Halloween isn't for another few days, but you wouldn't be able to tell, looking at the crowd Bryony managed to pull together. They look like they're wearing costumes, but I know better.

Sure, some love dressing up or have a wicked sense of humor, but, overall, it's the only time of year where everyone I know, kind of know, don't know, and wish I didn't know can "be themselves."

I can't find a decent parking spot. Is it any wonder why?

Sam had better luck, I see, as I'm rolling down the block for the second time. Her car is easier to squeeze in somewhere, and she left the game a few minutes ahead of me.

All the better that I'm widening that gap. I didn't want her to know that I was at the game this time and should avoid walking in when she does. I should avoid her in general. I'll keep an eye on her, of course, especially in this crowd. But everyone already has the wrong idea about us, and I'm doing everything I can to detach myself to a point she resents me anyway.

Eventually, I go inside the first-floor apartment, where the party is hopefully contained, like I insisted. Bryony and her entourage won't necessarily respect that, but at least I barked out a few ground rules the only time the party was ever mentioned to me. You can't say I didn't try...

Strobe lights, black lights, music blaring, warm and cold bodies everywhere. The undead outnumber the living, and that doesn't make my chaperone job any easier.

The place is festive and sparsely furnished. This is an improvement, all things considered. Someone did a fair amount of cleaning and reorganizing. There's a decent area rug covering the scorched floor and that horrid smell has waned to an irritation, something humans wouldn't likely be able to detect.

A disco ball is spinning in the empty dining room. It's where I spot Sam. In her white dress, she's a beacon of fluorescent purple light. It should be easy enough to keep track of her, but it'll be just as easy for everyone else. Just the thought makes my temper flare, like my blood is gasoline about to combust.

And, just like that, Sam's blocked from my view. A skinny vampire dressed as Dracula—oh how very original—opens his cape and hisses at me. It's for his amusement only. Vampires would typically have the edge in a one-on-one battle with a shifter, but I'm stronger than average and have been trained to kill vampires with one bite, and this loser looks like he'd blow over in a stiff wind. It would be no contest. I give him a fiery glare and roughly shoulder past him on my way to the kitchen.

Faolan glances up at me when I come in. He opens a beer and hands it to me when I join him by the counter. "Trust me. You'll need it."

While taking my first sip, I scratch at a pit in the countertop. "Do I even want to know?"

Everything is scratched, dented, and discolored in here, and I don't need the lights on to see that. At least that orange-demon goo is gone for the most part. It's only sticky where you wouldn't normally put your hand, like the sides and underneath.

"Probably not." Faolan twirls his finger, urging me to turn around. "Ivy's looking for you."

"Thanks for the heads up," I say drily over my shoulder.

She's three feet in front of me with her arms crossed. Ivy practically owns the place, and Bryony is her best friend, but I honestly didn't expect her to show up tonight. I haven't seen her since she pinned me to the floor in almost this exact location. Plus, it seems beneath her. Bryony has questionable taste. We're riff-raff and the help.

Ivy looks tired. Stressed. Disheveled by her standards. Her hair is frizzy and undone. Her clothes are loose and unflattering, like she's a disgruntled housewife for Halloween. Maybe it's a costume? Am I missing the joke?

"I need a moment alone with you," she says to me, no warmth, no affection. That's not unusual, but if she really wanted something from me right now, she'd try a little harder.

"Fine." I walk past her, heading toward that beacon on the dance floor. It is the job Ivy gave me and all. I tag on a "maybe later" while she can still hear me and put a few cold bodies between us.

I need some time to figure out what to say to her, or to find a way to avoid saying it.

Faolan joins me by the wall in the next room. "How was the game?"

My wary glare returns to Ivy, who is whispering something to Rollin in the kitchen, her lips practically slipping inside his ear. With the music as loud as it is, I can't hear her. And that means she can't hear me, either.

Rollin smiles like a douche in response, and I suppose that's telling enough.

"Fucking Ian Tierney!" I face forward and sip my beer. "I liked him better when he sucked." I don't want to stare, but I move Sam to the center of my attention.

"You never liked him at all."

"No shit. Hard to believe I could like him any less, but now I do."

Sam can dance, too. Of course she can! And I'm not the only one who notices. She's surrounded by the Dracula-led clique of vampire losers.

Faolan nudges me just as I lock eyes with her. "Did she know you were at the game?"

Her gaze lingers on mine, her motion subsides, like she's trying to tell me something or get me to do something. When I cock my head at her, she smiles and twirls around again, her white, lacy skirt whirling with her. "I don't think so." My delayed response makes Faolan chuckle.

"I don't think she would have minded," he points out. "She seems to like it when your eyes are on her."

