1 o1 | deny

KING CITY SATURDAY NIGHTS ARE for the wicked.

Blue summer nights wrestle into the first moments of Autumn, and the first gust of wind that whisks the leaves off their branches showers copper and gold over the washed-out horizon. Dying trees spill across the skyline, and when I expel a breath, it mists the glass behind me, tainting it with my essence.

Midnight pitches a charcoal reverie that stains the floor windows, while the overhead chandelier glimmers with light, rainbows refracting off of prisms in sprays of diamonds. Though stars tattoo the sky in their thousands, the blazing light falls short of the room that exudes a sunset glow, glowing gently against the blood-red carpet and glistering against flutes pooling with mulberry wine, their colour spilling onto the tablecloth as white as snow.

Rebel's nails, painted a wicked jet-black, contrast greatly; a white strip cutting across each of their surfaces as she taps them against the table, catching the light. It takes only the intensity of her stare, drawn out in ruby eyeliner, to have her guests falling silent, each one attracted to her like a moth to a flame.

Her parents are a transient part of the scenery, trickling in like the wind and making sure everything reaches their daughter's standards. Formalities are barked, half-hearted greetings and thank yous that simmer on the tongue long after they disappear into the night, haunting the rest of the city like ghosts.

Upon the slamming of the door, inhibitions fall to the ground like the shedding of dresses; a hundred hidden people exposing their skin to the freezing night air.

The formal dinner is swept to the floor, the table spinning up with a bar in its place. The liquids are jewel-like, scintillating beneath glass dyed bottle-green, or bewitched to a dark gold underneath the flushed light.

Music swells in the grand room, kissing the warming air and filling it to bursting point, filtering into the oblivion awaiting outside. The bronze burn of candles lights the way, to pool water shimmering with golden light, and fading tan lines on exposed skin; girls whose dresses dip to their chests and ride up to their thighs, and boys whose muscles are carved out in shadow, washed with a sheen of chlorine and sweat that sparkles on their skin.

Swathes of gold and silver ripple in the pool, a treasure trove of precious metals reflecting off of a starlit sky. In the oil-spill darkness and low lights, everything is painted in shades of gold, right down to the diamond on Rebel's throat and the glitter slicked across her pursed lips.

The IP area is bound in thick velvet, housing the elite; the best of the best. She sits in the centre, a queen robed in velvet and legs crossed over her throne, the delicate hollow of her ankle extending into a pair of gold heels that graze the tiled ground. She toys with the pendant, taking it between her fingers. I bought it for her a little while ago, and even though she never makes reference to it as anything other than a token of her royalty, it's enough to see her wear it day and night.

The chair beside her is empty, the placard hanging listlessly across its back reading Ivory Blue. A champagne flute is set on its arm, and honey-gold liquid is infused with silver beneath the moonlight.

I take a seat, my wine-red dress and combat-boot ensemble one that took many compromises, but one Rebel approves of. Her acceptance basks me in a warm glow that floods my body like the sunrise breaking out across the horizon, though the sun is long gone and obsidian clouds have taken its place, framing a crescent sliver of moon.

My best friend is what keeps me tethered to the circle of Witches and IPs; I am a planet orbiting the sun, and without the gravitational field tying me down, I am certain that the distant galaxy I would find myself in would never compare to the splendour of being associated with a queen.

The Montenero lineage, after all, has existed since Rebel's first sister swept the city up into a whirlwind. Out of six sisters, Rebel is the last, a star destined to shine brightest of all.

The seat beside her is a privilege, and if my name weren't already on its back, I would trade my life to have it.

Her honey gaze crosses my body once, as if checking I haven't disobeyed her, before a small smirk touches her lips. I take it as a compliment, shifting closer to her, my lips dipping to her ear.

"Who will it be tonight?"

The line sounds ominous by itself, but it's so practised between us that we don't acknowledge it. It's a discreet reference to something else; her infamous love for partying dissolving to adrenaline and lust as the night goes on. Most of the IPs have been in bed with her, one time or another. A few of the girls have had numerous encounters, and one boy lasted for a month before she shook off his claws.

At this point, there are few IPs she hasn't had sex with, me being one of them. It's always been explicit between us that I'm not her type, but as for the ones remaining, they've always been on her list. She just hasn't gotten to them yet.

"I'm thinking Finley. He looks like a C-rank, and he does art."

Archer Finley. He's an art student in the same block as me, so we're in all the same classes, but have never really spoken. He doesn't do much in lessons, aside from his specialism, and tends to keep to himself mostly. There are rumours about where he goes and what he does, but that doesn't interest Rebel. Despite his bottom tier and C-rank, he's an IP purely for his mystery—she only cares about what he's really like, not his reputation.

