Spirited

by C. M. Stunich

  Grudgingly, I pound up the stairs and kick open the door to my room, digging around in the clean clothes pile on the floor (I'm not big on folding stuff and putting it away) until I find a fresh pair of jeans and a plain white tank.

  “Is that what you plan on wearing?” Edith asks, leaning against the edge of the doorframe and looking down at me from under a pair of false eyelashes. “Jeans and a t-shirt?”

  “It's a tank top, Edy,” I say as I stand up and tear my grass stained tee over my head, trading it out for the new one. “It looks good on me,” I blurt, defending myself before she can say anything mean. With Edith, it's always best to stay on the offensive.

  “You're into Brandon, right?” she says coyly. I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down. The bitch sneaks into my room and reads my journal; I have no secrets. I don't even bother trying to hide them anymore. “That chess geek or whatever?”

  “Fuck you,” I tell her, pushing past to get to the bathroom before she does.

  Edith chases after me and shoves her way in anyway.

  “I've got a dress for you,” she tells me, sucking her lower lip under her teeth and smearing lipstick everywhere.

  “I don't fit into your dresses, Edy,” I chastise, pulling out a box of tampons and waving them at her. “Can I please get some peace to put one of these in?” I'm not actually on my period, but you know, privacy comes with a hefty price when you've got a sister.

  “Not until you agree to try it on,” she says, heeling the bathroom door shut behind her.

  As soon as she does, I see it hanging there on the back of the door.

  Shit.

  “What is that effing monstrosity?” I ask, pointing at the blue and white thing dangling from the hook. “I'm not wearing that.”

  “Oh my God, Allison, give me a break. When's the last time you wore a dress?”

  “Three years ago when Aunt Margaret passed away; Mom made me.”

  “You're eighteen years old for crap's sake. Just try it on. If you hate it, I won't make you wear it.”

  “I hate it now. How will putting it on change that?”

  Edith stares me down and then glances over at the mirror, adjusting the daisy chain so that it sits even prettier atop her perfect white-blonde hair. I have the same hair, but I always put a few colored steaks on the side. Today, I've got a miniature rainbow woven in.

  “I bought this with my own, hard-earned money and …”

  “Fine.”

  I reach over and snatch the dress from the hook, giving it another once-over. To say it's not my style would be an understatement. The skirt is too short and the color …

  “I hate blue,” I groan as I take my top off and drop the dress over my head. It slides into place like it was made for me. Crap.

  “Turn around,” Edith tells me, making me spin so she can zip it up and tie the white bow in the back. As soon as she knots it, I get this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “I'm wearing this, aren't I?” I ask miserably, staring at the brightly colored fish on the shower curtain. I can feel my sister grinning maniacally behind me though.

  “Oh, yes,” she tells me, purring in my ear as I swat her away, “yes, you are. Don't you want to get laid sometime, Sonny?” I wrinkle my nose because I hate the nickname Sonny, but Edith knows it and if I reveal my cards … it'll only make her say it more.

  “I have been laid—several times actually,” I tell her as I turn around and try not to sigh.

  The dress, it actually looks great on me.

  By the end of the night, I'll get to see how good it looks covered in blood.

  To be fair, it looks pretty good like that, too.

  The party is this overblown nightmare affair at the house of a student I don't even know.

  “This is so fucking great,” Edith gushes excitedly, yanking me out of the car and slapping my hands away from the dress. I keep trying to smooth the skirt down, but it flounces right back up. I paired it with a red waist cincher, black and white harlequin patterned tights, and some buckled boots, but still … it's ridiculously uncomfortable.

  “Please don't get puking drunk,” I warn as she bounces into the kitchen and immediately starts filling a plastic cup with vodka. “If you do, I'm not covering for you this time.”

  I watch my sixteen year old sister splash pink lemonade into her drink and then chug it.

  “Whatever,” I mutter, shaking my head and adjusting the big black headband pinned to my hair. It has a small top hat lilting to the side, red silk roses clustered around the base. I can't decide if I look … okay … or ridiculous.

  Weaving through the crowd, I keep an eye out for Brandon, a fellow senior in my class and the only guy at my school who's not a fucking asshole. I'm tired of dating immature, spoiled little boys. I can't wait to graduate and head off to college. But at the same time, there's no way I'm spending my senior year alone.

  Once I find the backyard—this hormonal mess of groping teens and flickering torches to keep the mosquitos away—I spot Brandon. He's sitting on the edge of the pool with his jeans pushed up and his feet dangling over the edge.

  If I'd known then that I'd later see him with a bullet in his head, I'd have run away screaming.

  “Hey,” I say softly, sitting down next to him and crossing my legs. I shove the skirt down between my thighs and it fluffs right back up. I hate you, Edith, I think as I watch Brandon swirling his feet in the heated waters of the pool.

  “Hey,” he replies, just as softly, pushing his glasses up his nose and smiling over at me. “I don't usually see you at these things.”

  I shrug my shoulders loosely and pick at the edges of the blue and white dress.

  “I don't usually come,” I tell him with a smile that says he is the reason I'm here. Either it doesn't come across or else Brandon's too naive to notice that I'm flirting with him. “So … what are you doing here? This doesn't really seem like your scene either.”

  Brandon sits up and tosses a shy smile my way.

  “My brother dragged me here.”

  I grin at him.