"Not you, too!" I scold him with a glance. Then, with a sudden interest in my shoes, I lean against the wall and shift my weight. "I'm just one of the few people she knows here. Acknowledging that is basic human courtesy."

"Yeah?" he says in a tone of disbelief. "It looks like she's building up the courage to come over. I bet anything that she'll ask me to dance."

"Why's that?"

"You still stink, my friend." Faolan fans a hand over his nose.

"Only to you," I say with a shrug. The "Impression" stench is starting to wear off. It supposedly doesn't last forever. I get a whiff of something disturbing now and then, depending on my mood and level of self-awareness, but I'm sensitive to it, like Faolan is, and I'm trying to keep tabs on it. Everyone else has stopped complaining. Or giving compliments, as the case may be. "She never noticed," I half lie, my eyes back on topic. Sam just has a different impression of me, one I don't care to repeat.

"Lucky her," he jests. "Anyway, she probably gets that she can't ask you to dance, and she sees us talking, so she'll go for the next best thing. Me." He presents himself with both hands. "I'm safe. It'll be her way of saving herself for you without drawing attention to that fact."

"I'll take that bet," I banter back. "Is it worth fifty bucks to you? It'll be the easiest money I've ever made."

"It's a deal."

We click beers on it and take a slug.

Sam is already on her way over to us. Before I'm even done with the gulp, she's tugging on my sweatshirt strings. "Where's your costume? I thought it was your favorite holiday."

"It is, I just..." The damn carbonation. It just didn't go down right.

"It's not technically Halloween yet," Faolan jumps in for me and I nod in agreement, both grateful for the reprieve and ashamed that I needed one.

"Lame. Excuse." Her eyes flutter in mock disgust, and then she lightly smacks my shoulder with the back of her hand. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Right. Uh, Sam, this is Faolan. We work together."

She reaches out and they shake hands. "Together at that unmentionable place?"

"Exactly." Faolan's eyebrows bob conspiratorially. "It's where we get that dead sexy angst. Where would we be without it?"

"Oh, I don't know..." She casually crosses her arms, taps her chin, and takes in our sorry state with her wide, observant gaze. It goes from Faolan to me, and it lingers on me. "Happy? Settled?"

"Ha. Right. Can you imagine?" Faolan nudges me on my other side.

"No," I reply, tearing my eyes away from her glossy lips, and the plunging neckline of her dress, before I really embarrass myself. I try to hide it all with another sip of beer and eyeball placement on something ugly. Vampires are great for that, even if they look like Bryony, who, strangely enough, I haven't had the joy of encountering yet.

"So, Faolan..." Sam restarts, her course about to change. "I'm sad this guy has been keeping you from me, but I'm glad that's been rectified."

"The pleasure is mine." Faolan gives her a slight bow.

He's good at this. Too good. And I'm usually better at coming up with reasons I shouldn't be jealous.

"Care to let me in on any of your other secrets, while we dance?" Sam gives me a pointed look while she reaches for Faolan's hand.

He's looking at me too, and his expression is one of pure triumph. "You'll have to watch your toes," he warns her. "But sure, I'm game."

Fucking jerk, I mutter to myself while they both leave me in the dust of my own chagrin.

I can't believe he was right, or at least righter than I was. When does that ever happen? It's Faolan we're talking about! He's, he's...

Having more fun than I am and that doesn't seem to bother anyone . . . except me.

***

"Are you sure you don't want to play, Jael?" Bryony's barbed tone shreds one of my last nerves. "You've taken quite the interest. Is there something you'd like to ask or share?"

"I'll pass." My growl is controlled, but that shallow well is about to go dry.

"It'sss my turn," Sam then slurs from her seat . . . on Rollin's lap. "I won't be too hard on you," she says to me, sweetly.

I force a smile in return but decline again with a wave. "Are you sure you still want to play?" I ask her.

"Buzzkill," Bryony coughs while I wait for Sam to answer.

Sam shrugs and sways a bit when she glances at Rollin over her shoulder. He whispers something in her ear and her cheeks turn pink. Then he wraps his arms around her waist and tugs her closer to his body with a feral smile, directed at me.

Bryony initiated a game of "truth or dare" with the handful of people who are still here.

Sam was about to call it a night, like an hour ago, fairly sober at the time, but Bryony wouldn't take no for an answer.

It's obvious—to me—that this is all a ploy to get Sam to talk about her private life. It could have been the purpose of this whole party. I wouldn't put it past them.

Whether Ivy was bored or just smart, she left after a couple of rounds. Sam was timid and tight-lipped around her. Still, it had to be Ivy's bad idea to begin with. Bryony is probably just doing her bidding and had an almost foolproof way to go about it.

Sam must have had that suspicion, though, or she never had any desire to spill any of her secrets in the company she's in. She's picked "dare" every single time. I admire her fortitude, but at this point, things are getting sloppy and inappropriate.

