Page 50 of Red Masquerade

Andhow did Dixon know?

There were seedy dealings in the manor, maybe relating to Dixon’s income—there was plenty of liquor in the building to make that a possibility—and clearly the revelers were either oblivious, didn’t care, or were just as ensnared in that web. I’d likely never truly know what was going on in this elegant manor that might as well have been the underbelly of the city.

The glitz and glamor hid the murk well.

Steeling myself, I turned on my heel and made my way down, the only way I knew how to get outside. I still had yet to fully explore the grounds, but I assumed the gardens were behind the house—really, the entire house was surrounded by gardens.

The band in the ballroom continued to play, and the professional dancers beamed at the guests, whirling around and kicking their feet out, barely touching the ground. Feathers and silver beading swung around their bodies, men reaching for the strings of beads as though they could catch the girls dancing. The revelers who joined in were not of the same skill, but that didn’t seem to matter.

When I was a child, I’d read books under candlelight about fairies and their dances, how they could charm you to dance until your feet bled, and you wouldn’t even want to stop. Your mind would be lost, thrown to the wind, with only the search for pleasure to move you. And the fairies would watch in glee, laughing at their human puppets.

Outside, I could still hear the music, though much subdued, surrounding the murmur of casual conversation. The fountain bubbled, and a couple jumped in, still in their clothes, laughing riotously. The girl wore a black number, lucky for her, and her stockings already had holes. The man fell, bursting forth with laughter as a wave of water went over the stone side of the fountain, and he pulled the girl on top of him.

A drop of water flew and landed on my arm, but I didn’t wipe it away. I felt it trail down my skin as I walked along the path to the side of the house.

There were large iron gates, propped open, the borders of the garden lined with full hedges and cypress trees twirled toward the stars. Their height reached almost that of the spires of the manor.

When I stepped across the entrance to the gardens, a chill wracked my body, a cool phantom pulling me in. The breeze fell, and a stillness settled deep into the stones.

A few people mulled around, but at my entrance into the gated space, they looked up.

I felt like an intruder as I turned my gaze from person to person. Every face, I anticipated seeing him, and when it was only a stranger, I felt both relief and a building of anticipation. I could hear them whisper as I passed. Was it so strange that a lone girl was wandering at this party? Stranger things must have happened, surely.

I hugged myself as I wound deeper into the cypresses, a few sycamores scattered here and there. Once I traversed far enough and the gate was around a bend and out of sight, I realized that all the flowers around me, open and crisply white, were moonflowers, alive and pure. Fragrant gardenias and curiously bright lilies bobbed at me. The perfume of the blooms was so potent, so heady, when I shut my eyes, I nearly felt my feet come off the ground, floating into the air. It was an enchanted fairy garden from my stories, luring me in to trap me in their underground revelry.

Every bloom appeared as though it were watered that day; not a blemish on the petals. They were perfect. Almost too perfect, maybe even artificial.

A stranger rounded the bend and I felt my heart soar, anticipation tingling in my core.

Until I saw his face.

It was not Adam.

But I did recognize him.

He grinned when he saw me, a sharp tooth glinting bright like the petals of the moonflower. Hands in his pockets, he walked toward me, and though my alarm bells rang again, I found myself rooted to the spot.

“Interesting seeing you here,” he crooned.

He stopped only a few inches before me, too close for comfort.

But I refused to let him see the fear that made my pulse beat against my neck, my ribs. It must have worked, at least a little bit. He eyed the fluttering of my heart beneath my ear. His gaze felt like the sharp graze of a knife on my throat. Sharp like I knew those teeth could be. His eyes snapped back up to mine. “Not quite as scared, are you?”

“What is there to be scared of?” I challenged. But my hands were in fists at my side.

It was then I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and peculiarly, I relaxed a little. Maybe he wasn’t a threat, just an intoxicated man. Maybe I was overreacting and he wasn’t one ofthem. A drunk man I could handle. I knew where to kick and make it count.

He sucked in a deep breath, like he was taking in the smell of the air, filling his lungs with the aroma of the flowers. His nostrils flared.

“Girls like you should always be scared.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat?”

He shrugged in nonchalance. “It’s whatever you make of it.” He casually looked around, then moved in closer.

Instinctively, I stepped back, but felt leafy thorns at my back. A hedge. Cool stones beneath them. A wall. In the center of the gardens.

“I could Make you,” he whispered, leaning in so I could see only his eyes. They were brown, but so close I could see the flecks of gold, the blackness of his pupils, so deep they nearly drew me in.