“I’m coming.”
Bishop’s voice shatters the intense quiet. I didn’t even hear him come back in. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pulled into a thin line. “I’ll go with Indie.”
“That’s a great idea,” Aunt Penny says. “Indie?”
Yes. It’s a great idea. So why am I not as happy as my aunt?
Bishop raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Indie? Is there a reason you don’t want me to come?”
My cheeks flame at his accusatory tone, at the hint of a challenge in his eyes. I think of Cruz. Maybe Bishop suspects more than he’s let on.
I make myself meet his stare. “No. Of course not.”
“Good,” he says. “Then it’s settled. I’m coming with you to Los Demonios. So what’s our plan?”
“Plan?” I sputter.
“Well, we’re not going to just go in guns blazing, are we? We don’t even know what the Chief is up to. Have you talked to the families of the kidnapping victims?”
“Um, no,” I admit.
“That’s our first goal, then. See if they saw or heard anything that will give us a hint what the Chief wanted those kids for. If we’re going into that place, we need to be smart about it.”
I can’t help smiling. A genuine smile. Because for the first time since I learned that Paige was in that awful place, I feel like there’s a chance we might actually get her out.
22
Bishop leans across the dashboard, squinting up at the mansion on the hill.
“Man, Bianca has a lot of time on her hands, doesn’t she?”
Bianca’s place has been completely transformed for her Halloween party. Caution tape borders the property, and dozens of headstones and zombies stick out from mounds of dirt on the lawn. Flickering jack-o’-lanterns lead up to the front door, which is covered in cobwebs and creepily lit by a spotlight; orange pumpkin lights (which I know from experience that Bianca got some minions from the cheerleading squad to put up for her) are strung around all the windows and in the big poplar out front.
“You are cordially invited to Bianca’s HallowSCREAM! party,” Bishop says, mocking Bianca’s girlie, high-pitched voice. “The When: Saturday, October thirtieth. The Who: anyone who’s anyone.” He gives a hearty chuckle, crumpling up the party invitation I got from the trash at school. “Is she for real?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
But actually, I used to love Bianca’s annual Halloween rager. I mean, who doesn’t like getting dressed up in a crazy costume and dancing till you can hardly breathe? But the last place I thought I’d be while my best friend was missing is at a party, let alone one at my sworn enemy’s house. But Bishop and I didn’t have any luck speaking to Samantha’s parents (and trust me, we tried—over and over and over. Mrs. Hornby wouldn’t even come to the door when I said I just needed to talk to her about getting back on the cheerleading squad). We did, however, find out that the friend who’d gone to school with Samantha the day she went missing was Brooke McDonald.
Here’s what I know about Brooke:
1) She’s the forward on the girls’ soccer team and has the calf muscles to prove it.
2) She could drink any member of the football team under the table.
3) She gave Misty Carey a black eye freshman year after she found out that Misty had made out with her boyfriend.
4) She scares the crap out of me.
Suffice it to say, I’ve kept my distance from the girl. But the last person to see Samantha Hornby before she was kidnapped must know something. And according to the infallible Internet, this is where Brooke is going to be tonight.
“Are we going to do this or what?” Bishop asks.
I’d rather jump into the path of an oncoming train, but I sigh, “All right. Let’s go.”
Music spills out of the mansion’s open windows and rattles the pavement so hard that it feels like a minor earthquake under my feet. Chants of “Fight, fight, fight” emanate from the backyard, and I can spot the shadow of a person bent over puking in Bianca’s rosebushes.
It’s only ten o’clock.
“Don’t forget this.” Bishop tosses something over the roof of the car. I catch it and groan.
“Don’t be such a poor sport,” he says.
I put on the fluffy bunny ears as Bishop pulls a hockey jersey over his head. He grins at me.
“I don’t see why we have to wear costumes,” I mutter.
“Because it makes us stand out less,” he says, rounding the car. “And because you look cute.” He gives me a peck on the cheek and pulls me across the front lawn.
My stomach roils with nerves. Going into Bianca’s house could end badly. Scratch that—will end badly. I wouldn’t dream of setting foot in her place if I wasn’t seriously desperate and seriously short on time.
“Myra Mains. Ima Goner,” Bishop says, checking out the names on the headstones as we pass. “Nice.”
“Trust me. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
I lead him through the front door.
Even jam-packed with sloppy-drunk teens and covered in plastic cups and beer bottles, the inside of Bianca’s house doesn’t disappoint.
All the furniture has been draped with tattered white sheets, as if the house has been abandoned for ages. The ceiling drips cobwebs and spiders and bats, and Gothic candelabra cover nearly every surface. There’s a bar in one corner called “Boos and Spirits,” which serves Bianca’s signature bright green punch with floating ice “fingers,” and the dining room table has been set for an elaborate dinner for five skeletons, with fake maggots crawling out of the turkey-dinner feast. A football player dances suggestively with a female skeleton while a crowd cackling with laughter gathers around him.
“Whoa,” Bishop says.
It’s pretty impressive when you can shock a warlock.