Page 142 of Red Masquerade

I scrambled to get to her, beating my fists at his back, but it was like punching a brick wall.

“Had my new friend Dixon help,” Marcel said, like it was nothing. “Convinced him to slip some poison into the blood supply earlier this evening.”

Oh my god.

Was she dead?

A sob sputtered forth from me. “Take me back!” My anger pushed through the tears ruining my makeup, throwing as much power as I could into my fists.

If I let him take me somewhere, I’d never come back.

He’d drain my blood and kill me—for what? For his own enjoyment? Revenge?

And if Veronica was dead, did that mean—

“What do you want?” I insisted, his shoulder blocking enough air from filling my lungs. An ache began in my skull, a pounding at the base of my neck.

I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see where he was taking me. But he turned his head, and his lips were brushing my thighs, his exhalations warm in the cool night air, and I almost screamed again. One arm was wrapped around my knees, keeping me still.

He made my skin crawl.

“I’ve told you what I want,” he said, voice deep. A loud inhalation. “You.”

“You want my blood?” I cried. “Just take it!”

I wanted thisoverwith. We never should’ve done this. I shouldn’t have come. It was almost like Marcel knew I was on my way; he knew just what to do to ruin the night.

I felt him shake his head. “I don’t want just your blood, sweet Helena.” Though his hot breath on my flesh said otherwise.

And then, a gate creaked on its hinges, a loud groan into the night. He walked within, and in a moment I knew where we were.

But why was he taking me into the garden?

To bury me amongst the headstones?

For a brief second, I hoped whatever he planned stopped here. At least someone would be able to find me eventually.

A few guests milled about, smoking cigarettes and speaking in hushed tones. None glanced our way. From where I was hanging, the moonflowers bloomed above me, the sky an ocean below.

I wanted to sink.

I wanted to let go.

I needed to get back to Vince.

“Where are we going?” Trying to right myself, to stop the rush of blood to my head while I hung, I pushed against his back. The strength in my arms faltered, a dizziness from hanging, breathing too quickly.

But Marcel didn’t answer.

His footsteps scuffed along the stone path, taking me deeper and deeper into the flora of the graveyard. The headstones watched as I was carried helplessly amongst them.

I cried out to a few of the other people—shouting to get their attention, but they shied away, turning to their drinks, their cigarettes. They couldn’t even look at me, couldn’t even bring themselves to bear witness to my anguish.

Veronica might be dead, Vince was being beaten by Dixon, and who knew what happened to Séra and Sinclair?

I growled in frustration, wiping the tears at my eyes, not caring how streaked my face became. “If you don’t put me down, I’m going to scream.” My voice wavered.

“Please do it, dear,” he said, fingers tightening on the back of my knee. “No one will hear it but me. It’d be music to my ears.”