Page 6 of Red Masquerade

The center of the room seemed to hold all the revelers, the people lost to the bliss of it all—and on the outskirts, or what I could see of it, were people who seemed entirely too sober.The edges of the room were where a more grim party seemed to take place: appraising eyes, watching those spin with ecstasy in the center, sipping their glasses calmly, whispering amongst each other. Observers. A few seemed amused, smiling at the stray girl whirling with her man and shrieking in delight; others’ lips curled at the display of carefree, unrestrained merrymaking.

I made a mental note to avoid the grumps in the room.

I plucked a petit four off a server’s tray as they passed, never looking at who they were serving, only where they were going next. There was a dullness to their eyes, their faces plain, empty.

Perhaps exhaustion.

I had heard these parties happened weekly, and some weeks, even nightly. Throughout the summer, slowly waning in the deep winter, picking up again now that it was after New Year, with spring right around the corner.

How had we not attended one of these extravaganzas before?

Everyone was talking about it this year: the mansion up on the hill, the mansion that used to be a church, of all things, and the man that lived within, throwing lavish parties where you could be anyone, meet anyone, and get drunk doing it.

Lucas would hate it here. Hate that I was here.

I smiled into my glass, letting the bubbly champagne simmer on my tongue, almost burning, sending a heady rush of warmth down my throat.

Yes, Lucas would hate this. All the more reason to do it.

“Ooh, Dixon, look!” Flora said from behind me.

A woman, dressed in naught but wide ribbons, wrapped around her breasts and the widest part of her waist, streaming down her legs, stood atop a table in the center of the room. Herhair was wrapped up on her head, the blood-red ribbons laced throughout, brown locks twisted and knotted atop her skull. Her lips were painted the same dark, bleeding red, her brows lined, a streak of kohl like wings at her eyes.

My champagne-addled brain thought for a moment she seemed to turn to one of the winged devils.

Men whistled, women gawked. Outstretched hands reached for her, wanting to touch the nearly naked woman above the crowd. She drew all eyes in the room.

How many eyes were on her? Whatever the number, it seemed not to faze her.

She gazed upon everyone before her, the corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. Moving elegantly, limbs gliding from one position to the next, her hips moved the way a snake slithered, from side to side, red ribbons threatening to expose her to the room.

She motioned to the band, who had quieted amongst the ruckus, and who then began to play something akin to what was played in a cabaret.

Glancing back to my friends, I saw Flora entranced, eyes wide and gleaming. Her mouth hung open, hand still clutching Dixon’s arm, as though she feared she’d fall over in her hypnosis.

Dixon met my eyes briefly, unreadable.

“What, are you scandalized?” I teased.

But he didn’t laugh with me, and I realized why a second later. He wasn’t looking at the beaut standing atop the table; his gaze went past her, tracking the movements of a line of people, cloaked, in the same blood-red color, making their way up the stairs, behind the revelers gawking at the banisters.

What the hell?

I watched as the snake of people wound up that grand staircase, only a few of them, but enough that I could always see at least one of them through the crowd of bodies.

They walked with purpose. I thought their heads seemed bowed, and when they arrived at the top of the stair, they disappeared around the corner. Down another hall, perhaps.

And the solemn, silent observers around the walls noticed, too. Some of them even weaving through the crowd to follow.

Odd.

But stranger things had happened at these parties, I supposed.

I brought my glass to my lips again, about to turn to Dixon, when once more my attention was stolen.

The carousing continued, shouts directed at the near-naked woman towering above the crowd. She moved sinuously to the band, though the music was nearly swallowed up again by the noise of the partygoers. She writhed, hands wandering on her body, coy and demure as she made sure every man around her had her attention.

I had the distant thought that perhaps it was intentional; her arrival and the sneaking of the cloaked people behind the crowd.