Nightfall

by Douglas, Penelope

  “I’m not going to that island,” Rika said.

  “If they want us there, they’ll find a way to draw us there,” Alex told her.

  “She needs to be under lock and key,” Aydin told Michael. “One of those little shits knocks her up, you’ll never escape that family.”

  “Yo, fuck nut!” Damon barked, telling Aydin to shut up.

  Aydin lifted his middle finger, rubbing his temple with it.

  Athos rolled her eyes at her uncles, standing firm and glaring at her father. “I’m staying,” she said. “What do I learn by hiding? It’s your responsibility to teach me to survive without you someday.”

  Michael stared at her, everyone around us falling silent as we watched Rika and her husband be the first ones to confront the day that we all feared, yet knew was coming.

  Athos couldn’t be sheltered anymore. She was a beautiful young woman, and an heir to a powerful family that she would help lead one day after we were gone.

  She was right. She had to learn.

  The lump in Michael’s throat moved up and then down, and then…he reached down, underneath the table, and took out a box, hesitating for a moment before handing it to his Athos.

  She opened it and peeled back the tissue paper, taking out a half-mask, red, just like her father’s.

  Except it wasn’t a plastic paintball helmet. It was a lighter, form-fitting leather skull that covered the top half of her face, leaving her mouth free.

  Her chin trembled, her eyes shooting up to Michael.

  “The Red Death?” she whispered.

  She loved Edgar Allan Poe.

  He smiled down at her, all of us reaching under the table and pulling our masks out from our individual compartments.

  The girls slipped on their jackets, Banks with a belt of knives around the thigh of her black jeans, Winter with her sheer red blindfold, Emmy with her gloves with the hooks, and Rika with a katana strapped to her back.

  We had no idea what the Moreaus were going to pull tonight, but I took Em’s hand, looked over at Athos as she pulled on her mask, and gripped my own in my other fist, my stomach swimming with excitement.

  We walked to the entrance of the hall they just left through, the door outside to the forest just thirty more yards away, all of us slipping on our masks as heat filled my veins.

  “You either have my back,” Michael said.

  “You’re at my side,” Kai continued.

  “Or you’re in my way,” the rest of us finished.

  “Be Lilith,” the girls said.

  Athos pulled the Red Death over her eyes, all of us setting off as she whispered. “Never Eve.”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading! I hope the Devil’s Night Series has been a rewarding experience for you, and I want to thank all of the readers for their excitement, patience, and passion for this world over the last five years. Your support has helped validate all of us who truly hear it—the call of the void.

  Birthdays

  Michael Julian Crist: August 30

  Kai Genato Mori: September 28

  Damon Kirsan Torrance: October 19

  William Aaron Paine Grayson III: May 9

  Aydin Markus Khadir: October 16

  Erika Isla Fane: November 5

  Nikova Sarah Banks: November 8

  Winter Sutton Ashby: January 19

  Emory Sophia Scott: July 14

  Alex Zoe Palmer: Dec. 16

  Timeline

  Please see timeline at pendouglas.com.

  I’ve begun work on the first book in the Hellbent series, and I hope to have it to you in 2021, not to mention a couple of other surprises still coming this year.

  Please turn the page for a sneak peek at my new adult standalone, Tryst Six Venom, also in the works now.

  Tryst Six Venom Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Clay

  Confetti flies in the air, and I reach down, grabbing three more rolled-up T-shirts out of the bucket.

  “More shirts!” I yell over to Krysten to restock.

  The float bobs under me as the crowd cheers on both sides of the street, and I jump down off the step, stopping at the edge as I hold my hand to my ear.

  “Ah!” little girls scream.

  “Hi, Clay!” tiny, six-year-old Manda Cabot squeals. “Hi!”

  She waves at me as her twin sister, Stella, holds up her hands, ready to catch.

  A comfortable breeze blows through the palms lining Augustine Avenue, grazing my bare legs in my jean shorts as the potted pink lantanas hang on the street lamps lining the road and fill their air with their scent.

  Just your typical balmy, Florida winter evening.

  “We want a shirt!” Stella cries.

  I shoot my arm up in the air, my white T-shirt with the word BIG shining in bold silver letters.

  I smile. “You wanna be a Little?” I tease.

  “Yeah!” they cry out.

  “Then I need to hear it!” I move my feet, doing a little dance move. “Omega Chi Kappa! Come on!”

  “Omega Chi Kappa!” they shout. “Omega Chi Kappa!”

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “Omega Chi Kappa!” they scream so loud their baby teeth damn near shake.

  Oh, my God. So adorbs.

  I throw them both an underhand toss and resume dancing to the music as the truck pulls us at a crawl, our float in the middle of a long line of floats, all celebrating the annual Founder’s Day.

  “See you in a few years!” I tell them. “Be good and study!”

  “Yeah, we only take the best!” Amy Chandler shouts next me.

  Followed by Krysten’s chirp at my other side, “Be best!”

  I snort, turning around to grab some more shirts. Balloons dance in the air along the sidewalks, and I toss some more bundles, the tingles in my head helping me play my part as I dance our choreographed little number in sync with Krysten to Swish, Swish.

