Draculaura was also going and if Holt Hyde was seen comming outside of Jackson Jekyll's house, it would raise suspicion. So Holt Hyde had to sneak out Jackson Jekyll's bedroom window and go the long way to the party spot after he made sure Crossfade was going to be okay untill at most three in the morning. Crossfade blinked at Holt with slow, deliberate blinks, his tail curling tighter around Holt's wrist—orange bleeding into yellow like lava cooling under moonlight.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Holt muttered, scratching under the chameleon's chin with his right hand. "Jackie-boy's gonna pitch a fit if I'm late. But come on, dude. Me and Heath's throwing a *fire* party. Literally." Crossfade flicked his tongue at Holt's eyebrow piercing, scales pulsing from orange to yellow like a warning light. "Relax, scales. Draculaura's already left—saw her float past the window like some kinda gothic parade balloon. We're clear."
Holt rolled off the bed, landing in a crouch that sent Crossfade scrambling to his shoulder again. The chameleon's tail lashed out, smacking Holt's cheek with the precision of a disapproving parent. "Ow! Okay, okay—Jackson's notes are rewritten, homework's done, and I even alphabetized his stupid periodic table poster." He jerked a thumb at the wall where Jackson's haphazardly taped elements now gleamed in perfect rows. "Dude's writing chaos is *cured*."
Crossfade blinked both eyes independently—his version of sarcastic applause in his terrerium—just as Holt jumped out into the backyard.
And hardly.
But what else was new, right?
"Ow," Holt muttered again, rubbing his elbow where he'd clipped the windowsill—Jackson's stupid oversized hoodie sleeve catching on the latch. Crossfade flickered from green to an unimpressed shade of gray. "Relax, scales. I got this." He shook out his arms like a prize fighter entering the ring, then promptly tripped over Jackson's abandoned backpack.
The sprawl left him blinking up at the slowing rising moon and slowly setting sun.
Classic.
If this was some Victorian morality play about duality—which, *ugh*, thanks Great Grandpa Edward fir letting the normies get the story completely wrong—then right now would be the scene where Utterson the lawyer monologues about the horrors of Hyde's debauchery while conveniently ignoring that Jekyll *chose* this mess. Holt snorted as he picked himself up off the grass, flicking a stray leaf off Jackson's hoodie.
"Dude, if you're gonna leave your crap everywhere, at least make it interesting," he muttered to the empty air where Jackson's consciousness probably wasn't listening anymore and was resting.
Holt took the long way to his and Heath's party—partly to avoid Draculaura's suspiciously lingering scent near the front gate, partly because the scenic route past the cemetery meant more time for him to perfect his song lyrics. He hummed a melody under his breath, something with a 4/4 time signature and exactly 90 decibels of chaotic potential.
The moonlight glinted off Holt's eyebrow piercing (which they made sure was only visible when Holt was in control) as he passed a trio of zombies shambling toward the party. One groaned something unintelligible—probably a compliment—and Holt flashed a grin. "Nice groans, my dudes. Keep it cryptic." The zombies groaned approvingly.
After about thirty minutes of walking, Holt finally reached the spot, which was currently lit up with flickering torches and a bonfire that smelled suspiciously like burning homework. Heath Burns—cousin, part-time pyromaniac, and full-time disaster—was leaning against a crumbling tombstone with a smirk that suggested he'd already set something on fire tonight. "Holtster!" Heath called, waving a flaming marshmallow like a torch.
What was with him and marshmallows
"Took ya long enough. We're ya been man?!" He joked while wrapping his arm around Holt's shoulder pulling him closer in a friendly manner.
Holt grinned as he flashed his signature smirk, flipping his bangs out of his face with practiced ease. "Saving my dramatic entrances for your flaming marshmallow greetings, Heathster," he shot back, swiping the charred treat from Heath's fingers and popping it into his mouth. The taste of burnt sugar and notebook paper confirmed his suspicions—someone's chemistry notes had definitely fueled this bonfire.
Classic Heath.
He turned around, and there they were—the whole freak show crew, lounging on tombstones like they were beanbag chairs at a normie sleepover. Deuce had his sunglasses perched on his nose despite the darkness, Cleo was examining her reflection in a polished skull, and Clawdeen and Clawd kept sniffing the air like she could still smell Jackson's lingering scent.
Thinking about it now, he really hoped that was not the case.
Holt rolled his shoulders back—classic Hyde move, all swagger and no self preservation—and sauntered into the firelight. "Ghouls, Mansters, and other creatures of the night," he announced to the crowd of monsters, "did ya miss me?"
Deuce adjusted his sunglasses with a smirk. "Depends. You bringin' the chaos or the homework answers this time?" The gorgon's snakes hissed softly in agreement. Holt clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Scales. Since when do I do homework?"
