I cross my arms and look away.
“I’ll have one.” The swish of liquid tells me Bianca’s snagged the bottle from Jarrod. “I’m not a loser, after all.”
Must remember priorities. Must not punch her in the ovaries.
“Hey, that must be the photographer,” Julia says.
“ ’Bout friggin’ time,” Bianca says. “We’re not paying her just to stand around the parking lot. If we’re late to our dinner because of this I am so going to lose it. Lose it.”
I roll my eyes. At this rate I’d be pleased for the Priory to come swooping in, just so that I can throw Bianca in their warpath.
I’ve almost convinced myself this is true, but when my cell phone buzzes in my handbag, I feel like I might have leaped out of my skin if my corset weren’t so tight. I glance at the caller ID, and my heart picks up its pace. Paige. I casually wander a few steps away from the group to answer.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Any sign of the Priory yet?” Paige asks.
“No, and don’t say the P word. Jessie could hear you.”
“I’m in the bathroom, and I’m just really nervous, okay? Call me as soon as you know what’s going on.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I stow the phone in my purse and rejoin the group for photos.
And then it’s another wonderfully awful forty-minute drive to the Athenaeum in Pasadena, the venue for this year’s homecoming dinner and dance.
A ripple of fear runs through me as Devon leads me to the entrance of the massive white stucco building. Because here’s where I leave my protection behind. It was easy to be sort of confident about this whole thing with a practiced warlock and witch out there watching my every move, but when I go inside, Bishop and Jezebel—and the Family, but they won’t arrive until we really need help, so as not to tip off the Priory—won’t follow.
I take a slow breath and remind myself that they’ll be watching closely, that Bishop wouldn’t let the Priory get too close without charging inside to help
I don’t even have to enter the Athenaeum to know that Fairfield High has pulled out all the stops to make this year’s theme come to life.
The stone path leading to the entrance has been transformed into a drawbridge, complete with fully costumed, sword-and-shield-carrying guards standing sentinel at the entrance. As we enter, a herald blows a trumpet draped with a flag, then announces to the room that Lady Indigo Blackwood and Sir Devon Mills have arrived. Next to him, a woman in a crinoline gown plays the harp. It doesn’t stop there.
Inside, the Athenaeum looks like I’ve just stepped into King Arthur’s court. Swaths of deep red fabric hang from the ceiling, gathered in the center by an ornate gold chandelier. Navy pennant banners are slung between each of the turret-peaked white columns that act as a perimeter around the long dining room tables—each of which is draped in alternating red and gold tablecloths and is decked, buffet-style, with everything from whole cooked turkeys to dessert trays, flower garlands laced between the acres of food. But by far the most noticeable of the themed decor is the giant papier-maché dragon whose spiky green tail snakes around the columns, its fire-breathing head looking out toward the dance floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they passed around samples of the bubonic plague at dinner, for authenticity’s sake.
We mill around inside, admiring the decor, until, at the urging of the herald, we take our seats in the dining room.
I’m not hungry, but I pick at my dinner anyway—strength for battle and whatnot. By the time the butlers (seriously) have cleared the table, there’s still been no sign of the Priory. I do get another call from Paige, though, which I let go to voice mail. The girl can be annoying, God love her.
The soft dinner music cuts out to a DJ, who blasts Top 40 music through giant speakers set up in all corners of the room. The lights dim, and we’re ushered onto a dance floor teeming with artificial smoke and strobe lights. Just like in King Arthur’s court.
Still no Priory.
I must say, it’s hard to find a rhythm when you’re worried about a sorcerer killing you at any moment, but I try, because the whole point is that I appear to be casual, that I don’t look like I’m trying to lure the Priory out so we can reclaim the Bible and kill them.
Minutes turn into hours. The bottle of JD makes the rounds, and soon the dance floor is a writhing mass of teenagers bumping and grinding against each other in a formal-wear orgy.
The end of the night nears, and it becomes obvious the Priory isn’t coming, that they must have been on to our plans, when the music abruptly cuts out. My pulse drums harder than the beat of the club music still echoing in my ears.