  The rest of our girls walk in front of or alongside the float, dancing along with us in the street, and every eye on us makes the hair on my arms rise. The attention always feels good. Rolling my hips, arching my back, and shaking my body, I know one thing for sure.

  I’m good at this.

  Our sorority is the biggest in any high school in the state, and while it’s service and academic-based, because that’s what gets us into college, we’re popular for other reasons.

  We know how to look good doing what we do.

  Whether it’s washing cars to raise money for cat saliva research, hosting the football team’s annual pancake breakfast, or helping clean Angelica Hearst’s house and do her laundry because she just had baby number four from daddy number four and she’s overwhelmed—bless her heart—we get it done, Instagram-style.

  Krysten and I falter in our steps, laughing as we grab some more shirts and toss them to our future little sisters out there in the crowd.

  “You see how fucking drunk they are?” Krysten says under her breath. “Again?”

  I follow her gaze, seeing her boyfriend, Milo Price, smiling and sweaty in his backwards baseball cap. His flushed cheeks were his tell that he’d had beer tonight.

  Callum Ames stands next to him, grinning with his arms folded over his chest, watching me like I’m already his.

  Maybe. We’d make a decent picture at prom, in any case. That alone will make it worth it.

  I swipe my water bottle out from under the papier-mâché clown fish and take a swig, the burn already intoxicating as it courses down my throat. Just the taste eases my nerves.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Krysten gripes.

  His eyelids are hanging low. I almost laugh. Poor girl.

  “Wait until after V-Day,” I tell her. “You need a date.”

  She has to hang on to him for ten more days, at least.

  Taking the bottle out of my hands, she throws back a swallow as I grab her shirts and toss them to waiting hands.

  Music and laughter surround us, the
confetti gun shooting another bomb into the air—blue, pink, silver, and gold fluttering like snow.

  “God, that stuff is good.” She hands me the bottle back. “Goes down like water.”

  “As long as you don’t drink sixty-four ounces a day, got it?” I joke, taking one more drink and capping my new favorite brand of vodka, the perfect liquor to be disguised in my Evian bottle.

  She scrunches up her face in a funny smile, her apple cheeks perfect, and long, chestnut hair in a messy bun on the top of her head.

  “What would I do without you?” she teases.

  I chuckle. “The only thing any of us need is a little love…” I lean in, whispering, “from the right bottle.”

  She laughs, and we both hop down from the float, leaving Amy to man it, while we join the girls in the last chorus of the dance.

  My head floats a few feet above my neck, the “help” we just drank giving me just the right buzz that I’ll sweat off in twenty minutes, but enough to put a spring in my step.

  Callum and Milo follow us, Callum watching me move as I step and tease him with my eyes. Little girls cheer us on, looking up at me like I’m something, while a couple guys hover close together, staring at me and whispering between them.

  I move in ways our facilitator will certainly hear about on Monday, but I don’t care. I rub in their face something they’ll never get.

  Because even at twelve, strutting down a pageant stage in a bikini, I knew what my power was. There’s no confusion.

  “We love you, Clay!” some of my classmates scream as I lead the group and finish the dance.

  I close my eyes, soaking up all the phone cameras recording us and the pictures that will survive of Clay Collins long after I was gone. Images that will show who I am far louder than I can ever tell.

  Homecoming Queen.

  Prom Queen.

  Cute, while my looks last, and Omega Chi Kappa sweetheart.

  That’s me.

  I open my eyes, immediately seeing myself in the window of a parked car at the curb. I bring up my hand, pushing the lock of blonde hair back in place.

  We all have to be something, I guess.

  • • •

  “Are you sure you have to go?” Krysten says from the back seat of Callum’s Mustang. “Have you even slept the past twenty-four hours?”

  I climb out of the passenger side seat and shoot her a look as Milo sits next to her, hanging his arm around her.

  I slept last night. Minus a couple hours to finish readying the float.

  I close the door and lean on the convertible, meeting Callum’s eyes in the driver’s seat. “Get her home safe?” I ask.

  God knows, Milo’s too dumb to do it.

  “Maybe,” he taunts.

  “Then maybe I’ll think about coming to your birthday party in a couple of weeks.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and dig inside, pulling out a wipe to clean the sparkly Greek letters off my cheeks. “Still haven’t had a proper tour of your parents’ lake house,” I tell him. “Heard you have a really big…shower.”

  He flashes that winning grin we’ll see when he accepts his Heisman someday. “Big enough for ten, plus me.”

  Yeah, okay.

  He sits there, that confident gleam in his eyes like everyone wants to be near him, and he’ll wait for me to realize that.

  “Come here,” he urges.

  Slowly, I lean in, giving him ninety, so he only has to give me ten and still look like the man, and he kisses me, coming in again and again, his wet tongue grazing my bottom lip before he pulls back.

  Holding back, so I’ll come running for more.

  “You were amazing tonight, babe,” Milo said, squeezing Krysten. “You both were.”

  I hold Callum’s eyes as I stand upright again. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I think they liked it,” he says. “You dancing for me.”

  I smile, backing away toward the dress shop.

  He shifts the car into gear, takes off, and I spin around, wiping off my mouth.

