All Hallow's Eve: The One Day It's BAD to Be Good Page 10

  This time, when Michael pulled her closer, Cecilia didn’t resist quite as much.

  “Still, not exactly the lyrics that law schools are looking for you to post on your Facebook page. You know that they are taking that kind of stuff into consideration now for your application?”

  Michael chuckled a bit. “Don’t you ever get pissed off? Don’t you ever want to shout how much the world sucks?”

  Cecilia felt herself blush. Clearly, he had not heard her last night at midnight yelling at Jeremy.

  But when she didn’t answer, Michael continued, “Guess your family is too well-adjusted for you to appreciate the angst-filled world of goth.”

  Little did Michael know she had angst—and plenty of it.

  Before she could tell him that, an usher tapped Michael on the shoulder. The guy was dressed in what Cecilia could only assume was a Spanish Inquisition costume. Her AP history teacher had been fascinated by the dark part of the Dark Ages. The historically accurate usher handed Michael a card, which he read from.

  “ ‘What are your names?’ ” Michael answered, “Michael and Cecilia.” Michael read the next line. “ ‘Trick or Treat.’ You’re kidding, right?”

  The usher shook his head, and urged Michael to be ready.

  “‘On this night before the rising of the saints’ souls, you’ve been chosen to travel into the devil’s lair.”

  Slightly worried, Cecilia read the rest of the note. “ ‘Follow your guide into the labyrinth, and if you survive, meet Diana Dahmer, Satan’s personal minstrel.’ ”

  “Awesome,” Michael announced, but Cecilia backed away.

  “I am not feeling it. But Michael, you should go.”

  “Come on, Cecilia! This is the chance of a lifetime—to blast Diana Dahmer to his face!”

  “As appealing as that sounds,” Cecilia replied, “I am going to have to pass.”

  She went to exit the dance floor, but Michael grabbed her hand. “Wait up.” He then turned to the usher. “Sorry. Guess I am staying here.”

  “What?” a voice proclaimed from behind them. It was Quentin, who had has arm draped over Helen’s shoulder. Those two looked like they had grown far closer over the course of the dance. “What do you mean, you aren’t going to take a chance to meet Diana Dahmer himself?”

  Michael shrugged. “Guess the stars aren’t aligned.”

  “Then you don’t mind if we take it?” Quentin asked.

  “All yours, buddy.”

  Quentin squeezed Helen even closer. “Looks like it is just the two of us.”

  Helen looked delighted, but did stop to ask, “As long as Cecilia doesn’t mind.”

  Oh, Cecilia minded a lot. Helen lying about Paula’s party. Helen lying about Michael’s extortion attempt. And Helen lying about Jeremy being here. But having Helen take her place in some backstage farce? That she did not mind a bit.

  “Knock yourselves out.”

  Helen beamed as she and Quentin followed the usher. That girl was going to get herself into trouble someday. Then as Quentin’s hand went from Helen’s shoulder, to her back, to the hip, Cecilia worried that maybe trouble was going to find her tonight.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said, as he came up beside her, pulling her back into the dance.

  “About what?”

  “That Quentin will … How does Diana Dahmer say it? … Grease his pig?”

  Cecilia frowned. “Eww.”

  “You don’t need to worry. He hasn’t done anything with his pig before, and I doubt he will start tonight.”

  “Really? Because Quentin definitely gives off the vibe that he has… Um… frequently been greased.”

  Michael swung her around one last time as the song came to an end and another guitar-driven frenzy began. “At Our Lady of Sorrows, you better have some swagger, or guys like John will make your life hell.”

  Cecilia had never thought that guys would have the same kind of peer pressure as girls. Was that why Jeremy was acting out so badly? Did she know as much about her younger brother’s life as she should?

  As they were being nearly crushed by the other dancers, Michael guided her off the dance floor.

  “Let’s find our perch again. You’ve got to see what Face Down does to this song.” Seeing Cecilia’s quizzical expression, Michael continued, “Do you remember the Funky Chicken?”

