They ran. Through the ballroom, past frozen guests whose masks now seemed less like fashion and more like terror. Janice grabbed Ivy’s wrist, and together they slid down a laundry chute into the service tunnels.
“I don’t like this one,” Janice whispered, adjusting her earring—which was actually a micro-recorder. Her gown was silver, her hair a cascade of dark waves. She looked like a forgotten silent film star. ivy wolfe janice griffith
In the dark, breathing hard, Janice took the pendant from Ivy’s trembling hand. They ran
“I’ll meet you at the rendezvous. Go.” They ran. Through the ballroom
Ivy extended her hand. Janice took it.
“Client forgot to mention the curse comes with friends,” Ivy muttered.