Axe and Grind

One

Josie

It's a truth universally acknowledged that on your first Saturday night after breaking up with a lying scumbag, you probably shouldn't be wandering through the crumbling halls of the Ravenswood Mental Asylum for the Disturbed. Officially, it was renamed the Ravenswood Institute for Mental Health years ago, but everyone in town still calls it the Asylum, especially now that it's been bought and turned into a haunted film set slash party venue. So here I am, after four long years of coupledom, pretending not to be brokenhearted at this bizarre party. The good news is I'm rocking a kickass DIY mummy dress made with rolls of gauze, safety pins, and just the right amount of bedazzle. At least I look good, even if I feel terrible.

When I pulled the Wheel of Fortune card from my deck this morning, I took it at face value: a promise that everything was going to change today. The tarot sure has a wicked sense of humor.

Fortune, you tricky bitch.

It's been three hours since I called off my wedding with my now former fiancé, Bryan, after a fight that could have made me a viral sensation. Cue my dramatic exit from the diner, all tears and snot right after throwing my engagement ring on top of Bryan's plate of chicken-fried steak.

"I'd like to wrap you around my finger," slurs some random Franken-dude, plucking at my costume as I dart into what I hope is a less packed room.

"Go fuck yourself," I say sweetly.

If this is what "getting back out there" looks like, I should have stayed in.

The cards don't lie, but they didn't predict this, either.

For a moment I wish I'd kept that ring to ward off leering pricks. I'd love to say I'm here to celebrate my freedom, but really, I'm just trying to be a good friend. Weeks ago, I promised my best friend, Honor, I'd be her date for the joint corporate bash her boyfriend, Strike, and his best friend, Axe, throw every year. (Axe? That name makes me think of Vikingcore.) Of course Strike (his name makes me think of target practice and tactical drones) is here, too, but Honor knew he'd be too busy tech schmoozing, so she begged me to keep her company.

When I agreed to come, I had no idea the last thing I'd want to do tonight would be to dress up and plaster on a fake smile. But if there's one thing I've always believed, it's that the most important rule of friendship is to show up.

So here I am, concealing the tears and snot with cleavage and glitter.

The theme of this year's SynthoTech/Dark Matter Entertainment party is "Our House of Horrors," even though it is February and not Halloween. Axe is the CEO of SynthoTech, which makes me wonder if Strike is only friends with other uber-rich, uber-hot CEOs. Their teams have pulled out all the stops and transformed this space from low-key creepy into something truly terrifying.

This is my first time inside the Ravenswood facility, though I have seen it on television. Apparently, after the asylum closed down, the landowner had the brilliant idea to reimagine it as a film set, and it's managed to continually bring in business for all kinds of different projects, from local productions to Hollywood studios, all in middle-of-nowhere Shelton, Pennsylvania. Since it has that whole creepy old Victorian mansion vibe, it's been a boarding school for mutants on a teen drama series, a "country estate" for a terrible American Downton Abbey rip-off, and the home of the Addams Family in the most recent reboot.

Tonight they've dressed the place with flickering lights and broken antique furniture, and they even hired actors dressed to look like zombies or axe murderers.

Come to think of it, why are axe murderers the only murderers defined by their weapon? Why aren't there gun murderers and car murderers? Why axes specifically? Also, for real, who names their kid Axe? Does he have a brother named Hammer? A dog called Nail?

Man, I can't stand that guy. His full name sounds like a rejected perfume. Axe MacKenzie for Men, available at a select retailer near you. And listen, I'm usually chill-I'm the rare person who actually defended Cats the movie, if that tells you anything.

Fog hangs low over this decrepit building, and the night is lit only by old-fashioned gas lamps. Every few minutes, a scream slices through the party noise, probably someone caught off-guard by a wannabe horror-movie actor lurking in the dark. I've been jump-scared twice already, and each time, I've spilled the mysterious red drink a waitress dressed as a sexy nurse gave me down my front. On the plus side, the fake blood splatter has improved my costume.

