"Happy Halloween, you freak."
Courtney's laughter clung to the edges of Eloise's mind like mold. No matter how she shifted under the velvet covers, the words echoed, curling around her thoughts like smoke from a candle that had long since been blown out.
She hadn't slept. Not really.
The room was too quiet. Not the comforting silence of home, but the kind that pressed against her skull like an unanswered question. The walls were dressed in velvet so deep it swallowed light. Every corner was carved with roses and wolves and ancient runes she couldn't read. The air smelled like dried lavender and dusted ash.
By dawn, she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, arms folded around her knees, staring blankly at the thick curtains that blocked out the sun. Her school hoodie hung off one shoulder, the only familiar thing left clinging to her skin.
There was a knock. A soft one. Then the door creaked open without waiting for permission.
Two women entered. They moved like clockwork. Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Silver eyes that never blinked. They carried a silver tray with food too pretty to touch—tiny croissants, sliced strawberries, a goblet of something thick and red. Eloise hoped it was pomegranate juice. She didn't ask.
"Uh, thanks?" she said, attempting a smile. "Do you guys have a phone? I really need to let my mom know I—"
No answer. Just that eerie, coordinated motion. They bowed slightly, then disappeared into a side room. When they returned, steam curled from a basin of water they carried. The scent of roses followed like a ghost.
"Okay..."
It would have been luxurious, like something out of a royal drama. Except Eloise felt like a prisoner. No, not even that. A prop. A centerpiece.
"I'd like to change on my own," she said as they brought in the gown. Crimson lace. Floor-length. Sleeveless. Sinister in its beauty.
The taller woman shook her head. Her mouth moved, but the voice was so flat it sounded pre-recorded. "We have been instructed to prepare Lady Eloise."
"That's not... okay with me," Eloise said, folding her arms across her chest.
They didn't blink. Just waited.
The humiliation burned. Eventually, Eloise gave in. She turned around, biting her lip as the strange hands zipped, clipped, and arranged her body like she was nothing more than a mannequin. Their fingers were ice. They didn't speak. Didn't meet her eyes.
Afterward, they brushed her hair, weaving it into a crown of braids. She looked into the mirror. Her reflection barely felt real. Her face was pale, eyes ringed in shadow, lips painted the same shade as the gown.
She looked like a bride.
But not the joyful kind.
By dusk, the women returned. One held out a gloved hand. Eloise didn't take it. She stood and followed them out, her gown rustling like whispering leaves.
The palace hall they led her into was enormous—so vast it made her stomach drop. Marble floors mirrored the candlelight. Chandeliers hung like constellations, dripping crystal teardrops. Paintings lined the walls: scenes of war, passion, and death. Each figure wore red.
Twenty-three women were already there.
Eloise stopped short.
Every one of them looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. Some wore gowns of ivory and silver, others midnight and gold. None of them spoke as she entered. Their eyes grazed over her like she was a stray animal.
She cleared her throat. "Hi. I'm... Eloise."
One of them sneered. Another turned away, whispering into a jeweled ear.
She blinked. "Okay. Cool. Great talk."
She found a corner by a towering pillar and leaned into it. The air tasted faintly metallic. Her heart knocked against her ribs. No one was explaining anything. No one had told her where she was, who had brought her here, or why the hell everyone was dressed like they were heading to a funeral-themed gala.
A woman in a pearl corset glided past her. Her skin was white as bone. Her lips were dark as a bruise. She looked Eloise up and down like she was a chipped teacup.
Eloise tried again. "So, is this like... a pageant or something?" She forced a laugh. "Because I'm not exactly Miss Teen Anything."
No answer. Just a series of glances. Curious. Predatory.
Then someone snapped.
Literally.
A sharp sound cracked through the air. One of the women—tall, with red curls cascading over her bare shoulders—had summoned a servant.
He looked barely older than Eloise. His black uniform trembled on his thin frame as he approached.
The woman smiled. Her teeth flashed white. She reached out, caressed his cheek—then pulled him close.
Her mouth opened. Her canines lengthened.
Eloise froze.
Then the woman bit into his neck.
The servant gasped, then fell silent. Blood welled up and trickled down her lips, staining the neckline of her gown. She moaned softly.
The others barely reacted. Some turned away. Some watched. One clapped politely.
Eloise backed away. Fast.
"Oh my God," she whispered. Her voice was paper-thin. "What the hell is this?"
She ran.
Or tried to.
The moment she hit the edge of the hall, her body slammed into something cold and invisible. She stumbled back, blinking. Reached out with her hand. There was nothing there, but the air hummed with energy.
A barrier. A trap.
She turned. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The women watched her. Silent. Unmoving.
Then a voice.
Smooth. Feminine. Ancient.
It came from behind her.
"You can't leave yet, dear. You're one of his brides."
Eloise turned slowly.
A woman in a violet gown stood at the edge of the dais, her black hair coiled like snakes atop her head. Her eyes shimmered like opals. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"W-what do you mean, bride?" Eloise asked. Her throat felt dry. "Who is 'he'?"
The woman descended the steps, the fabric of her gown trailing behind her like fog.
"He chose you," she said simply.
Eloise shook her head. "I didn't choose this."
"Few of us did."
A thousand thoughts screamed inside Eloise's head. Her mom. Her school. The sleepover. Courtney's smirk.
"This is insane. I need to get out of here. This is some kind of cult, or a prank, or—"
The woman reached out and gently placed a hand on Eloise's shoulder. It was cold. Heavier than it should've been.
"You'll understand tomorrow. After the induction."
Ceremony. The word clanged through her like a bell.
All around her, the other women stood straighter. As if it were sacred. Or final.
Eloise wanted to scream. Wanted to rip off the dress and run barefoot into the night. But the barrier was still there. And no one looked ready to help her.
She wasn't a guest at a sleepover.
She is a bride.