I should have been stoked to launch into a revamp; there’d been a time when there was nothing I loved more than bringing a new horror story to life, especially the costumes for the cast. I used to lose myself for weeks in the design, even dreaming in fashion sketches, their flowing lines and splashes of color weaving through my delta waves as they stitched themselves into full-blown garments while I slept.
Managing the haunted house may have been my day job, but for a long time, designing those costumes had also been my joy.
Maybe the real problem wasn’t that Fiendish Eighties Murder Prom didn’t have enough heart; maybe the trouble was that my heart wasn’t in it anymore. A thing I felt guilty enough about that I hadn’t even mustered up the courage to share it with Letha, who knew everything else worth knowing about my life, and had since we were creepy toddlers together.
“I guess I’ll have to talk it through with Elena,” I said, suppressing a reflexive wince. I had a debrief and planning session scheduled with her at the Emporium right after this. To say I wasn’t looking forward to a dialogue with my mother, especially in her role as Avramov matriarch, barely brushed the surface of understatement. “It’s her call in the end, anyway. Maybe she’ll want to keep a successful show in place for another season, make it easy on us.”
Letha stopped dead, so abruptly that one of the ghastly dancing couples bumped into her. She shot them a glare so concentrated and intimidating that they hastily sidled away, discarding any budding plans of drawing her into the scene. Maybe they recognized her as one of their bosses, or maybe it was just the intense Capricorn energy Letha exuded. Despite her filigreed features and general pastel-goth aesthetic, Letha had that effect on people, like one of those gorgeous tropical frogs that actually signal their danger with pretty colors.
“What is with you, Iss?” she demanded, turning back to me. “I know you’ve been going through . . . something, for a while now. I also know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, and I’ve been respectful of your space, like the exceptional human being I think we can agree I am. But we’re just about reaching the outer limits of my patience.”
“Letha, come on. It’s not that serious.”
“Isn’t it? Because you’ve been shambling around like some subpar clone of your former self for months now. I mean, seriously, you’re suddenly not feeling Fiendish Eighties Murder Prom? You don’t want to brainstorm shiny new ways to terrorize the tourists?”
“Could it be that I’m just tired? Maybe coming down with something?”
Her eyes narrowed beneath the swooping wings of metallic pastel eyeshadow. “Isidora Avramov, I’m starting to think you’ve been body-snatched. Are we talking an astonishingly lame demonic passenger here? Should I be planning a prophylactic banishment just in case? Wouldn’t be pretty, but I’ll admit it’s crossed my mind.”
I chuckled despite myself at the idea of Letha attempting to spring a stealth exorcism on me, like the world’s most unpleasant surprise birthday party.
“I’m still me, I swear on my witch’s soul,” I assured her, looping my arm through hers and tugging her gently toward the exit. “If I wasn’t me, would I know to offer to buy you an apology Revenant ’Rita at the Shamrock Cauldron tonight, with extra pickled jalape?os?”
“Make that two ’Ritas, plus several shots of Cazadores,” she muttered, reluctantly letting herself be drawn forward. “And it had all better come with a detailed walk-through of what’s going on with you.”
“If not tonight, then soon, promise.” I gave her arm a little squeeze. “And it’s really sweet, by the way, that you love me enough to throw a surprise banishment in my honor.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, cuz.” A corner of her mouth twitched with the suggestion of a smile. “It’s only because I may die of boredom if I don’t get the old you back soon.”
Such a liar. Beneath the flippant fa?ade, Letha cared about her loved ones with unparalleled ferocity, even for an Avramov, and “blood is thicker than water” may as well have been our unofficial family motto. （“We neither break nor bend” being the formal creed.） I knew she’d been genuinely concerned for me, and if anything, the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to open up to my own best friend and cousin about what was really going on made me feel even worse.
And even more of a traitor, to boot.
“Still,” I said, letting her have this one. It was the least I owed her, what with everything I was holding back. “It’s the thought that counts. And you know demonic shit has always been my love language.”