She's going to get sick, or hurt, or worse.

I've seen Sam take four shots of Vodka. I can tell by her reaction that she has low tolerance and very little experience. They also let a vampire make out with her neck. They've ruined her white dress with fake blood or real blood. Who can tell at this point? And I doubt that short skirt is doing anything to protect her from Rollin's hard-on for her. For any female within a three-foot range, and lucky her, she gets prime seating. By his request, of course, and there's no expiration.

I do not have the stomach for this...

Sam shifts her weight around, tugs at the hem of her skirt, and then her attention moves to her new best friend. "Faolan..."

He's not at the top of my shit-list, but ever since he poured Sam her second shot, he's moving up in the ranks. When I confront him later, he'll argue that he's doing everything he can to keep her out of trouble, but I'm finding that harder and harder to believe as the night drags on. He knows what I know, and still, he's playing along, contributing to the "downfall" our superiors have in mind for her tonight.

"Truth," he calls out. From his seated position on the floor, he rises to his knees to declare his readiness.

Sam should play a little dirtier, for payback, but she's never too intrusive, and this is no exception. "When was the last time you lied?"

"About an hour ago. When I told you I was 5'8."

He gets mocked for being short and dull for a good minute, but Bryony doesn't let it carry on for any longer than that. "Your turn," she insists. With a glance that isn't subtle, she gives Faolan his next move.

"So, Sam..." he starts.

"Me, again?" she gripes. "Dare," she says, sighing.

"Are you sure you don't want truth this time? It won't be so bad," he claims.

"Nope!" She'd sway right out of Rollin's lap if he wasn't holding on to her so tightly.

"All right..." Faolan's compliance sounds like a warning. "I want you to..." His gaze moves from eye to eye, object to object. He avoids me, however, and I can't say I blame him. "Stand on the edge of the couch and do a cheerleading stunt."

She looks at him, puzzled, but then she shrugs and gets out of Rollin's lap. It's hard to say who's happier about that. Me or Sam.

I'm not thrilled with the alternative, though. What is Faolan thinking? If he wanted to provide a way out for her, he could have come up with something that didn't put her whole college career at risk.

Rollin stays seated on one end, but everyone else gets off the couch. On the other side, Sam steps from the floor to the empty cushion, wobbling already. She rises tentatively to the next tier with one foot and then the other. It's only about two inches wide, and it isn't designed to bear weight like that. It's pretty old and creaks as soon as she plants both feet on that little ledge.

Drunk as she's probably ever been, she swivels around on the tips of her toes to face forward. It takes her a moment to catch her new balance.

The couch isn't right against the wall. She does have a little space to lean forward and bring her leg up behind her.

Flexibility isn't her problem. Grace isn't, either. With one arm prettily to the side, she manages to get her ankle over her head and hold it there for a few seconds with her other hand. But then, it looks like something on her body gives out on her. Her ankle, maybe?

There's a sharp intake of breath and then she's tipping, not forward, where she'd have the cushions to fall on, but sideways, where there's just the edge of the couch, the floor, a wall, and a window.

I guess I was prepared for something like this to happen. She's a few long steps away from my location and I have to kick someone out of my path, but I get there in time. She lands in my arms with a little yelp.

"Are you all right?" I ask her while the rest of the room is in an uproar—reeling from the shock, clamoring for a "redo," or cursing my name. I am the ultimate buzzkill because I didn't let the girl suffer the consequences of a dare they didn't want for her.

The terror in her face shifts to a wince. "It's my back," she whispers, draping her arms around my neck.

I hoist her into a better position—her knees over my arm, her back with better support. "Do you want me to bring you to bed?" I should have worded that differently, but she doesn't seem to catch that. Or mind?

When she nods, no hesitation, we begin our trek to the other side of the room. I make sure to give Faolan a death-glare when he looks up at us.

"You're welcome," he mouths, his eyes bugging out at me.

Maybe he knew how that stunt would most likely turn out, but if he wants my appreciation, he can go fuck himself.

"She's fine," Bryony insists, grabbing my shoulder, two steps later.

I shrug her off, grunt in response to her hiss, and keep walking. I'll pay for that later, but right now, no price is too high.

"You're probably wondering why I didn't pick truth," she says to me beneath the spinning disco ball in the empty dining room, probably thinking no one else can hear her at this distance.

"A little," I admit quietly, waiting until we're in the kitchen. "What could you possibly have to hide?" I use my shoulder to push the back door open.

"More than you might think."

I kick the door closed once we're in the stairwell and start climbing. "Is the angel costume just for show?" I tease.

She lifts one bare shoulder, neither confirming nor denying. I may get some of the truth but not the whole truth. And if I'm being honest, it's a rush of relief.

