14 | seeing ghosts (part two)

BY MIDNIGHT, IT'S HIGH-TIME FOR Rebel to be choosing someone to take to bed with her, to spend her night on a magic carpet of thrills that will live forevermore in her blood, an eternal heatstroke in her arteries.

Sand-dune eyes graze across the illusionary crowds, and gold-painted nails press into her pulse, sensing each wicked beat of her heart. For each blink, another opportunity materialises and dissipates, until the Witch is bewitched by a boy whose fingers run over plush velvet, but his own are scarred from years in carpentry: one long scar trailing down his index finger a reward for the wooden bead necklace strung around his throat.

Finch Laghari, a C-Rank who specialises in woodwork. Under Rebel's unforgiving stare, he flexes his fingers and straightens his shirt, unaware of her eyes pinning him to the wall.

"He's the one," she whispers in my ear, not even waiting for me to ask. "For tonight. Come with?"

"Of course," I say and she yanks me to my feet, our fingers knotted loosely together as we approach the unassuming bottom-tier IP, his gaze still fixed on his phone, his surroundings all a blur of white noise.

"Finch Laghari." Rebel places her hands on her hips, the smile on her lips sickly-sweet. Her tongue puts too much emphasis on the soft syllables of his surname, butchering it in her mouth. "How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks," he murmurs. His face is lit up, a fluorescent white rectangle dancing across his mahogany skin and illuminating the disinterest on his features.

"How good?" She drops onto the arm of the chair beside him, crossing her legs one atop the other and tracing her fingers down the length of his arm. "I reckon I could make you feel way better than just good."

"Maybe," he hums. "Are you offering?"

"In a way you could never refuse," she agrees, her fingers just skimming the hollow of his jaw. "What do you say?"

Laghari finally lifts his gaze from his phone screen, eyes half-lidded and lips pursed. "I'm not interested in you, Rebel. Sorry."

"I'm―what? You're not interested?" Rebel splutters, her lips pouring outrage laced with cold, deadly venom. "I'm Rebel Montenero."

"I know." His head bobs on the end of his neck in a gesture of dismissal. "And it's not me, it's you. Your offer doesn't interest me. If anything, Blue seems like the more inviting prospect, if I were lucky enough that she was the one offering. Of course, you'd never let that happen."

Her eyes widen. "Are you seriously saying no to me? Listen, you're lucky to be an IP, privileged to be in my house, yet you have the nerve to refuse me?"

"He didn't refuse outright," I mumble, barely audible. Shifting my feet and ducking my head, but feeling the need to speak regardless. "He said yes. To...one of us."

"That's not good enough!" She snaps, dragging a frustrated hand through her ponytail and yanking on the russet strands. "I shouldn't be getting rejected. I'm Rebel bloody Montenero! Aren't I? So why am I getting rejected?"

"Rebel…" I place a hand on her bare shoulder, squeezing it. "He's dumb for passing up the offer, but it's just something to accept. There's nothing you can do if someone says no―it's Laghari's loss. Not yours. There's nothing to be angry about."

She rips my touch from her skin; I stumble backwards, and it's Finch's hand curling around my wrist, steadying me. "It's not as if you understand, because everyone seems to want a piece of Ivory freaking Blue recently!"

My lips part, hot breaths working their way through. This is just as much about me as it is about Archer, Ebony, and now Finch. Rebel Montenero can't stand the fact that for once, somebody wants me instead of her.

Heat surges through me. I hate this.

"What are you saying?" My voice is dangerously low; my lip trembles and jerks in my mouth. Anger has my nails clawing into my palms, focusing on the pain to keep my composure. "That there's something wrong with that? That for some reason, the idea of someone wanting me instead of you is despicable in some way? Do you just not think I'm worthy of attention that you'd just love to believe is rightfully yours?"

"Blue." Rebel says my name, but her voice is distinctly lacking in anything soft. "It's nothing personal. It's just hard to be losing out to someone who...doesn't exactly have that much of a personality, if you get what I'm saying."

It sickens me how familiar I am to those words―different people and different voices, but the same immense pressure crushing my ears down to every beat of my heart.

"I get what you're saying." Hot tears begin to sear the corners of my eyes. "How could you be wrong when you made me that way? God, I don't even remember how we became friends, and it makes so much more sense when I think about the fact that you've been controlling me and manipulating me for as long as I can remember? Would nine year-old me have approved, no, I don't think so, but how can I be sure when Rebel bloody Montenero probably controlled me then too? I don't have a personality because you never let me be anything but your shadow. "

"Blue, you are on thin ice," she hisses, tongue peeking out through red-painted lips like a snake's. "Keep talking, and you'll be kicked out from the Witches. Again."

"Go ahead!" I snap. "I regret coming back anyway."

Rebel Montenero's enraged features melt to an expression of pure, incandescent disgust. She turns on her heels and leaves, but not before clawing the front of my dress from my skin.

A draught crosses my perspiring skin, and a hundred people's gazes fall to my torso, digging in.

Humiliated but enlivened, I hug my exposed chest, turning back to a dumbfounded Finch Laghari, who runs a wary hand through his hair.

"I―Do you maybe want my jacket? And a lift home?" He asks, already shedding his hoodie. Grateful, I nod, slipping it over my torso.

"Thanks. And that'd be really great," I say, taking the arm he offers me.

At the door, the crowd's purple rage is broken by soon-stifled cheers: bruising mobs that grab and holler and clutch. Finch helps me fight my way through, and the night air is welcome against my skin.

The first tears of the night slip out onto my cheeks, and I raise a trembling hand to wipe them away.

"I don't think I ever knew that girl at all," I say, before I let Finch Laghari drive me home.

☆☆☆