A lot of his secrets have yet to surface, but tonight, that's all about to change.

"Go for it. He knows he's bottom, so will probably do anything to stay an IP," I whisper to her, still eyeing him. He has his head bent over a sketchbook; knees pulled to his chest. Even from a distance, the white tippex on his black jeans is obvious, the way his pencil arcs furiously across the page unmissable. Like at most parties, he is silent, only speaking when he needs to, and spending the rest of his time in some far-off corner beneath a tree, doing art. "For all he knows, he has to protect his position. And no one can say no to a rank change."

Rebel has them all memorised, a little safe tucked away in the back of her head. For the most part, they're rigid; unchanging. Archer Finley's has been a C for as long as he's been an important person, but looks are subjective, and there's nothing better to Rebel than a boy who looks like he knows what he's doing.

"I'll be right back," she announces to the group of Witches, tossing her wild hair over her shoulder. The look she shoots me tells me all I need to know, and I smile faintly at my peers, leaning back in my chair.

The stem of my glass is pinched between my fingers, but I hold it loosely, swishing the liquid across. It sloshes up the side of the glass, dark droplets forming on my dress. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, taking a slow, weighted sip.

All eyes fall off of me soon after. I don't really know many of the other Witches—it's always been me and Rebel. Her secrets are common knowledge between all of us, but as for me and my secrets, I prefer to keep them between me and her.

When their backs are turned, I sit up in my seat. Archer and Rebel are still talking—or, rather, Rebel is talking to him. From here, his responses appear to be a nod here and a shake of the head there. Other than that, he seems to have little interest in talking to her, and you can tell it is getting on her nerves.

No one denies a Montenero.

For a moment, I wonder if I should intervene. Rebel wouldn't want me to, I know that, but it seems like she needs help.

I know it when, across the expanse of her garden—brimming with people—her eyes meet mine.

A flightless bird amongst the whisperings, I extricate myself from the Witches and slip through gaggles of IPs, my feet easily falling onto the path swallowed by shadow, the crimson flickering of torch-light dissipating as I near the trees.

Their conversation has fallen silent. Archer has gone back to drawing, but Rebel is still stood over him with her hands on her hips and foot tapping against the ground. I know the pose—she's expecting an answer.

When I approach, he looks up. A half-smirk crawls across his lips. "Question. Is this about sex, or is this about you?"

She looks confused at the question, and I take it to mean it's the first time he's actively engaged. I step forward, while she responds, "It's an offer, take it or leave it."

Her tone is flat, but the arch of her eyebrows and the parting of her lips suggests otherwise. One cheek rises in a half-smile, beckoning him in, and for a moment, it looks like Archer is falling for it.

Until he returns to his drawing. "I already left it. I'm not interested, sorry."

"Bold move," she pretends to sigh, dragging the toe of her high-heel across the lumpy grass. "It'd be a shame if it cost you."

Archer barks out a laugh at this. "Look, if this is about me refusing to have sex, then fine, if Blue's up for it, I can have sex with her. But if this is about you, sorry, but I'm not interested."

"That's all on you." Rebel's smile is fake, etched into her lips. "Watch your back, Finley!" The warning scrapes against her throat, and then she's gone.

I'm still rooted to the spot, not quite believing she has left the situation alone without getting her own way. She calls after me, and I whip around to follow, but Archer calls my name, and his voice is softer. Closer.

"What is it?" My eyebrows draw together. I fidget with the short hem of my dress, taking it between my fingers. "Rebel is waiting for me. I have to go. So do you. I doubt you're an IP anymore, and I know that sucks for you, but that's just the way things are."

He scoffs.

"I couldn't care less, lap dog. I've been trying to leave for ages, and it's not enough to just not show up. You need her to hate you."

"Finley," I warn, hushing him. His words are borderline dangerous, and I find myself making sure no one hears what he says. "You can't say that. Not about Rebel."

"Defending her instead of defending yourself? You really are her perfect puppet," he muses. "Oh, sorry. Best friend."

"That's right. Not her puppet. Not her lap dog. I'm her best friend." Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest. "A-list. Top tier. And a Witch. So, get out."

Every word to big myself up seems to slip off of my tongue, but he doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. Unintimidated, Archer only smiles—and though the falseness of it is drawn into his dimples, his eyes seem genuine, and so do his words.

"Okay." Archer gets to his feet, dusting off his jeans, drawing my attention once more to the frenzied scrawls down to his ankles. Sketchbook clutched in his arms, he bids me goodbye with a sharp nod, sheets of hair falling over his forehead. "Nice talking to you, lap dog. I hope you don't get in too much trouble for talking to me."

Archer Finley offers a backhanded wave as he disappears, and this time, when Rebel calls my name, I go straight to her.

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