Riot Rules (Crooked Sinners)

by Callie Hart

Those mercurial, winter-storm eyes narrow again. “Presley Maria Witton-Chase…has the hiccups?” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Poor Presley. D’you need a fright?” He steps closer to her. “You need a good scare? You should try me on for size, Red. I guarantee you’ll be terrified.” I’m pretty sure the only other time Pax has spoken directly to Presley was when she handed him a worksheet in English class. The terse, ‘thanks,’ he threw at her has been sustaining her for the past two years. Such a slew of words from him now, all of them directed right at her, six whole, if short, sentences, sends her into a complete meltdown. She covers her mouth with one hand, sobs randomly, blushes beet red, then gathers up her purple tutu in her arms and bolts from her seat to the front door like a hare streaking across a field. Pax watches her go with a placid, completely unperturbed look on his face. “Well. That was weird.” “Just leave us alone, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, shoving past him. “Hey! Carrie! Where the hell are you going?” Mara yells. She shouldn’t need to ask; she witnessed Presley’s freak-out and subsequent disappearing act just like I did. Halfway to the door, I see Wren strolling down the wide, carpeted staircase to the right, wiping something red from his hands on what looks like a washcloth. Some dark-haired, pale-skinned wraith. Some ghost. Some wickedly beautiful, heartless god. His eyes skate over me like I’m nothing. Like I’m less than nothing. He’ll be within view of Ma...