  “Sure …” Cecilia answered. “But … no, they don’t …”

  Michael gave her hand a squeeze. “Oh, yes.”

  Maybe tonight wouldn’t turn out as bad as Cecilia thought.

  * * *

  Helen leaned in closer to Quentin as the usher led them down a darkened hallway. The light fixtures were smothered in cobwebs. Strange, rodent-like noises came from the doors they passed.

  “Man, this better be good. Frannie said they had hot wings at the buffet table.”

  Quentin raised his eyebrows up and down. “I’ll show you something hot.”

  Helen elbowed him, but then squeezed his arm. He wasn’t the best flirt in the world, but he was trying to flirt with her, so that counted for a lot.

  “So, is Quentin your real name, or are you just a Tarantino fan?”

  Quentin’s chest pushed out in pride. “The real thing. My mom says it foretells greatness.” His face fell a little. “Of course, my dad says it’s a fluke.”

  Helen interlaced her fingers with his. “Well, I think it’s sexy.”

  Finally, the usher opened a door and led them into a room. It truly did look like a medieval torture chamber.

  “Whoa!” Quentin exclaimed. “This is bitchin’. Dahmer knows how to have a good time!”

  Helen surveyed the host of blades, knives, and pinch collars. “I don’t know. I think it is kind of perverse.”

  “Exactly!”

  Quentin let go of her hand to inspect a huge wheel. Helen vaguely remembered from history class that people were strapped to it, and then flailed. Not a fun way to go. Quentin though seemed totally into it. He climbed up onto the device and spread his arms and legs like that guy in the Da Vinci sketch.

  A loud metal clank preceded cuffs locking over Quentin’s wrists.

  “Shit! Is this great, or what?”

  Helen stepped back. This was not on her menu of options tonight. They were supposed to go somewhere nice and dark to make out, not reenact the Inquisition. Those hands of Quentin’s were supposed to be doing something altogether different.

  Another loud clank, and Quentin’s ankles were locked as well.

  “This had better be a publicity stunt, man!” Quentin yelled, but the usher was nowhere in sight. “Hey, I want out!”

  Helen tugged on the metal, but it was firmly in place. This had to be some kind of freak accident. Like at the amusement parks—people getting stuck on rides. But the way Quentin’s eyes were dilated and his breath came rapidly, he was worried that it was something much worse.

  How could it be, though? This was a stupid radio station stunt. They were probably more worried about getting sued than scaring people.

  “I was so hoping you would be stupid enough to do that,” a mechanical voice announced from behind.

  Helen swung around to see the usher holding a remote control with a bright red button on top. His thumb hovered over the device. The birdlike mask glistened dully in the low light, casting as many shadows. The usher’s face was unreadable. But there was something horribly wrong.

  “No!” she screamed, not even knowing what the button did, she just knew it was going to be bad.

  But the usher paid no heed, and slammed his gloved thumb onto the button. Suddenly, the wheel began turning, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Quentin’s shouts blurred together as the wheel gained speed.

  This was awful, but not as bad as Helen had feared. If she could just find something to jam in the gears, she could stop the wheel. As she rushed forward, the usher grabbed her by the hair.

  “We are just getting started.” He pushed the button again and blades sprang from the edge o
f the wheel, lashing into Quentin as he passed. Hot, sticky blood sprayed Helen.

  The room echoed with their screams.

  * * *

  Paxton held his coat out over Ruth’s head as they rushed up to his sister’s house. Once on the porch, they both shook off the rain. The storm had come on way faster and harder than any had guessed. It was a pretty miserable night for a pretty miserable job.

  But he might as well get on with it. He knocked on the door. Even though there were lights on in the house, there was no answer. He pounded harder. Somebody had to be home. Jeremy was on restriction. Cecilia was practically a hermit, and well, Susan wasn’t exactly fit to leave the house anymore.

