As she wandered into our room, that same smell from last night wafted in. The smoky smell. And like last night, something about her was off.
“Has Oliver not finished our costumes?” Leanne asked. Just like every other occasion, Oliver had insisted on designing our outfits.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She moved around some of her clothes that she’d draped over her bed, then rifled through her closet. She came up empty-handed. “I can’t freaking believe him—we only have a couple hours until they light the bonfire and the Witches Festival starts.” Her face had flushed; she’d really worked herself up over this one.
I cocked my head. “Leanne, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
As if on cue, Oliver ran into the room. “Sorry I’m late! I have your outfits!” he hollered. Like Leanne, his face had a flush to it. However, unlike Leanne, this was more of a cloud nine flush. Someone was in lust. Again. I guess him and Rodrigo really had made up.
And then the costume he wore stopped that thought dead in its tracks.
“What, exactly, are you?” I asked, eyeing his outfit . . . if you could call it that.
“I’m Adam, duh,” he said, pointing to the cluster of fake leaves that covered only a Speedo-shaped expanse of skin.
“Please tell me I’m not Eve.” I was so not going to any Samhain party dressed like that.
He glowered at me. “No, Rodrigo is.” Poor, poor Rodrigo.
Oliver tossed Leanne a white dress, golden sandals, a gold mask, and some gold accessories.
My outfit Oliver walked to me. I eyed the midnight blue and black concoction in his hands. “It’s not really my style,” he admitted, “but you’re going to look ravishing in it.”
He held it up to the light, and I almost drooled. “Oliver, it’s beautiful,” I said, staring at the fake corset bodice. My eyes drifted over the off-the-shoulder sleeves and down to the skirt, which was made of layers of jagged, billowy fabric. The deep blue color of the corset faded darker and darker until, at the bottom of the dress, it was black.
“What exactly am I supposed to be?” I asked.
“An undead Renaissance woman.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The outfit was anything but historically accurate.
“Hers looks better than mine,” Leanne snapped. My eyes widened. I’d never heard Leanne talk that way before.
“Well that’s the only costume you’re getting from me, so take it or leave it.” Oliver rolled his eyes, not bothering to glance back at her.
“Oh, and I almost forgot.” Oliver pulled out a matching mask. “Your disguise.”
***
I spent the next two hours getting ready with Oliver and Leanne and filling them in on the murders—mostly for Oliver’s benefit.
So it surprised me when Oliver waved a hand and said, “Pfft, this is all old news.”
“Old news?” My eyes bugged out a little.
“I thought we all already established that I’m a snoop,” he said, painting a layer of dark green nail polish onto his fingers. I suppressed a shudder at the sight.
“But I never told you about the Braaid.”
“I saw the poem, sweets. C’mon—that one was easy. I can’t believe you didn’t put it together before now. Although I will say,” Oliver lifted the nail polish brush and pointed it at me, using it to punctuate each word, “I didn’t know for sure that it was a demon committing the crimes.”
“You mean the thought did cross your mind?” I said, my eyes practically popping out of my head.
“Sure,” Oliver said.
“Then why didn’t you say anything to anyone?”
“Ew, you wanted me to actually mention that to the Politia? What have they ever done for my people? Nothing.”
I put my head in my hands. “You could’ve mentioned your theory to me,” I said under my breath.
Outside, a horn honked.
“Eek! Hurry up bitches, the buses are here!” Oliver squealed.
Leanne rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who’s busy painting his nails.”
“Only because it took a freaking hour to get you two hags ready.”
I threw a pillow at him so that Leanne wouldn’t have to. “Against our will,” I reminded him.
He sighed melodramatically and pulled me over to the full-length mirror hanging on the backside of our door. “Tell me it wasn’t worth it.”
I wasn’t a big fan of makeup, but I couldn’t argue that Oliver had brought attention to all those places you wanted gazes to go—lips, eyes, cheekbones—all shrouded by my dark, wavy hair.
“Oliver, we both know you’re amazing.” I gave him a hug.
“That’s what I thought, Sabertooth,” he said into my hair, giving me an extra squeeze to let me know the nickname was supposed to be endearing. It wasn’t, but he was endearing enough to make up for it.
We grabbed our stuff and began filing out the door. Oliver stopped me on the way out. “Now that we know the devil’s after you, what are we going to do about it?”