Greer winks. “Got it off my roommate, Les. She got it off a girl who graduated last year. When Whitty came by my room earlier and said we were going out, I remembered you’re only sixteen. I figure Les uses it all the time, so it was worth a shot.”

“Yeah, but this is really bad,” I say, shaking my head. “It says right here that Monica Staten is like six inches shorter than I am! And she wears glasses.”

“What can I say?” They shrug. “White folks’ face-blindness for different races is a thing!”

The only thing Monica Staten and I have in common is our taste in fashion; I’d sent Alice a selfie of my red halter top and jeans, and she’d approved, so that’s what I’m wearing.

The chapter has commandeered the entire back wooden porch of Tap Rail, the streetcar turned biergarten on the far end of Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s downtown drag. Two long wooden tables have been pushed together to seat all of us. Nick’s last text said he’d be here soon. William had other plans. Sel’s nowhere to be found.

I check my phone while I wait. Patricia’s called me eight times. I’d sent her a text on the way over saying that I needed to take care of something, and that I’d explain later. Her warnings echo in my mind—Bloodcrafters, curses come to life. I don’t doubt that there’s truth to what she said. Abatement is evidence enough. But right now I need to talk to Nick and tell him about the Gate.

At the bar inside, Greer chooses a local craft beer right away but changes their mind when Felicity points out that the bar makes a mean Cheerwine and bourbon. The surly bartender mixes a shot of bourbon with soda until it’s a deep red-purple and smells like spiked candy.

Felicity hands me a gin and tonic. “Tastes kinda like Sprite.”

I almost refuse, but then I think of the conversation I need to have with Nick and suddenly alcohol sounds like a good idea. I take a sip and cough at the burn. “Sprite’s a stretch,” I say hoarsely.

She shrugs. “I could take it off your hands. How ’bout a whiskey and Coke?”

I choke, mind spinning with thoughts of the occasional scent I pick up in Sel’s castings. “No! No whiskey.”

Felicity laughs and leans a hip against the bar. “So what are y’all wearing to the Selection Gala?”

I hold up a hand. “Say what now?”

“Oh no.” Felicity sets her drink down. “Did no one tell you? I’m so sorry. I guess I thought everyone knew…”

Greer grimaces. “Sorry.”

I purse my lips. “It’s fine.”