If my psychometry powers aren’t going to come in handy with Kaden, maybe I can be useful another way, and what better way to do that than with something I know I’m good at? I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember, and the least I can do is help Colin out after he listened to me in the garden.

I’ve just touched the pencil to the paper when the journal leaps into the air. It shudders once, then snaps shut before falling to the bed.

Startled, I reach out a tentative finger to flip open the cover. It doesn’t budge. Cold panic bubbles up inside me and I grab both edges, trying to force it open. A shock buzzes against my skin, and I drop the journal with a yelp.

It’s no good. It’s locked down.

“No, no, no, no,” I groan. “What is wrong with you?”

The book remains resolutely silent, and my panic redoubles. What do I do? I can’t return it to Colin like this, and I can’t go to someone for help. Nora doesn’t need another reason to keep me on the sidelines, and the last thing I want is to be responsible for interrupting Colin’s training with so little time left before Samhain.

“It’ll probably be fine in the morning,” I tell myself, sticking the journal under my pillow. But as I snuggle under the covers, my stomach only twists tighter.

It is not fine in the morning.

The journal still won’t open, so I default to plan B and return it to Colin while rushing him to get ready. Last night we convinced Nora to let Rose take us to the costume shop to pick out our outfits for the party. Since Colin is warded, the wraiths won’t be able to track him, and we have Max as an extra precaution. Still, we promise to be careful.

As I hoped, Colin tosses the journal onto the bed and joins me in the hall without trying to open it. Now that he can materialize, he doesn’t need to bring it with him.

“Come straight home!” Nora calls as Colin and I disappear out the front door with Max in tow.

Rose drives and I sit up front, flipping through music channels as we go. Colin sits middle back, with Max lounging across his shoulders, his tail curled around his neck. We have the windows down despite the cold and leave them even when it starts to drizzle, the fresh scent of pine trees filling the air.

“Is this party a masquerade or a costume ball?” Colin asks as we pull up outside the costume shop. It’s a hole-in-the-wall made of dark stone, with an entryway so crowded by costumes and Halloween decorations that it’s a miracle anyone ever goes inside.

THE FINAL MASQUERADE is scrawled across the glass window with flaking crimson paint.