Page 147 of Nightshade

“None of your concern.”

“It’s true, then. Your reputation. Death. The Reaper of Nightshade.”

“Heed my words, Miss Ravenshaw,” he said, ignoring my accusation. “Or you will know first-hand how merciless I can be when I have you strung up.”

My throat bobbed with a swallow, as his unpatched eye cruised over me once more, before I watched him disappear into the crowd. Warning bells fired off inside my head, telling me to leave. What better chance for escape, after all?

Except, where would I go? We’d traveled too far for me to walk back to Blackwater, and I’d need to stay ahead of him, if I were to attempt escape again.

I could, though. Leave right then, while he was occupied.

A quick scan of the crowd showed so many opportunities to run into the woods. He’d notice me gone, of course, but perhaps not right away. Perhaps I could make it back to the cathedral, so long as I kept to the woods, staying parallel to the road. The path en route to the ball had seemed simple enough. I could gather the nightshade, consume it first, then jump.

Van Croix’s words from earlier had me thinking, though.

What if it was true? What if I really had died, and returning would mean being trapped in a never-ending void?

I stood pondering that possibility, however miniscule it might’ve been. How could I possibly put any trust in Death’s words, though? What if his scheme was to keep me trapped in Nightshade?

I glanced around, looking for Van Croix, but found him nowhere. My head urged me to run. Forget about Alicia and steal the opportunity for escape.

And I would have. I would’ve abandoned the rare opportunity to speak with a murder victim in the afterlife. Which, as Van Croix pointed out, may have been futile, anyway.

Except that I caught sight of her. Standing off by herself.

She wore a purple, off-the-shoulder, taffeta dress, with a ruched bustle, the matching masquerade mask dangling from her fingertips as she looked over the partygoers. Bright flowers had been weaved into the waves of her white-blonde hair.

And I couldn’t rightly walk away at that point.

Eyes on Alicia, who had moved toward a shadowed stretch of trees beyond the candlelight, I made my way through the crowd, keeping my head low as I passed leering stares. A hand brushed my arm, and I hastened my pace, desperate to clear the throng of what could’ve been all variety of shady types. The Dark Ones, as Anya had warned me about, though just about everyone looked strange, including me.

As I neared, my pulse hastened at the thought of how I’d broach the topic. Flashbacks in my head showed images of her face, mangled and lifeless, twisting the nerves in my gut. “Excuse me,” I said, approaching cautiously. “Alicia?”

“Yes?”

“Hi. Um. I’m Farryn. Farryn Ravenshaw.”

“What can I do for you, Farryn?”

“You’re … singing tonight?”

“Yes.”

“That’s … fantastic. Really cool.” Rubbing my hands together failed to relieve the nervous energy pulsing through me. “So, have you lived here very long?”

Sipping her drink, she didn’t bother to look at me, keeping her eyes on the crowd, as if keeping watch for someone. “Long as I can remember.”

Shit.

“What town is this?”

“Keselshire.”

“You’re from Chicago, though. Originally, right?”

Gaze swinging to mine, she frowned. “Where?”

“Does the Shining Star Motel ring any bells?”