When I step onto the landing, I drag my eyes to the stains on her skirt and then begin the second flight. "Sorry about the dress, by the way."

"It's fine," she tells me, blasé once again. "It has a dark history anyway. It got what it deserved."

"Why is that? It's..."

Not too much. Not too little. Fits her like it's perfect for her or she's perfect for it. It leaves a little to the imagination, but it certainly inspires some creativity.

I'm surprised the door is unlocked. I know I locked it earlier. I didn't want anyone up here who didn't belong.

"Too short. Too tight. Too everything," Sam contradicts my assessment, her hand vacillating with each point, like she's emulating someone. "I don't try to make him mad. It just is sometimes."

"Which him?" I glance at my closed bedroom door when I go by. There's an orange glow coming from beneath. This should register as strange too, but it doesn't disrupt my train of thought. "Is this a Ted thing?"

Who else could it be? I did some digging into her past, but obviously not enough. There wasn't much to find.

Sam covers her face with her hand. "Never mind. I'm just drunk-rambling." She peeks over my arm at the floor. "You probably don't have to carry me. My back stabs me out of nowhere, but then it goes away for a while."

I nudge her bedroom door open with my foot. "It's all right. We're here." I flip the light on with my elbow and set her on her bed.

"Thank you. For getting me out of there. I didn't really want to play." She scoots to the edge and sits up arrow-straight with a wince. She closes her eyes and sways when she twists her arm behind her. She's fumbling for the zipper through her alcohol haze and a lot of pain.

"I wish I'd known sooner." I'm about to offer my help when she catches hold of the zipper and drags it halfway down.

She stands, her back facing me, as she pulls it the rest of the way down. I see the back of her white strapless bra and pale athletic underwear. They're high-cut and sheer.

She unhooks her strapless bra, removes it, and tosses it on her bed.

I finally have the good sense to turn around, but there are two mirrors so . . . I should probably close my eyes and think about something very disturbing.

But. I. Just. Don't. Not fast enough.

Her door isn't even closed, I notice, my eyes darting there instead. And I didn't lock any doors behind me...

The bed creaks when Sam sits back down. "You can stay if you want..."

My eyes flick to the mirror. I catch sight of her cradling her loose, open dress over her chest, and not very effectively at that.

She is so damn vulnerable. It's overwhelming. Debilitating. It makes me feel wounded. Helpless. Like I could cry at the smallest provocation. Or die at a pinprick.

"You didn't look like you were having that much fun downstairs anyway," she goes on when I can't seem to locate my tongue. "And I thought, maybe . . . we haven't talked, and maybe we should." She sighs. "I'll put some clothes on," she reassesses and reattempts. "Don't worry about that if it's a thing . . . or not..."

"I can't," I blurt when she pauses. "I should go."

I practically run out of there. And slam her door. In the dining room, against the wall, I need a moment to catch my breath . . . and compose myself. If that's even possible.

What the fuck just happened? Why and how did I say no? I was given a chance to end this whole debacle. She isn't a virgin. I just made sure...

Yeah, I wish!

They wouldn't just fire me, they'd...

I go to my room before I'm ready for it. It's the best place for me right now. It would be if Ivy wasn't there, waiting for me in my bed, naked, as far as I can tell. She has just a sheet draped over her hip and one leg.

She's the opposite of vulnerable. Her bedroom makeup is on. Dark, shaded eyes, heavily lined. Deep, blood red lips. Her skin, cosmetically pale. Her big breasts are rippling with candlelight.

I feel like a fish. The lure is deadly, but I'm not sure I can resist a bite.

I'm weak and she knows it. She thinks this is the sharpest weapon in her arsenal, and maybe she's right...

Ivy flips the sheet aside—my invitation to come in, and yes, my earlier suspicion was correct. She's wearing nothing but her desire to subdue me again. "I would have told you I was sorry if you'd given me the chance."

Any sex would probably help me right now. It might take the edge off, and I need that so I can think.

I'm all over the place right now. It's insane, the things I'm considering...

Still, I can't make myself move from the doorway. The last thing I should ever do is say no to her, but I can't dig out a yes either. It's just too soon. I thought she was going to kill me. And it's just too wrong. Sam is on the other side of the same wall. And I'm tired of being used. You'd think Ivy would be too, but she tends to get more than she gives, so I guess she makes her peace with that.

And I'm the idiot who's about to destroy that dynamic. "I, uh, forgot something downstairs. I owe Faolan money and want to catch him before he leaves." I close the door and follow through with my story, going back to what's left of the party.

Okay, so, that wasn't the go to hell it should have been, but it got me out of there. And tonight, tomorrow, or whenever, if she's in my bed, you can be sure I won't be.

I'm just not looking forward to the moment she realizes that...