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Yeah. It’s Adrien who replies, and I can’t find it in me to be surprised. Go. Just keep the mask on and deal with the bulb.
I’m on my feet in the gathering darkness instantly. My phone goes back to my pocket, and I take my time in freeing myself from the edge of the thick woods. Now that it’s happening, I don’t want to rush this. I want to feel every single instant, every fucking moment, of what we do, so I can remember it forever.
I’ve already come to terms with how not-normal that is. I’ve already decided that if I don’t end up in jail for this thanks to Lily’s panicking, then I will be counting myself extra lucky every single night as I remember this in my dreams.
My black and white sneakers scuff along the gravel once I’m walking up the driveway, and every step is measured. Every single one is placed perfectly on the path I’ve been mapping out in my head for over an hour. My heart stutters behind my ribs as I take the first step up onto the porch, but evens out on the second. When I’m standing in front of the old door, my sneakers firm on the spider webbed cracks of the rough concrete under me, I slowly reach up and grip the bulb of the porch light.
While they haven’t been smart enough to turn it on yet, I don’t want to take any chances. If they think I look suspicious, there’s a good chance the men could go on high alert, with a house full of weapons. Even if they are wasted.
I twist the bulb once. Then again. Until it’s loose enough that the threading is barely hanging on to the base itself. Only then do I reach out and ring the doorbell so it chimes throughout the house, loud and artificial.
At first, nothing happens. There’s no movement behind the heavy door, and no raised voices that I can hear. But then there’s a click, followed by a pause.
I want to glance up towards the light, but that wouldn’t be very spooky-psycho-killer of me. Still, I mentally pat myself on the back for doing that part right, and when the door opens, I wait so I can study the backlit shape of the drunk hunt club member.
“The fuck do you want?” he grumbles, gripping the door frame.
“Trick-r-treat.”
He blinks, looks around the gravel parking area, then squints at me again. “How the hell did you get up here? And the light is off. We don’t have any–”
“Trick-r-treat,” I say again, pronouncing each word with extreme care. Every syllable is deliberate, and I take great joy in his confusion.
“I don’t have any candy,” he snaps again. His hand tightens on the door.
“That’s okay.” Slowly, I draw the knife from behind my back, letting the shiny, grey metal reflect the light spilling out of the house. “But you can’t invite me to a hunt and then get weird about the door.”
19
Both of us move at the same time. He jerks backward just as I step forward, and I get my foot in the door before he can stop me. I hear a commotion from further in, and what sounds like glass breaking, but I can’t focus on what the others are doing just now.
The man slams the door into my foot, though I manage to catch it with my hand not holding the knife. “I said Trick-r-treat,” I tell him sweetly, shoving the door open. I manage it only because he’s drunk, and I knock him stumbling without really trying. “It’s pretty fucking rude not to let me in.” Once I’m inside, I close the door hard behind me, reaching back to lock it a second later.
After all, I’m not the one who’ll end up trying to escape. I want to be here.
I want them trapped with me.
The man gropes at his belt, and my heart jumps when I see the gun holster, only to realize a second later that it’s thankfully empty. Wherever his gun is, it isn’t going to help him now, so I push my advantage and the haze of alcohol he’s under. With the knife between us, I walk forward and the man stumbles back, until he’s finally back in the living room.
One of the other men sits in an old, patched recliner, his eyes wide and uncertain. He’s drunk enough to not quite know what’s going on, but smart enough to know there’s some kind of problem. I watch him blink rapidly, like he can push away the effects of the alcohol by that action alone.
Well, more power to him, I suppose.
The other is on the ground with Ronan on his back. My friend pins him there, and the man who might be the most sober of the group thrashes even though blood runs from his nose to stain his face and the floor under him.
My own victim looks around at the scene and tenses, his hand once more going for the gun he doesn’t have.
“Looking for this?” Adrien drawls from his spot leaning against the window. In his mask and black clothes, he looks like the fucking devil come to take them all down with him. And maybe that’s a good metaphor, given how we all look, and the fact that all of us have knives.
Well, and of course for the fact that we do, in fact, intend to kill them.
Adrien shows off the gun in his hand, waving it a little and watching as the man’s eyes widen.
“How did you–”
“Please,” my new friend scoffs. “You’re drunk enough to leave shit everywhere. Don’t give me more credit than I deserve, Ronnie.”
Ronnie looks at him. Really looks at him, though I see that he doesn’t recognize Adrien whatsoever. For all that Adrien knows just enough about the hunt club to make him dangerous, they don’t seem to have any relevant information about him. Especially since not all of them even know who the hell he is.
