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“And to all of you,” Clawdia says, turning to the crowd. “May your week be filled with frights, delights, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting. Cheers!”

The crowd riots back, and all of the Scream Queens lift their drinks and down them in unison. Clawdia merely lifts her glass to her lips, never letting it actually touch them, then holds it in the air as though the drink exists solely to improve the view. Naturally. Queens don’t drink with the peasants. They let the peasants admire the restraint.

Morticia takes the microphone back. “All right, my little monsters, it’s time to mix and mingle! The Queens will be circulating, so say hello, collect an autograph, snap a photo, and remember—fang marks are strictly optional. Enjoy the festival!”

The Scream Queens step off the stage, and the crowd descends on them like zombies who just caught the scent of fresh brains. Festival programs wave overhead. Phones pop into the air. Everyone’s shouting for autographs, selfies, or just the chance to breathe the same haunted air. Someone lets out a scream so bloodcurdling that every fake vampire in the park instinctively checks for real fangs. Three seconds later, the festival has gone from festive to one misplaced foot away from a Halloween stampede.

Mom and Georgie take off toward the dessert table like they’re on a mission to hoard all the calories for themselves, and I lose sight of them almost immediately.

I’m about to head back toward my display table when I notice Countess Clawdia making her way through the crowd directly toward me.

She’s still holding her glowing cocktail glass, and Duchess is still perched on her shoulders looking vaguely annoyed by all the melee. And as she reaches me, she tips the glass back, empties it in one long, dramatic swallow, then lowers it as though she’s just taken a bow.

“Bizzy Baker,” she mewls with a satisfied look on her face. “I just want to thank you for—” She stops abruptly and gives a few quick blinks.

Her other hand rises to her throat instead, her confidence slipping away so quickly it’s almost startling. She blinks at me, bewildered.

“Forgive me,” she says, and it comes out raspy. “I seem to be...”

The words catch. She draws a shaky breath. Then another until every trace of color drains from her cheeks.

A strangled sound escapes her, and she begins to gag.

Her eyes go wide. She claws her throat with one hand, and the cocktail glass tips forward, splashing purple liquid across the front of my sweater.

The crowd around us starts to laugh and clap.

“It’s part of the show!” someone shouts.

But Clawdia’s eyes are bulging now, her face growing rapidly pale, and she grabs onto my shoulders like she’s trying to steady herself.

What in the world is happening? she thinks as her thoughts begin to swirl, and I can feel her panic spiking along with my own.

Clawdia’s grip tightens, and she pulls me into what looks like a very slow, very awkward dance.

“Ree!” Georgie hollers from the dessert table. “Nobody told me the entertainment package included audience participation!”

It doesn’t.

This isn’t theater.

Clawdia’s knees buckle, and she collapses forward, taking me down with her.

We hit the grass hard, and her cocktail glass rolls away, still faintly glowing.

Duchess leaps off Clawdia’s shoulders with her tail puffed up and her eyes wide with shock.

What just happened? Duchess thinks, her mental voice high and panicked. What just happened to my hooman?

I scramble back, breathing hard, and stare down at Countess Clawdia.

Her eyes are open but unseeing. Her chest isn’t moving.

The crowd is still clapping.

I look up at the stage, at Morticia, then at the Scream Queens still smiling and waving, and then back down at the woman lying motionless at my feet.

Countess Clawdia won’t have to worry about attending eyeliner tutorials or roasting her fellow hostesses or making dramatic entrances that stop traffic.