Prologue

Something wasn't right.
   The wraiths could feel it. A weakness, a flaw in the veil between the dead and the living. The holes that had pierced it were closed . . . but it wasn't the same. Not quite.
   Driven into a frenzy by the tantalizing draw of real flesh, real life, the wraiths pounded the veil again and again. It rippled and warped, but held. Barely.
   They renewed their attack, pushing and clawing, thinning the boundary until one creature, snarling and writhing, fought its way through.
   The veil snapped back instantly, holding firm against the rest of the swarm, who screeched with frustration, but the damage was done.
   Disoriented, the wraith stuttered through the air before steadying, sniffing. Searching through the darkened countryside for the intoxicating lure of blood pulsing through veins. Of life to feast on.
 
One

You've got to be kidding me. Dylan stared in horror at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her eyes were wide, ringed with a thick border of black eyeliner topped with smoky-gray eye shadow. It had a slight shimmer to it when she turned her head just right. Yeah, her eyes were OK. But the rest . . .
   Her hair had been pulled and twisted and teased until it stood out from her head in what could only be described as a rat's nest. The lipstick that had been smeared across her mouth was a garish shade of red that made her look like a vampire after a quick snack. And then there was the dress. It was taffeta. Taffeta. Until Joan had frog-marched her into the Special Occasion section of the big department store at the bottom of Sauchiehall Street, Dylan hadn't even known what taffeta was. She did not like it. Especially not in this hideous shade of peach that made Dylan think of overcooked salmon. There were bulbous sleeves and tight tucks down her midsection that pinched in all the wrong places. The skirt was apparently meant to swirl in beautiful, graceful swishes around her legs as she walked, and maybe it would, if the tights Joan had shoved at her as she was getting dressed weren't rubbing against the bloody taffeta and creating enough static electricity to power the whole Central Belt.
 I look absolutely hideous, she thought, shuddering with enough force that her reflection vibrated subtly in the mirror. She'd been overjoyed when her parents had told her they were getting married, and even more excited when Joan had told her she'd be
a bridesmaid.
   That was before the dress shopping.
   "Oh, darlin', you look absolutely gorgeous!" Dylan's great-aunt Gladys sat in a chair in the corner of the hotel room, a handkerchief clutched in her swollen, arthritic fingers and tears glistening in her eyes. She did have cataracts, which might explain the old woman's assessment. Or maybe this look had been on-trend when Great-Aunt Gladys had been young. Sometime before the Vikings invaded.
   "Thanks, Aunt Gladys," Dylan managed to say.
   "You're the prettiest girl in the whole town, do you know that?"
Dylan grimaced. Heat was rising up her neck, clashing with her gown. She could not go out there looking like this, she just couldn't.
   A knock at the door made her jump.
   "Dylan, you ready? It's almost time." Dylan spun to the door to see the gleaming brass knob begin to turn. "They're waiting for--"
   "Just a minute!" she screeched. The knob stopped turning and, mercifully, the door stayed closed. "I'm not quite ready, Tristan. Hang . . . hang on." Panicking, Dylan turned to Great-Aunt Gladys, but there would be no help from that quarter. The old woman was rearranging her walker, beginning the laborious process of standing up.
   "Come in, boy," she hollered. Boy. That's what she called him, despite Tristan introducing himself clearly--and loudly--and Dylan correcting Great-Aunt Gladys three times since.
   Tristan opened the door, and Dylan turned away from him, hoping to spare herself the look on his face when he saw her done up like this. It was a futile effort, because she could see him in the reflection of the mirror as he stood in the doorway, and her eyes instinctively fixed on his face. He stared at her, his gaze raking up and down her back before looking into the mirror to see the front. He kept his expression carefully blank, Dylan noticed, only his lips twitching slightly.
   "Wow," he said.
   "Speechless, are you, boy?" Great-Aunt Gladys hollered. "There you are, young lady. I told you, you look stunning."
   "I am," Tristan agreed. "I'm speechless." He gave Dylan a tiny grin. She offered him a wry smile of her own, which widened a little as she took in the gleaming shoes, smart black pants, and bold blue shirt that Tristan was wearing. She'd never seen him so dressed up; it was a good look for him. Especially the shirt, which made his cobalt eyes seem to almost glow, more striking than usual today because his slightly unruly blond hair was swept back from his face.
   "You look great," Dylan told him.
   "Out of the way, then." Aunt Gladys used her walker to maneuver Tristan out of her path as she inched step by step out the door. "I'll go and get myself sat down. No, don't bother to offer to help me, boy. It's not as if I'm ninety-two."
   "I . . . um . . ." Tristan shifted awkwardly, clearly searching for an excuse. Dylan bit her lip against the smirk that wanted to break free. It wasn't as if he could tell Great-Aunt Gladys the truth: the large function room downstairs where the wedding was taking place was just too far away. The bond that tethered Dylan and Tristan together would rip and tear at them, leaving them breathless with pain if they tried to put that much distance between them. It had been bad enough having Tristan get ready in the hotel room next door; she'd known he was there, but she couldn't see him.
   Luckily, at that moment Dylan's father, James, appeared behind Tristan.
   "Tristan." He clapped his hand down on Tristan's shoulder by way of greeting, possibly a little bit too hard, going by the grimaced "hello" he got back. "Hey, beautiful, you look lovely." The words came out of James's mouth before his gaze settled on Dylan, but even then, his smile didn't falter. Dylan didn't think there was anything that would remove the grin from his face today. Undeterred by the fact that his daughter looked like a giant salmon meringue, he turned to Great-Aunt Gladys. "I just came to see if you needed a hand getting to your seat, Gladys. We're starting soon."
   "Well." Great-Aunt Gladys looked somewhat mollified. "At least someone here has manners!" Shooting Tristan a disgusted look, she started shuffling away, leaning heavily on her walker but swatting at James when he tried to take her elbow to steady her.
   "I don't think she likes me," Tristan told Dylan once they were both sure the old woman was far enough away not to hear. For ninety-two, she had ears like a bat.
   "Well, she thinks I look good," Dylan confided in a stage whisper, "so I wouldn't rely on her judgment too much."
There it was, Tristan's opportunity to confirm what she knew--that she looked like she'd had a makeover from a hyperactive five-year-old. And she was going to have to go and stand up in front of over a hundred people . . . dressed like this.
   "I think you look . . ." Tristan ran his gaze over her outfit once more, clearly hunting for something nice to say--and failing miserably. "Well, your eyes are very pretty."
   "Great," Dylan snapped, feeling her eyes well up a little, which was even worse. She would not cry like a baby on top of everything else. "I'll just put a paper bag over the rest of it, then, shall I?"
   "You'll need a big bag," Tristan mused.
   For a moment Dylan just gaped at him, aghast. Then she laughed.
   Then she thumped him.
   "Very helpful." She mock-glared at him.
   "I try," Tristan replied, smirking. He sobered and reached out to take her left hand. "Honestly, I think you'd look beautiful in whatever you wore," he said, "even a paper bag. But I feel the need to remind you that it's your mum's big day, not yours. Everyone will be looking at her, I promise."
   "Right," Dylan said, eyeing him dubiously. "I'll just blend in with the background." There was no way anyone could fail to notice Dylan in the Giant Peach. "Maybe I'll get lucky and I'll match the wallpaper or the curtains. If I stand in the right place, I might just disappear."
   "That's the spirit!" Tristan grinned, leaning forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead.

---

Excerpted from Outcasts by Claire McFall
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.