  “Sister,” I say, pointing at myself and we both chuckle. I've got him, I think as I scoot a little closer and keep smiling.

  The pool is lit up with small round lights in the bottom and sides, turning the water a brilliant turquoise that casts strange shadows on Brandon's face. He stares into it like there's something there that he wants—and that he wants a hell of a lot more than me.

  I guess even chess geeks can be assholes.

  “Do you like to read?” I ask him, lifting up the book clutched at my side and trying to pass it over. Brandon glances casually my way, fixes his glasses yet again, and smiles.

  “I don't have a lot of time to read,” he tells me, and although that's a common enough thing to say, there's an edge to it. His hand tightens around his knee, knuckles going white as he squeezes it. Fuck, what the hell is this guy's problem?

  Now I'm already trying to figure out how to get away from Brandon, so I can read. Why are guys in books so much less dickish than ones in real life? Cuter, too. Oh, and they never have pimples. Brandon has one on his chin which is fucking fine, or would be if he wasn't being an apathetic dick.

  “Okay,” I whisper under my breath, noticing that his eyes have glazed over and he really isn't paying attention to me anymore.

  I stand up, feeling flustered, and start off toward the trees near the back of the property. Whoever's house this is, their parents are loaded and there are all these beautiful white lights strung up across the yard. I make a beeline toward a bench beneath the voluminous folds of an oak and take a seat, lying on my back and wishing I hadn't let Edith put any makeup on my face.

  “What a waste,” I murmur as I crack the book and try to find my place.

  “I love you, baby,” he says, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me close. Our foreheads touch and my breath falls out in a rush. His fingertips burn; his mouth is hot. I've never wanted anything as much as I want hi
m.

  “Lucky bitch,” I mutter as I flip to the next page.

  I'm so into my book that I don't notice Brandon making his way across the sweeping lawns toward me, his dark hair shimmering under the strands of Edison bulbs strung from the trees. The only reason I look up at all is because I hear the distinctive clicking sound of a hammer being pulled back.

  “Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm late,” a voice snaps, and my head whips up, goose bumps taking over my arms, crawling down my back.

  The book falls to my chest as I struggle to sit up, gaping at the man standing not six inches from the end of the bench.

  His hair is jet-black, his eyes red as blood. And on his head, a pair of white rabbit ears sits, one perked and standing upright, the other flopped in half. He stares at Brandon for a moment and then with a gloved hand, reaches into the pocket on his red vest. Pulling out a watch, he checks the time with an agitated sigh.

  “Fuck,” he says again, and then he lifts up a gun with his opposite hand and points the barrel in Brandon's direction.

  “No, wait!” Brandon calls out, falling to his knees and putting his hands together in a prayer position. “I just need more time for—”

  The red-eyed boy's floppy left ear perks up at the same time he raises an eyebrow.

  “King's orders,” is all he says, and then he's pulling the trigger and putting a bullet through Brandon Carmichael's forehead. Blood spatters the lenses of his glasses before he slumps to the side into the grass.

  “Brandon!” I scream, scrambling off the bench and stumbling over to him. I sink to my knees in the mud and feel the side of his neck for a pulse. In my heart of hearts, I know that he's dead, but I have to check. I just have to. “What did you do?!” I shout, but Brandon's murderer just stares at me blandly and checks his pocket watch again.

  “Hearts, I really am late,” he scowls, tucking the watch back in his vest and tossing the gun to the ground at his feet. With one last glance at me, he turns away. The rabbit ears on the top of his head twitch (something I should've wondered about, but at the time seemed the least weird of all the shit happening around me) before he takes off across the yard at a jog.

  I might be a bit of a loner, more likely to sit and read on a Saturday night than go out with friends, but there is no fucking way I'm letting a murderer run free.

  Yanking the cell from my pocket, I dial 911 at the same time I stand up.

  “I've just witnessed a shooting,” I gasp, adrenaline surging through my limbs. Before I can second-guess myself, I start to run, picking up the gun as I go.

  I blurt the address out to the operator and then shove my phone back in the dress, leaving the connection open so if anything happens to me, the police might still be able to find my body …

  Thinking about it later, I'd realize that I wasn't just a stupid teenager making an even stupider decision, I was compelled to follow the White Rabbit.

  “Hey!” I shout, stumbling after the psycho, the murder weapon clutched in my sweaty hands. “Stop, asshole!”

  My breath screams in my lungs as I struggle to keep up, heart pounding, brain scrambling to remember how exactly I'm supposed to hold this revolver in case I need to take a shot. Isn't there a spot that'll blow your finger off if you touch it there while firing? Or was that an internet rumor? I can't remember!

  The rabbit-eared nutcase dives into the bushes with me following after him, my dress catching on branches as I follow the rustling, quivering motions of the foliage.

  They lead me right to him.

  Or more specifically, to the edge of a very large, very suspicious looking hole.

  There's no time to think, to wonder, to question.

  One minute, my feet are safely on the ground. The next, I'm tumbling into blackness.

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over fifty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

  Oh, and Caitlin loves to chat (incessantly), so feel free to e-mail her, send her a Facebook message, or put up smoke signals. She's already looking forward to it.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Signup for my Newsletter

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Back Matter Haunted Cover

  Pack Ebon Red Cover

  Dark Glitter Cover

  The Nine Cover

  Allison's Adventures in Underland Cover

  Allison's Adventures in Underland Chapter One


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