  He knelt down and fished his hand in the dead plant next to the door and found the spare key. Paxton unlocked the door. “Susan? Cecilia? Jeremy?”

  Ruth frowned. “Evan should be here, too.”

  After the day they had, Paxton unhooked his holster, just in case.

  “Susan?” he repeated as they entered the house. They passed through the entryway to find his sister passed out on the couch, one leg almost touching the floor. At least he hoped it was just passed out. He checked her pulse. Slow but steady, and she reeked of vodka.

  Ruth stood next to him, looking down at his sloshed sister. “This happen often?”

  “Often enough.” He looked around the house again. Where were the kids? “Damn it! I can’t believe that Cecilia would leave her mom like this.”

  Ruth, though, frowned. “How old is Cecilia, eighteen?”

  “Seventeen,” Paxton answered gruffly.

  “Not really her job, is it?”

  How Paxton hated it when Ruth was right. But there was little he could do now. He brought Susan’s leg up onto the couch, and then guided Ruth upstairs.

  “Cecilia?” He opened her bedroom. Neat and clean, as usual, but no Cecilia.

  The next door was Jeremy’s. Not neat and clean, as usual. Ruth brought out her cell phone. “Maybe they are over at my house.”

  Paxton could hear the phone ring, and someone answered, “Hola.” He doubted that was Evan.

  “Hola, Martica. Is Evan there?” Ruth listened, then answered. “No? Evan’s over at Señor Jeremy’s? De nada.”

  She turned back to Paxton. “They aren’t there.”

  “And they aren’t here.”

  Ruth bit her lower lip. “So where in the hell are they?”

  Paxton noticed bright red lettering on a flyer. He picked it up off the bed. “All Hallow’s Eve Concert scary enough to stain your shorts! Diana Dahmer’s Make Me a Martyr tour—Live!”

  “No…” Ruth groaned.

  “I bet every rebellious teen at Our Lady of Sorrows is going to be at the concert tonight.”

  Ruth corrected him. “Every Catholic teenager.”

  “That is a lot of potential victims all in one convenient place.”

  Without another word, they both made for the door. Who needed Diana Dahmer’s lyrics when you could get Diana Dahmer himself?

  * * *

  Cecilia looked out over the sea of partiers while she picked at a piece of bread that Michael had found. No fake blood or anything. It was the score of the night.

  So many of her classmates were here. Luckily, John seemed to have left the ballroom, probably on a quest much like Helen’s. Cecilia watched as Face Down ended their set with what could only be described as seizure-like behavior. Even though the room filled with applause, Cecilia did not join in. However, next to her Michael gave a hearty round of applause.

  The undertaker emcee came back out onto the stage. “Was that intensely masochistic, or what? Give Face Down a big hand!” The foundation shook as the audience showed its appreciation with screams and too many “woot woot woots” to count. Cecilia would never understand her generation.

  “Now, kids! Get your free death drinks and prepare your soul, because at the stroke of midnight, Diana Dahmer is going to hit the stage and blow your minds!

  The black curtain came down, and the huge tangle of teens slowly moved away from the dance floor. Cecilia spotted Francesca. Her friend’s face lit up, and she waved Cecilia over.

  “Do you mind?” Cecilia asked Michael.

  “The night is yours, my lady.”

  She blushed a little as he held his arm out for her to take. He really was being sweet. They made their way down the stairs to meet Francesca and her date. Sweat glistened on their brows and they breathed heavily, as though they had just finished the run around Our Lady of Sorrows.

  “Oh, my Gawd, Cecilia! You have to get out on the dance floor. It is so much fun! The energy! The music!”

  With her stomach just settled, Cecilia was doing no such thing. “Have you seen Helen?”

  Francesca glanced over her shoulder. “No, not since the ballad.” Then a wicked grin turned her lips. “I bet she and Quentin found a room of their own.”

  Cecilia shook her head. “No. They went back with one of the ushers to try to win an audience with Diana Dahmer.”