Guess Honor's right that I'm a glass-half-full type of girl.

Even when the full half of the glass lands on my dress.

"Here you go. Madness Elixirs! Aka, your basic vodka cranberries," Honor says when she appears with two more martini glasses filled to the brim. "I told Strike he could have done better with the drink names. Like maybe something about blood? But he shot me down." She hands me one of the glasses just as another guest catches my eye. He's dressed as Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street. Striped sweater, brimmed hat.

Could the cards have meant I'd break up with Bryan and meet my soulmate tonight? Is my destiny someone with razor fingers? Did he just wink at me?

"Let's hit the lobotomy lab," I tell Honor as I turn away from Freddy. There's a fine line between a glass half-full and desperate optimism.

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't know about that room."

"I think they've got some kind of tableau going on? Could be cool."

"I have to hand it to Axe and Strike," says Honor as I thread my arm through hers to lead her through the hallway. "This place is pretty epic."

I don't think I need to hand Axe anything, but I'm starting to enjoy this party. For one thing, it's getting my mind off Bryan. Also, I might look like rainbows and unicorns on the outside, but I love horror almost as much as I love romance. Scary movies and Stephen King novels are good reminders that things could be worse. Sure, I nearly tied the knot with the world's biggest douche canoe-but at least I'm not being stalked by a psycho clown with a knife collection.

See? That's what I call a glass-full attitude.

Right now, for example, Honor and I stumble upon what I can only assume is the lobotomy lab, and I consider that instead of rocking this sexy mummy costume, I could be that poor actor strung up on a rack, his arms shackled to a steel post. I wonder if they hired some artists from that mutant show, because whoever did his makeup deserves an Oscar.

The guy has fake blood streaming down his face, soaking his ripped T-shirt. He groans in agony when Axe fake kicks him in the gut. The scene is so realistic I can smell the metallic tang of blood.

Axe has clearly gone deep in the act. His knuckles look raw and bloodied, and he bounces on his feet like a pro boxer ready for the next round. Strike stands beside him, his head whipping around at the sound of the door swinging open.

Two things about Axe MacKenzie: He's hot and he sucks. There was a minute last spring when Honor introduced us when she thought her best friend and her man's best friend would automatically hit it off. Unfortunately, the opposite happened.

Yes, he's gorgeous: tall, broad-shouldered, with shaggy chestnut-brown hair and piercing denim-blue eyes. And yes, he has that delicious Scottish brogue that makes women melt. But he's also an asshole, and I'm done with assholes. Life is too short to let some guy ruin my hard-earned happiness just because he sounds sexy calling me a dear lass.

The first time I met Axe, he laughed in my face because I happen to be a believer in astrology and the occult. I've got no problem with nonbelievers. I get that it can seem a little kooky to think the stars and planets are out here plotting our lives or that the tarot can tell our future-though in my opinion, it's no kookier than any traditional religion.

But what I can't abide, what made me want to clock him in the face-much like he's pretending to do with that poor actor strapped to a pole-was the disrespect he showed my beliefs.

Don't agree? Totally fine.

Try to make me feel small? We've got a problem.

Also, and yeah, I know how this sounds, but there's something about his aura that puts me on edge. Like he just rolled into town from some Highland Games where he won Most Likely to Hunt You for Sport and you can't shake the feeling you might be next. Maybe it's his unpredictability and contradictions that set me off-kilter-he's all raw masculinity and untamed spirit, but every so often, a sliver of vulnerability cuts through, just enough to mess with my head.

As Axe steps closer now, the dim light casts shadows across his face, and his eyes bolt to mine with an intensity that feels almost predatory.

The air crackles with tension. I shiver.

The man on the rack lets out a cry so loud that it makes my bones ache.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think Axe was actually trying to kill the guy.

