As the clock struck midnight, Mal’s guests began to arrive in force. There were no gourd-like carriages or rodent-like servants to be seen, not anywhere. Nothing had been transformed into anything, especially not what anyone would consider a cool ride.
There were only feet, in varying degrees of shoddy footwear. Perhaps because their feet were the largest, the Gastons arrived first, as usual. They never risked a late entrance, so as not to miss a buffet table full of food they might swallow whole before anyone else got a taste.
During the awkward silence that followed the Gastons head-butting their hellos and competitively slamming pitchers of smuggled root beer, a whole ship’s worth of Harriet Hook’s pirate crew came marauding through the door.
As Carlos stood against the faded wallpaper nursing his spicy punch, the Gastons and the pirate posse busied themselves with chasing the next group of guests through the house. This happened to be an entire cackling slew of evil step-granddaughters, festooned with raggedy ribbons and droopy curls, elbowing their way around the corners at top speed. “Don’t chase us!” they begged, just waiting to be chased. “You’re horrible!” they screamed, horribly. “Sto-o-o-o-o-o-p,” they said, refusing to stop.
Their cousin, Anthony Tremaine followed them into the room, rolling his eyes.
The band struck up a rollicking tune. Dark-haired Ginny Gothel arrived with a bushel of wormy apples, and a game of bob-for-the-wormiest-apple broke out in the tub. Everybody wanted a turn on the chandelier swing, and the rest of the guests were engaged in a serious dance-off over by the band. All in all, it was shaping up to be a wicked good time.
More than an hour after the party had officially started, there was a sharp knock on the door. It wasn’t clear what made this knock different from all the others, but different it was. Carlos leapt to his feet like a soldier suddenly called to attention. Jay stopped dancing with a posse of evil step-granddaughters. The Gastons looked up from the buffet table. Little Sammy Smee held an apple between his teeth questioningly.
Carlos steadied his nerves and opened the door. “Go away!” he yelled, using the island’s traditional greeting.
Mal stood in the doorway. Backlit by the dim hall light, in shiny purple leather from head to toe, she appeared to have not so much a halo as a shimmer, like the lead vocalist of a band during a particularly well-lit rock concert—the kind with smoke and neon and bits of sparkly nonsense in the air.
Carlos half-expected her to start belting a tune with the band. Perhaps he should have felt excited that such an infamous personality had decided to come to his party.
Er, her party.
There would be no unplugging this party like one of his rebuilt stereos, not once it had begun, especially not the sort of party Mal seemed to have in mind.
“Hey, Carlos,” she drawled. “Am I late?”
“Not at all,” said Carlos. “Come in.”
“Excited to see me?” Mal asked with a smile.
He nodded yes. Except that Carlos wasn’t excited.
He was terrified.
Somewhere, deep down, he even wanted his mommy.
“Toad’s-blood shots!” declared Mal, leaping into the room as if she were just another guest. “For everyone!”
And just like that, the party began again, as quickly as it had stopped. It was like the entire room exhaled in one relieved breath. Mal isn’t mad. Mal isn’t banning us from the streets. Mal isn’t renaming us Slop.
Not yet.
Mal could see their relief on their faces, and she didn’t blame them. They were right. The way she’d been feeling lately, it was certainly something to celebrate.
So the crowd cheered, and toad’s-blood shots splashed across the room by the cupful, and Mal, in a show of generous sportsmanship, chugged a slimy cup right along with the rest.
She circled the party? pilfering a wallet from one of the Gastons, stopping to share a mean giggle with Ginny Gothel about the dress Harriet Hook was wearing, ducking under an overenthusiastic pirate swinging from the chandelier, taking a bite out of someone else’s devil dog and grabbing a mouthful of dry popcorn. She walked into the hallway and bumped into Jay, who was out of breath after winning the latest dance-off.
“Having fun?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Where’d Carlos go?”
Jay laughed and pointed toward a pair of black shoes poking out from behind a sheet covering the biggest of the bookcases. “Hiding from his own party. Typical.”
Mal knew how Carlos felt, though she’d never admit it. Truly, she’d rather be almost anywhere on the whole Isle than at this party. Like her mother, she hated the sights and sounds of revelry. Fun made her uncomfortable. Laughter? Gave her hives. But a vendetta was a vendetta, and she had more planned for this evening than just Deep, Dark, Secret or Death-Defying Dare.
“Come on,” said Jay. “They’re playing pin the tail on the minion over there, and Jace has like, ten tails. Let’s see if we can make it a dozen.”