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Vampyra beams at us. “What an absolute delight! Bizzy, your dessert table deserves its own fan club. I’ve already had four chocolate coffins, and I’m about thirty seconds away from pretending I lost something over there just so I can have four more.”

“Please have all you want,” I say. “I only have people arrested after they’ve had a cool dozen.”

We share a quick laugh.

Despite all the Gothic horror, Vampyra is really nice, Mom muses to herself.

I think she’s too nice, Mackenzie counters without realizing it. Nobody is that nice, not even Bizzy.

I take a moment to frown at her again. Honestly, it’s long since been a pattern.

Clawdia takes a delicate sip of her champagne. “Vampyra, I noticed your panel tomorrow is about ‘Embracing Your Inner Monster.’ Tell me, is that before or after you teach people how to apply winged eyeliner so sharp it could kill a man standing a mile down the road? Because I remember your last tutorial and, well... let’s just say subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

The words are delivered with a smile, but there’s venom underneath. I have a feeling none of that had to do with winged eyeliner, either.

Vampyra’s smile doesn’t waver. “How delightful of you to liken me to a homicidal maniac who slays men for fun. I’ll make sure to dedicate that segment to you, Clawdia.” Deep breaths, she muses to herself. She’s not worth the aggravated assault charge. Yet.

Yet? My eyes widen at this not-so-veiled threat.

“Anyway, I should get going,” Vampyra practically sings. “Those sweet treats are calling my name. Lovely meeting you all!”

She glides off toward the dessert table with her plate, and I’m genuinely impressed by how gracefully she just handled that. But then again, Mackenzie likens me to a homicidal maniac just about every time she sees me, and it somehow pushes me to the dessert table too. It’s pretty much a logical response.

Morticia glances at her watch. “We should probably get started. Clawdia, if you and the other headliners could take your places on stage?”

Clawdia drains the rest of her champagne and hands the empty flute to Morticia like she’s a personal assistant. “Of course. It’s time to dazzle the masses.”

She detours behind the scaffolding on her way to the stage, and I crane my head to see what she’s up to. I’m about to head on over when I spot her with both hands clamped on the shoulders of a silver-haired woman in a stunning dark gown. Clawdia is shaking her hard enough to rattle the woman’s head off.

Oh my word. My fingers fly to my lips involuntarily.

“You’ll pay for this,” the older woman hisses so loud that her voice manages to carry over the noise of the crowd.

Clawdia laughs in her face, releases her, and glides toward the stage entrance where the other Scream Queens are gathering. And despite all the drama that just transpired, poor Duchess is still perched on the woman’s shoulders and hanging on for dear life.

The silver-haired woman she left behind straightens her gown and follows her nonetheless. Her expression might look as if it’s carved from stone, but I can tell she’s shaking from the rather violent encounter.

Whoever she is, she’s obviously not one of Clawdia’s friends. And if she is, I’d hate to see how Clawdia treats her enemies.

I make a note to find out who that poor woman is.

But despite the kerfuffle, the stage setup is impressive with a long row of tall director’s chairs, the kind you see on Hollywood sets, each one positioned in front of an elegant small round table. And on each table sits a cocktail glass filled with something that’s glowing purple in the night, bubbling and smoking as if it were a mini cauldron.

The table in the middle seems to be missing its glittering cocktail. And no sooner do I make the observation than one of the festival staff emerges from behind the stage curtain carrying a cocktail unlike the rest.

All of the catering staff are dressed in long, dark hooded cloaks tonight, our spooky little spin on a uniform. They’ve been drifting around the grounds since sunset with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, ominous enough to suit the occasion without making anyone wonder if they’ve accidentally joined a cult.

This particular staffer has their hood pulled up against the evening chill, their face swallowed in shadow as they make their way toward the stage.

Whoever it is crosses to the center chair and lowers the glass onto the waiting table with the care of someone setting down a crown. Only then do I notice it’s taller than the others, rimmed with black sugar and crowned by a curl of blackened orange peel floating on top.

The hooded figure fusses with the garnish once... then again... until it’s sitting just so before disappearing behind the curtain without ever turning around.

Somebody clearly takes the headliner’s drink very seriously.

It looks like someone bottled a haunted house, cast a spell on it, and made it drinkable.

Morticia steps up to the microphone first, tapping it twice to get everyone’s attention. The crowd quiets down, and she smiles.