Page 4 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“I like that coat too much to see you burn it and the house down with it.” Charley shrugged, setting the candle back down on the sofa table.

“Miss Bryde?”

The girls startled and looked up to see a blond woman with severe Slavic cheekbones moving determinedly toward them. She was not in costume, but no amount of dress-up would disguise the need so plain on her face. She was a customer and now a conveniently timed stalemate. Miranda couldn’t climb over the back of the couch and throttle her, which was what it looked like she would rather do to her sister. Instead, Miranda arched an eyebrow at Charley expectantly and plastered on a ghastly smile.

“Be a good sister and deal with that, would you, Chuck?” Miranda said, her voice nauseatingly sweet. She said Chuck like she was tearing it apart with her canines. “We each have our responsibilities.”

Asshole. Charley looked pointedly at Miranda’s glass of champagne.

Miranda gave a great sigh. “Fine,” she huffed, holding out her glass to Charley. But before Charley could evade her grasp, Miranda grabbed her wrist, pulling her close. “We are going to talk about this later,” she whispered in Charley’s ear, her breath a sour champagne kiss. Dismissing her, Miranda sank back into the couch and stared at the fire.

Unsettled, Charley stuck out her tongue before replacing it with a friendly, professional smile for the woman bearing down on them.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Miranda is unable to see anyone else tonight.” Reaching into her pocket, Charley retrieved a business card that she held out to the guest. It was thick, embossed with the Seeker’s Star on one side, a phone number on the other that was absent from the invitation all the guests had received. A direct line to Sadie. Well, to Celeste, who would determine if it was a query worthy of Sadie’s or Miranda’s time. If Charley was the bouncer, Celeste was the velvet glove, quick to soothe a millionaire’s feelings if they hadn’t received special treatment. “Let us know if you’d like to make an appointment, as Miranda would be happy to help reconnect you with your loved ones.”

The woman stared at the card, accepting it wordlessly. Murmuring something under her breath, she turned and drifted back into the crowd.

“Cheers.” Charley hoisted the champagne toward the retreating guest and risked a glance at her sister, who had gone back to stroking her chinchilla-covered arms and gazing into the fire. Charley took a sip, savoring the bite of the champagne on her tongue. There would be a lecture later, a stern talking-to about protocols no one had ever bothered to educate her on. An invocation was spoken before the first guest arrived, the final candle extinguished after the last guest left the party—and only then. These were details she understood to be just as important as the guest list and the desserts displayed on the sideboard. Why had she blown out that candle? She would insist that she was yet again watching out for her impossible, impossibly indulged sister. She didn’t want her to catch fire, the lie leaving her lips as smoothly as the champagne down her throat.

She studied the golden liquid in the glass, watching the bubbles scurry to the surface. She took another sip, this time noticing a dark stain that bloomed in the center of the glass. She studied it more closely. It wasn’t unlike a drop of blood, this dark color undulating in her drink, but now it was taking shape, filling her vision. The dark stain was now a door, and the door was opening. A woman was stepping through it. The woman’s eyes were black, as was her dress, her mouth a gash that seemed to stretch to her jaw. She was staring at Charley, and now she was walking toward her, impossibly fast. She would be upon her any second and now the woman’s arms were outstretched, and she would swallow her whole with that terrifying chasm that was her face.

Charley lowered the glass, gasping. She’d forgotten to breathe. She looked wildly around the parlor, scanning for threats in every corner, but no dark figure rose to confront her. Miranda looked to be dozing in front of the fire as the band played and guests mingled. Nothing at all was amiss, but Charley knew someone had been standing right in front of her, their sudden absence now just as alarming. She shuddered, sweat breaking out at her temples as she studied the glass again. Only bubbles. Could a couple of sips of champagne have this much of an effect?

A trio of ladies dressed like angels laughed and flirted with her father by the grand staircase. Sadie held court with a French noblewoman and a man in a velvet cloak. No one dressed as a menacing ghost. She took another sip, the champagne cauterizing her fear. Was Maria Callas clawing her way back to the stage for an encore? If so, Charley thought glumly, she’d picked the wrong sister to inhabit.

Charley studied the parlor, no friends or foes present. But she was still uneasy. It was Halloween, after all, the night when magic was made real, when the veil between worlds was thin, something Sadie always liked to say but Charley had never quite understood. She’d long given up asking the adults any questions about magic, as it, at best, resulted in her being ignored. At worst, she was given chores and dismissed.

It was then that she spotted Celeste standing at high alert next to the baby grand piano, her eyes wide as if scanning the room for a threat.

She saw it, too.

Just then their eyes met, and Celeste visibly relaxed, raising one eyebrow comically and pointing at the glass in Charley’s hand. Busted. Charley gave her aunt an apologetic shrug, pretending to set it down. No harm, no foul, no baby’s first psychic vision at the bottom of a champagne glass. Feeling ridiculous, she slammed the rest of her drink and watched as her father materialized and slung an affectionate arm around his sister-in-law’s shoulder. He whispered something into her ear, and Celeste laughed at his joke, his own magical abilities on display as he drew her back into the crowd.

Her aunt had been married once, Charley knew. He’d left before Charley was born. Bernard wasn’t strong enough to tolerate the Bryde way of life, her mom had once confessed to her. Charley had felt that admission in her bones. Strong enough? Or was he out there savoring each day of freedom he had been granted by escaping her family?

“Please. My son is sick.” The guest with the high cheekbones was back, this time with her husband, and they had driven Miranda to the edge of the couch, her sister’s knees drawn to her chest in a futile attempt to create a boundary. The woman’s voice was pitched high with desperation. “They think it’s genetic, and I just need to talk to my father. He was a doctor when…he was alive.”

Miranda shot Charley a strained look. She toasted Miranda with her empty champagne glass. Charley was done being the haint’s bodyguard tonight.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t see anyone else,” Miranda repeated, as if the mantra would magically rid the woman from her sight.

“We’ll pay you. Well.” The husband held up a sleek wallet for emphasis. He was also sans costume, just a black polo with slacks. Charley wondered if they had taken their costumes off once they’d gained access, as Sadie maintained a pretty strict dress code. “Name your price. We’ll do anything.”

“It’s not about the money,” Miranda insisted. “I can only allow a few passengers in a night.”

“We’ll pay you anything you want,” he repeated.

“Believe me when I say I’m sorry, but it’s for my own protection.” Miranda locked eyes with her sister, her desperation clear.

Charley should intervene. It was technically her job. But she couldn’t help it. It served Miranda right for behaving like a diva in her waking life. Plus, Charley was curious how much they meant by anything. Guests routinely dropped five figures just to walk through the door of Crimson House on Halloween night. Was the Dennan Family Foundation about to receive their largest donation to date just because some rich folks wanted medical advice from a dead guy?

The woman was crying in earnest. “I would give anything, you hear me? Do you hear me?” Charley wasn’t sure if this message was for Miranda or the dead father she so desperately was trying to reach. But Charley could feel the woman’s pain from across the room like it was contagious. Surely her sister could invite one more passenger in, just to make her stop that terrible crying.

“I…can’t…” Miranda whispered.

“Please,” the woman begged, her voice raw with need.

Charley noticed the sweat dotting her sister’s forehead, how her skin had suddenly gone beyond pale, almost translucent.