The Lies That Bind

7: Pretty Little Devil

"This is fun," he offered lamely. A blast of music swept the words away. His fingers brushed the thin material of her shirt as they pushed forward, moving with the crowd. They were close to the dance floor now. And then, he knew, he'd lose her. "Wait." Her hair slid over her shoulder, tickling his nose, as she twisted to face him. "Be careful."

Her lips quirked. You be careful, she mouthed, before slipping gracefully into the crowd.

Cooper watched her go, torn between exasperation and fear—fear not for her, but for the poor sap who'd soon be dead in a ditch somewhere, once she'd gotten the information she needed to make him disappear. What had the fool done, Cooper wondered, to earn such a fate?

Warm bodies shepherded him further into the bar. How Calla had managed to find a path through this—

The music shifted then, and the crowd surged forward, roaring in approval. Cooper had no choice but to move with it, feigning a smile as a girl in a blue wig started dancing against him.

She's cute, Vincent would've said. Go for it.

"'S'cuse me," Cooper muttered, sliding sideways through the crowd, and soon enough he'd lost sight of the girl in the blue wig. The Vincent in his head groaned. You're a lost cause, man.

Maybe the Vincent in his head had a point.

Cooper fought his way to the edge of the crowd, his sights set on an iron staircase that wound up to a cramped balcony overlooking the ground floor. At the top, he braced himself against the rail to catch his breath, scanning the clash of costumes writhing below.

Calla had not been the only girl to dress as the devil. Flashes of red danced in his periphery. Pitchforks and horns and painted lips curved in cherry-red smiles. But Calla was nowhere to be seen. Wherever she'd gone, she was flying well under his radar.

And that's fine by me, he thought, rather unconvincingly. He knew Calla could take care of herself, but he couldn't quite stifle the steady bead of anxiety that had burrowed its way through to the center of his chest, where it roosted and festered and ate away at logic and sense. What if Calla, with her single-minded intensity, forgot to mind her drink and some douchebag slipped a pill into her tequila soda? Or what if the blackmailer had lured her here on false pretenses, and had only needed Cooper out of the picture long enough to steal her away?

Those scenarios, unlikely as they were, continued to unravel inside his head as he swept the room, looking for a distraction—anything to catch and hold his attention long enough to banish the unwieldy thoughts that plagued him now. He tightened his hold on the iron rail and craned his neck to get a better view of the group of girls dancing directly below his feet when he saw her.

Not Calla. Astrid.

She looked much as she always had, though her braids were shorter than Cooper remembered, and now there was a golden halo bobbing above her head, a pair of miniature wings sprouting from her bare back. Cooper barked a quick, harsh laugh at the irony of her costume.

An angel. She's dressed as a fucking angel. He waved down one of the bartenders working the crowd on the balcony, suddenly in need of a drink. For all Calla's talk about couple's costumes, she sure outdid herself this time.

As he watched, Astrid wrapped her arms around the waist of a pretty blonde girl in an orange jumpsuit. Their noses brushed as Astrid leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Flustered—he was clearly intruding on a private moment—Cooper ordered himself a beer.

If Calla were here, he knew what she would say. Stop fucking around and do what I told you to. Ordinarily, such a simple task wouldn't be a problem. But keep an eye on Astrid had somehow turned into watch Astrid dance and kiss and flirt with her girlfriend, which made Cooper look like a total creep.