  “Cool! I didn’t even know they had those,” Francesca’s date, Connor, said.

  “It seems like they’ve been gone awhile, though,” Cecilia stated.

  Michael shrugged. “Maybe they figured out the labyrinth and are backstage now?”

  Cecilia lifted an eyebrow. “Quentin and Helen figured out anything remotely logical?”

  The entire group laughed. Unless they needed to follow a straight line that was clearly marked and lighted, that was not about to happen. Plus, something else was bugging her. That usher had seemed, well, odd. Even odder than the mime. And now that Connor didn’t even know about the contest, it bugged her even more.

  She stopped another usher as she tried to pass. This one was a “sexy” vampire. Which apparently meant having really bad false fangs and a super-short skirt.

  “Excuse me, where is the labyrinth?”

  “Lab-i-rinth?” the woman slurred through protruding fangs.

  “I know I don’t have a ticket, but is it down that way?” Cecilia asked, indicating the direction that Helen and Quentin went.

  “I don’t know of any,” the usher purred, but Cecilia put up her hand.

  “Enough of the Transylvania shtick. I just need to know where it is.”

  The chick popped the fangs out and licked her teeth. “All right, all right,” she said with a Bronx accent while working her jaw up and down. “But there’s no labyrinth that I know of, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t blab that all over.”

  “Why?” Michael asked.

  “Think about it. If this crowd thought there was a chance to win a way to see Dahmer, they’d be on us ushers like rabid dogs.” The girl clicked her fangs back in place. “Not to say that Dahmer doesn’t have his own plans for the evening, though.”

  As the not-so-sexy vampire sauntered away, Cecilia turned to the group. “That’s it. I am going to look for Helen.”

  “No, Cecilia. Stay here and dance,” Francesca implored. “You know Helen. She can take care of herself.”

  Cecilia raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking. She almost got arrested at a petting zoo.”

  “It wasn’t her fault that goat liked cheese so much.”

  Michael looked quizzical, but Cecilia brushed it off. “There was a golf cart involved. The bottom line is … if there is trouble to get into, Helen will find it.” After the look of disappointment on Francesca’s face, Cecilia hurried on. “But you guys stay here and have fun. I’ll poke around.”

  Frannie rushed forward and gave Cecilia a big hug. “Thank you!” Then her friend’s voice dropped down to a whisper. “This is the best night ever!”

  Cecilia hugged her back. So far, it wasn’t quite as terrible as she had imagined. “Okay. How about we meet back here in an hour?”

  “Sounds great,” Frannie said, as she took Connor’s hand again and headed back out to the buffet. “I hear they’ve got hot wings!”

  Michael fist-bumped his friend. “See ya, man.”

&nb
sp; Cecilia turned to Michael. “You don’t have to go with me.”

  “Please, after the goat, golf cart, and cheese story, I have got to see what Helen is up to.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. My friend is missing too, remember?”

  Maybe she could have fought harder, but strangely, she didn’t want to. Was she worried that she might run into John again, or for another reason? Coyly, she glanced over at Michael. If you ignored the eyeliner, he did have a nice nose, and those lips…

  Wow. Helen must be rubbing off on her. Cecilia certainly hoped that her friend was having as nice a time as she was.

  * * *

  Helen raked at the usher’s hand with her fingernails, but it was covered in a thick leather glove. The bastard had her by the hair, forcing her to watch as he took a torch to Quentin’s side.

  “No!” she screamed, but the flame burned deeper and deeper into Quentin’s flesh.

  Her date howled in pain. How could no one hear his pain? Then, abruptly, Quentin went silent. The usher put the brand to Quentin’s side again, laying the fire against his skin until the tissue itself glowed red. But still no sound, not a movement, from Quentin. The usher slapped the teen, but there was no response.

  “No!” she sobbed. Quentin was clearly dead.

  “Damn it!” the mechanized voice yelled, then became bitter. “Youth these days. No stamina. Saint Quentin survived seven more tortures.”