Mortal Danger

That tracked with what I knew about the immortals and their game. They chose individuals with great destinies, and from what I understood of the strategies, the Yakuza often made connections with powerful people in order to smooth the path for their operations. But I couldn’t tell Ryu that. Best to pretend I didn’t know anything about it.

“Wow, really? I wonder if she knew that when she picked it out?”

“Probably not. These things end up listed wrong, so some hipster wants the Chinese symbol for peace, and he gets the one for soup. Then Chinese people laugh at him.”

Despite growing unease, I snickered. “That would be my luck.”

“If you decide to get some ink, do your own research.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“One last thing,” he said, as I reached to click off the call.

“What’s that?”

“The mark has a fairly sinister meaning. The guy I talked to down in the market said it literally reads as ‘Property of the Game,’ and if I ever meet anyone who’s marked with it, I should run like hell. Edie, is your friend in trouble?”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Maybe.”

“Well, try not to get pulled into her drama.” A woman called to him, likely his mom, and he yelled a reply. Then he leaned forward. “Talk to you later.”

My screen went blank.

I stared at my left wrist, assessing the statement of ownership. Kian had warned me the marks couldn’t be removed, and the infinity symbol hurt when I left Boston with Davina. Therefore, whatever I was supposed to do, it happened here. So if I try to move—or go to school elsewhere, will it burn that bad, trying to keep me on track? Obviously that must be a built-in guidance system, courtesy of Wedderburn.

With a muttered curse, I took a shower as if I could wash away my problems. That night, I chatted with Vi, and then I slept in on Saturday, nearly until noon. My mom woke me up to head to the gym. It was cool seeing how people reacted to her new look. Mom was rocking an asymmetrical bob and she’d started using both bronzer and lipstick in the mornings. A couple of professors totally checked her out as we rolled into the fitness center.

“Mr. Goatee has a thing for you,” I said.

“Edith.” She spoke in a chiding tone, but a smirk curved her mouth as she glanced over at the balding, forty-ish guy working on the elliptical across the way.

“Hey, I didn’t say you were interested in him.”

“These past weeks have been really fun,” she said.

“Agreed. I’m glad you took the first step.” There had been a lot more hugs in the past three weeks than in my whole life combined; I was looking forward to a bunch more.

“Me too.”

After we sweated and showered, we took the T east. Fifteen minutes of walking and we splurged on lobster rolls and clam chowder, well worth the trip to James Hook & Co. The trailer made the setup look sketchy, but it was a pretty day, sunny enough to make it hard for me believe some of the shit that had happened recently. Outdoor tables turned the meal into a bistro experience, and it was awesome watching people go by, even if the ambiance was a little … industrial. The Old Northern Avenue Bridge reinforced that impression.

Mom raised her drink. “It feels like we should celebrate. To new beginnings.”

I smiled and tapped my soda can against hers, then dug into the delicious food. Halfway through my roll, I decided it was well worth fifteen bucks or whatever she paid. We took a walk before heading home in time for me to get ready for the party. Since my costume was simple, that was easy.

When I came into the living room, my dad made me pose for a picture. Both he and my mom laughed at my take on the mad scientist since my hair was more punk rock than eccentric genius. Still, it was better than showing up in my uniform and saying I was a schoolgirl. Davina arrived five minutes late and her mom came up with her, which delayed our departure another ten minutes.

“I’m Mrs. Knightly.” She shook hands with my parents. She was a pretty African-American woman in her forties, well-dressed in a suit that said she hadn’t changed out of work clothes yet.

They made small talk for a few minutes, and finally, Davina lost her patience, dragging her mother toward the door. Mrs. Knightly lectured us on the way to Cameron’s house about the importance of making good choices.

“I won’t pretend I don’t know there’s going to be alcohol there, just don’t come out so drunk that you puke in my car. Also? Don’t leave your friend’s place, and don’t drink anything you didn’t pour yourself.”

“Got it,” Davina said.

The drive took forty-five minutes, and the sky darkened as we crossed the city. Now and then, I caught sight of kids with their parents going door to door. This one night of the year, adults got away with marching around in vampire regalia. They’re probably on their way to costume parties, too. Bizarre, this was the one night of the year when the monsters could mix freely with humans and not draw a second look. Inexplicably, I shivered.

In the posh suburbs, Mrs. Knightly parked in front of a house fronted by a stone wall and a looming gate. “What time is curfew?” She sounded like this was a trick question.

“Midnight,” Davina replied.

Her tone softened. “You two try to have fun, okay? I know it’s been a tough year, but you have to put it behind you.”

Easier said than done.

For Davina’s sake, I’d try not to spoil the night. She was dressed as a leprechaun in a short green skirt, ankle boots, black tights, leotard, glittery makeup, and a tiny green bowler. Before I could say she looked good, she dragged me out of the car with a promise to be waiting here at precisely twelve.

The drive was asphalt, leading up to a classic new-money house, all modern convenience and no elegance, less charm. “Wow. That’s … big.”

“Right? I think I hear music. Come on.” Davina led me around back, where there were lights strung up. The patio doors stood open and the interior flashed with black lights, casting weird, zombie-ish shadows over all the faces. Right now, the crowd was light, but we’d arrived early on purpose.

“Where’s the booze?” she asked a random guy in a hockey mask.

The mass murderer pointed at a tin tub full of some murky mixture that looked too much like real blood for my comfort. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “It’s vodka and Kool-Aid, relax.”

There was no way I was drinking that, but I took a cup so Davina wouldn’t think I was a pain in the ass with a mental age of forty. “Is that a DJ over there?”