  I hate kissing. Wet and slobbery like a damn slug flopping around my mouth.

  I pull open the door to Lavinia’s on the Avenue and stroll in, tossing the wipe out on the sidewalk behind me.

  The streets of St. Carmen still buzz with foot traffic, cafés and local hot spots swarming with people enjoying a quiet night al fresco with friends. The parade ended more than an hour ago, and even though it took us that long to get our gear cleaned up and Amy’s father to get the float clear of the gridlock and on his way home finally, I still wasn’t done for the day.

  Walking into the boutique where gowns are displayed on mannequins, I cross the white carpet and pass the reception desk where my mother is sitting in the lounge area.

  She spots me. “Talk tomorrow,” she says into her phone.

  “I’m here now,” I tell her, knowing she’s going to whine.

  “I’ve been waiting an hour.” She rises from the white-cushioned high-back chair and sticks her phone into her handbag. “Call next time.”

  I chuckle under my breath as I keep walking and she follows. It’s not like I can control how fast the parade moves.

  Her chunky gold and pearl bracelet jingles as she enters the dressing area behind me, and I set my bag down next to the chair near the floor-length mirrors. I glance at her in the reflection, noticing my gold necklace draped across her tanned chest, visible in her flowing, deep V-neck blouse.

  Coiffed golden hair, perfectly tailored black slacks that hug her three-spin-classes-a-week ass, and squeaky-clean right down to her trimmed cuticles. My mother’s body hasn’t seen a carb, other than champagne, in at least twelve years. Pretty sure it’s in cryo-freeze at this point, simply relying on eggs and hair spray to animate.

  In ten minutes, I’m on the riser in front of the mirror and wearing the debutante gown my mother had designed for me.

  “Oh, Lavinia,” she says, holding her hands to her cheeks as she circles me. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s exquisite. I love it. The detail…”

  I look away from my image in the mirror, clenching my jaw as hard as I can to contain myself.

  My mother rushes up to me as the older lady remains back, taking in her work and looking for any final fixes.

  “Clay?” my mom urges me. “What do you think?”

  I look down at her, struggling to keep my emotions from bubbling up my throat. I fold my lips between my teeth, about to burst.

  She doesn’t care what I think. She wants me to lie.

  “It’s, um…” I choke on the words, a snort escaping. “It’s so beautiful. I’m speechless.”

  And I can’t do it anymore. Laughter pours out of me as I take in the big, fat, hoop-skirt monstrosity in the mirror that makes me look like Scarlett Fucking O’Hara, complete with puffed sleeves and some dumbass ruffle around the waist. I’m tempted to look for the stains of Lavinia’s tears of laughter all over the dress as she sewed this bullshit.

  I hunch over, my stomach tight as I try to rein it in.

  My mother glares at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp, fanning myself. “My emotions are running wild. I’ve waited so long for this.” I plant my hand to my heart, recovering. “Lavinia, can you bring me some gloves and a pearl necklace? I need the whole picture. I’m so excited.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkle with a tight smile, but she nods, quickly leaving the room to fetch the accessories.

  It’s not technically her fault. My mother approved the design.

  The two of us alone, my mother steps up on the riser in front of me and twists the bodice, jerking it until it’s straight.

  “I thought for sure I’d look like a cupcake,” I tell her, trying to catch her eyes. “Now, I almost wish I could say that I looked like a cupcake. You know that white stuff that spills out of a heroin addict’s mouth when they’re overdosing? That’s what I look like.”

  She meets my eyes, her blue slightly paler than mine as she continues to yank at the dress. “Y
ou chose your homecoming gown,” she points out. “And you’ll choose your prom dress. The debutante ball is mine.”

  I knew I should’ve gotten this over with two years ago when she wanted me to.

  My body jerks as she situates the dress on me, and I stare over her shoulder and into the mirror. The back of her blonde head can easily be me in twenty years.

  “You won’t be able to tell me from the rest,” I say, coming as close as I can to begging her.

  Every other debutante will be wearing white, and while the fabric is rather pretty on mine—lacy with pearl accents—the design is embarrassing. All the debutante dresses reek of Stepford.

  “That’s kind of the point,” my mom says. “Tradition. Solidarity. Community. Unity. You’re coming out as a member of society, and a society functions on standards.” She smooths her hands down the fabric, pressing out any wrinkles. “You need to learn that rocking the boat puts everyone on board in danger.”

  But that’s what boats are built for.

  I sigh, not sure why I decided to let her have this one. I get my way, because my mother picks her battles, and any battle with me that lasts more than three minutes is too much effort.

  I could fight her on it. Maybe I still will.

  “Do you need a Xanax or something?” she asks.

  I laugh under my breath and look away. Gigi Collins, everyone. Chairwoman, socialite, and school board president.

  She puffs my sleeves, and then presses a hand to my stomach. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  She purses her lips and walks around me, inspecting. “I was going to have her take it down to a four, but a six is already a squeeze, isn’t it?”

  Heat spreads down my skin, and I clench my jaw.

  Her phone rings from her bag on the chair, and she heads for it, waving me off. “We’ll leave it, I guess.”