Fake McKinley who gives me a little wave. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this treatment, officer, but I wave back.
“The doors are open, Eliza!” she hisses. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Oh, that’s what I’ve done. I deserve every twisted joint. People are surging through the doors of Conference Hall A, but I didn’t notice because I was busy glaring my hatred at damn Charlie Chamberlain. We bundle through the crowd and spill into the flashing lights and thumping bass, then pause and turn to eachother. I can’t hear Roxy properly, but I think she’s saying the same words as me.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER TWELVE
VIGGO RASSMUSSEN
You must prepare yourself for the absolute worst, Lila.
LILA MURPHY
Have you ever considered motivational speaking?
Vampire Falls. Season one, episode four – “Bury Me”
Some of us (me) consider ourselves somewhat expert in the art of convention queuing. Some people (me) might use the wordgifted.There is much to consider when one joins a queue. Which queue, for a start. Assess who is waiting in your queue options. Bored-looking, handsome type, holding lots of bags? He’s holding the space for his girlfriend and possibly even her friends, so your queue size will likely increase. Middle-aged, pony-tailed man holding folder and wearing backpack with pin-badge covered straps? Seasoned pro:efficient. Get behind him.
What we are witnessing, however, is not a queue, and goes against all my convention training. Swathes of bodies push towards the stage, and with the music blaring and lights flashing it looks like a mosh-pit at a concert, but with low fantasy superfans clambering over each other instead of metal heads. Four sweaty and frizzy stewards try to maintain some kind of order, plus one more on stage next to a large cauldron with two red handles made from intertwined snakes.
It’s the Cauldron of Metallica, the first step towards Comic Con – and my destiny.
“Let’s do this, babe!” Roxy shouts over the music.
I nod, and we clink our bottles together and rush across thedance floor, to the edge of the furore. Another steward at a small table implores, “PLEASE RETURN THE PENS” above the music. They hand us a sort of parchment with instructions to write our name, phone number and convention badge number. We fill them out, then Roxy grabs my hand and we head into the eye of the storm.
“Why is it so insane?” I call from behind Roxy to nobody in particular, elbowing a tall tuxedo-wearing vampire who’s trying to use my head to gain traction.
“There’s only three minutes left to enter!” someone from low down responds.