Two

Axe

"You've got to be joking!" I mutter under my breath at Strike, my eyes darting to his lass, Honor, who's standing with her pal pretty Josie the Rosie-that's what I call her on account of her wild tangle of strawberry-blonde hair and the way her cheeks lit up like a bonfire the first time we met, right after I said astrology was fan fiction for nutters, and she looked at me like I'd just insulted her granny.

We've had a few run-ins since then-the second time, I told her believing in tarot cards is about as sensible as taking life advice from a Go Fish deck. Can't help it. I've got a knack for saying exactly the wrong thing with that lass. Honesty's not always the best policy, but watching Josie's cheeks flame is my guiltiest pleasure.

Even if it means I'm constantly tripping on my own words around her.

Both women's mouths are open like a pair of carps as they take in the scene of our lobotomy lab. Christ, how long have they been here?

"You're the dumbass who didn't lock the door," Strike growls, redirecting the eleven-inch blade that he's been using to slice and dice old Petrov-to get the information we need, but also for being the todger that he is-to the space between my eyes. I laugh. No way Strike would even nick me with that thing. We go way too far back-practically kids when the CIA recruited us. Years of missions and a bond forged in fire have made Strike Madden the closest thing I have to a brother. There's no one I'd rather have watching my back.

Maybe I didn't lock the door, but Petrov has proven to be the true dumbass of the night, crying and confessing names we haven't even asked for. He calls himself a pimp and a daddy, but strip him of his guns and flunkies, and the guy's a fucking wuss. He deserves every last punch I've given him. In fact, he deserves way worse. If I still believed in Heaven and Hell, there'd be no doubt which direction this guy is going-and I'd be thrilled to be the one sending him there early.

"What the fuck?" Honor asks as Josie's green eyes widen like teacups. If I'm ever a lucky enough man to blow Josie's pupils, this is not how I want to do it. "Please tell me you are not this stupid."

"What is . . . happening here?" asks Josie, who's rubbing at the crease in her forehead. She looks like a confused Disney princess, but I remind myself this is not someone who needs rescuing.

We need to get the lasses moving and finish the job. Can't have anyone else stumbling down here and catching a glimpse of this mess. The room is swimming in blood. Lucky for us, the whole venue's a forensic nightmare-too much contamination for them to ID anything.

After all the scheming we did dreaming up our House of Horrors, the last thing I expected was for the girls to stumble into the one room where Strike and I-in the spirit of the old days-decided to get up to some of our more questionable hobbies. We knew it wasn't smart or careful, not our usual way. But once the idea was out there, neither of us could back down from the challenge. Who'd notice a bit more gore in an asylum already swimming in the stuff? The party planners painted the walls with buckets of bovine blood, so why not add a dash of human splatter to the mix? The DNA here is more mixed-up than a Scot on a six-pub crawl.

Strike smiles sheepishly at Honor. She's known about our independent investigations since Strike took down her sister's killer six months ago, and it's obvious that we're definitely not fooling her.

"Firefly, don't worry. We got this all under control," he says, and even though he's literally holding a wet knife, Honor melts like butter on a hot scone. Now, I don't believe in soulmates-that's as daft as astrology, or Heaven and Hell for that matter. But when I see Strike and Honor together, the way they just accept each other's darkest bits without flinching, I can't help but wonder if maybe someday I'll find someone who'll love me like that-madness and all.

I shut that thinking down. The last bloody thing I need, the last thing I want, is a lady mucking up my life. I've got my ducks lined up exactly as I like them, and I do just fine on my own, thanks. Besides, there's not a soul broken enough in this world to put up with the real me. What's that famous expression? I'd never want to join a club that would have me as a member.

"We thought we'd put on a show for the guests," Strike says.

"Maybe too real, guys, if you want my opinion," says Honor.

"All part of the fun." I smile at Josie a bit wolfishly. I can feel my canines. She doesn't smile back. I turn to Petrov, hanging by his wrists like a sad sack. His front tooth's dangling by the root, and he fucking stinks-he's gone and pissed himself. Amateur hour.