Page 22 of You’re So Vein

“No.” My vine should still allow the door to be opened. “Councillor McDougal must have locked the cupboard. He probably thought we left already.”

“You mean we’re locked in here? Together?”

Just then, the dim bulb above our heads goes out.

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Mamma: Rishi says that he had a lovely time on your date. He wants to see you again after your meeting. He’ll be waiting for you outside the village hall. Did you know that he has his own segway? Doesn’t your papa know how to find the best men?

THIS IS A LITERAL NIGHTMARE.

I’m trapped in a tiny closet filled with pencils, and Augustin Durant is taking up all the damn air, and now it’s dark.

I don’t do well with the dark.

I suck in a breath, but the air is too thick, too warm, too breathy, like the printer cartridges have decided to start inhaling, too. Darkness brushes my skin like ghostly spider webs.

I rub the spider webs away and bang my fist on the door. It hurts, but not as much as the panic tightening across my chest. “Mrs Ellis! Put down the crochet willy and come let us out! Help, is anyone there?”

“The Naughty Knitting Club won’t be able to hear us with the charm,” Augustin says.

Why doesn’t he sound more upset?

Oh, that’s right, he’s a vampire. He lives for hanging out in the gloom. This cupboard probably reminds him of his coffin, only his coffin has more satin and fewer Post-its.

Actually, Augustin probably has Post-its all over his coffin. No snacks in coffin. Practice looking mysterious, not constipated. Being undead doesn’t mean being unkempt.

Don’t think about coffins.

“So un-charm the door, then,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“I can’t. You snapped my connection to it when you slammed the door shut.”

“This cannot be happening.” I slump against the shelves, upsetting a stack of Post-its that rain down over my shoulders. The tightening grows worse, and is joined by sharp needles digging into the left side of my heart. I rub and rub at the bare skin of my arms, but the spiders won’t go away.

“Why don’t you message one of your annoying mystery-solving friends to come over and set us free?”

“I left my phone in my purse, in the hall. I don’t suppose you have yours? You probably don’t even use a phone. You handwrite letters in blood ink or blow smoke signals out of your—”

“I have a phone.” Augustin shifts a little to the side, his hip brushing against mine in a way that briefly makes my chest loosen before it pings tight again. “It’s in the drawer of my desk at home. I don’t believe in bringing it to meetings. Phones distract councillors from important work.”

Since I spend council meetings texting a running commentary of Augustin’s crimes to the Nevermore Coven group chat, I can concede he has a point.

“I suppose now is a good time to tell you that I’m afraid of the dark.”

“You’re inventing that,” he scoffs. “What human is afraid of the sun moving below the horizon?”

“This human.” I press my palm into my chest, wishing I could reach inside and give my heart a hug. “I’m dangerously close to a panic attack in a closet with my least-favourite vampire.”

“There’s nothing in this closet that can hurt you, unless you’re allergic to Tipp-Ex.”

“You are not being funny right now.”

I bang my fists against the door again. The action gives me a few moments of relief, a few seconds where doing something keeps the panic from rising inside me, before I remember that no one can hear me, and the needles jab jab jab between my ribs, into my lungs, right up through my throat until I’m gasping for breath.

I scramble back because Augustin is too close. I gasp and gasp and gasp, but I can’t seem to suck down the wet, woolly air.

My hand brushes something on the shelf behind me, something fluffy and warm.