Near the bonfire, Cleo—who had been pretending not to eavesdrop—snorted. "Since never," she muttered, tossing the polished skull aside.
Holt winked at Deuce, tossing another stolen marshmallow into the bonfire—this one suspiciously wrapped in what looked like pages from Cleo's stolen history notes. "Chaos is my middle name, Scales," he drawled, stretching his arms behind his head in a move that was all Hyde and zero Jekyll.
Soon Frankie Stein joined the bonfire, her stitched-up grin glowing in the firelight. "DJ! You made it! Wait—" She tilted her head, her seams creaking faintly as she studied him. "You're not actually playing music tonight. That's new."
Holt flashed her a grin that was all teeth and zero apologies. "Sparky! Always keeping me honest." He spun a flaming marshmallow between his fingers—another casualty of Heath's questionable bonfire fuel choices—before popping it into his mouth. The heat prickled at the back of his throat, a familiar warning. Too much fire, too fast, and Jackie might come crawling back like some Victorian morality tale.
Deuce's snakes hissed as Holt casually flipped open Heath's stolen chem notes—now serving as kindling—and tossed them into the bonfire. The flames licked at Cleo's meticulous hieroglyph translations, turning "Ramses the Great" into "Ramses the Toasty." Holt leaned back, grinning as Frankie nudged him with a sparking elbow. "DJ," she whispered, her voice crackling with static, "you're gonna get us all detention again." He wiggled his fingers in mock horror. "What's life without a little *pyre* and error, Sparky?"
"But I am going to DJ, Sparky, just not at the start," Holt said, flipping Frankie's loose bolt between his fingers like a coin before flicking it back into her hair. The static shock made her yelp, and he grinned as Cleo rolled her eyes hard enough to risk detachment. "First, we've got a bonfire to sabotage—Heath's marshmallows taste like regret and gasoline and you already know he's trying to copy my flow to pick up some ghouls."
Frankie's bolt sparked again—this time with irritation—as Holt snatched another marshmallow from Heath's stash. "DJ, if you incinerate one more assignment, I'm revoking your pyro privileges," she said, though the corner of her stitched mouth twitched upward. Holt lobbed the marshmallow high, catching it between his teeth with a flourish. "Relax, Sparky. Education is overrated. Ask Cleo—she's been dead for millennia and still hasn't figured out how to take a joke." Cleo's golden eyes narrowed, her sarcophagus ready eyeliner practically vibrating with indignation. "Unlike some *modern* disasters, I value knowledge beyond its flammability."
Draculaura then flew over to them, or more specifically, to Clawd, and Holt Hyde grinned mischievously as he watched them flirt from the sidelines. He whistled loudly, catching their attention, and Draculaura turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "DJ," she said, her voice dripping with playful suspicion, "why do I feel like you're up to something?"
Holt clutched his chest in mock offense. "Me? Up to something? Draculame, you wound me." He shot her a wink before gesturing to the bonfire, where Heath was now attempting—and failing—to get a ghoul's number. "Unless you count sabotaging Heath's terrible pick-up lines as 'up to something,' then sure, guilty as charged." Draculaura snorted, her bat wings fluttering in amusement.
"He *did* just tell her she had eyes like 'molten lava pits.' Which, wow." Holt stage whispered to Frankie as Heath fumbled through another flirty one liner at a zombie girl who groaned in confusion. "Stealing my A plus material and still getting a D minus response—tragic." He tossed another marshmallow into the fire, watching it blacken with satisfaction.
Soon it was time for him to go on stage. Holt cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders in exaggerated preparation as the crowd of ghouls and mansters whooped.
"Hello New Salem, you beautiful crypt keepers!" Holt Hyde bellowed into the mic, kicking the speakers with his battered sneaker to punctuate the feedback. The ghouls shrieked as sparks erupted—Frankie's stitches practically vibrated with secondhand embarrassment, while Heath Burns immediately tried (and failed) to replicate the move, nearly setting his own shoelaces on fire.
Holt grinned, tossing his head back in a gesture that was pure Victorian melodrama. "Tonight's soundtrack: all bangers, no remorse! Just like my great grandpappy's *questionable* life choices!"
"Yeah!" The crowd roared back, electrified by Holt's theatrics—which was ironic, considering Frankie was the one who could literally generate lightning. He spun the mic stand like a baton, narrowly avoiding decapitating Heath, who stumbled backward into a zombie.
The zombie groaned indignantly, arms flailing as Heath scrambled to apologize. 'Molten lava pits, dude, seriously?' Holt thought in shame, 'how are we cousins?' But he didn't linger—his fingers flew across the turntables, twisting knobs until the bass vibrated through the cemetery dirt. Frankie's stitches hummed in time, her fingers tapping against her leg—a nervous habit Holt recognized from Jackson's memories.
He smirked.
Time for the party to actually begin.