His visitor lot was crammed and overflowing onto the grass. To one side were several white-painted school buses clashing with the ranks of expensive cars and what was clearly a band’s tour bus. I looked at the back of Trent’s head in the car ahead of me, disgusted. Quen was dying, and he was having a party?

I slowed further, rolling my window down to hear the chatter, hoping Jenks would swoop in. People in costume were everywhere, their movements fast with excitement as they milled around before heading to the expansive front entryway. Trent’s brake lights flashed, and adrenaline surged when I hit my own brakes to avoid rear-ending him. I was ready to lose it when I glimpsed a three-foot-tall ghost darting between cars, a harried woman with a clipboard chasing him or her.

It was Trent’s yearly Halloween extravaganza, thrown for the obscenely wealthy to mingle with the tragically unfortunate, hoping to tug at heartstrings and make a bold political statement as much as genuinely help them. I hated election years.

My fingers tightened on the gearshift and I crept forward, watching for both people and a parking spot. I couldn’t believe there weren’t valets, but apparently part of the fun was pretending you were slumming it.

Trent’s arm came out the window to point to a service entrance. It was an excellent idea, and I took the left after him, ignoring the DO NOT ENTER sign. A man in a black suit started jogging across the manicured grass to us, but he drew to a halt and gestured for us to continue when he saw who it was. I wasn’t surprised. We’d been waved through several informal checkpoints since passing the main entrance three miles up the road.

My gaze scanned the dark grounds as I followed Trent into his private underground parking area, squinting until my eyes adjusted to the electric lights. Another big man in a suit had come forward with the pace and attitude of someone who knew who we were but had to check anyway. This guy had a gun and a pair of glasses I’d be willing to bet were charmed to see through spells. I rolled my window down to talk to him, but Trent parked his car and got out, drawing the man to him instead.

“Good evening, Eustace,” he said, his voice carrying over the sound of our cars with a weary cadence that I’d never heard in him before. “Ms. Morgan wanted to bring her car. Can you find a spot for it, please? We need to get to the private floors as quickly as possible.”

The big man bobbed his head. “Yes, Mr. Kalamack. I’ll have another driver here for Ms. Morgan’s car in a moment.”