“Are you the reason for the delay?” Brenda asked as she neared. “Usually, Hell Night starts just as the sun goes down. I was standing in my backyard, waiting for the change … When it got dark and nothing happened, I started to cry, I’m not gonna lie to you. I’ve been waiting for this. Hell Night is the reason I never take a vacation. I never have to.”

“If you take one more step, I’m going to kill you, Brenda.”

Brenda stopped walking, but kept smiling. “We can’t let you leave. See, we’re all nuts when we’re like this, yeah, but we’re not too nuts. We’ve got our rules. We try our very best not to kill each other or set fire to anything. Those are tricky ones. No one blames you too much if you break those. One of the more concrete rules is not to go after the kids. That’s an important one. Of course, every so often, someone will crack. Last year it was Joy Sinclair, the grade-school teacher. She went after one of the little shits who’d been making her life a misery. We all understood, of course, but rules are rules. She’s spending tonight in one of Chief Novak’s cells, as punishment. We need our rules or else we won’t have a town to wake up to.

“One of those concrete rules, steadfast, we call it, has to do with visitors. Anyone who isn’t from here must leave before the festival begins. And anyone who’s caught here once the festival has begun? They don’t get to leave. Ever.”

“You don’t want to do this, Brenda.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Brenda. “Yeah, we all do. You’re a visitor and you have to die. It’s how we’ve kept Hell Night a secret for all these generations.” Her smile widened. “Death to outsiders.”

Brenda came at her and Amber raked at her with her claws. She expected Brenda’s protective scales to form, but none did, and Brenda shrieked and staggered, holding her injured arm, blood running through her fingers.

A sudden wave of anger hit Amber, and she stomped on Brenda’s knee, snapping it sideways. This ridiculous woman who thought she could be a threat. To her? To Amber? After everything she’d been through? She hit her then, a backhanded blow, and Brenda twisted and crumpled and rolled over and started screaming for real now, like she’d finally realised just who she had gone up against.

“You’re not like me,” Amber snarled. “This happens to you once a year. But I can do it anytime I want.”

Brenda was in no condition to reply. She just kept screaming – wailing, really, a high-pitched wail of pain and self-pity that hurt Amber’s ears and stoked the anger already burning inside.