Page 88 of Red Masquerade

As she worked, her brow wrinkled in concentration, I noticed red markings on my neck—faint, barely there, almost like little bruises. The light purple from Lucas’ hand, but the red love bites from Vince, like he’d tried to cover up the brutality with his tongue, his sharp teeth. To claim my pain as his own pleasure.

The dress displayed the markings for all to see, and I had the thought that it was as Vince intended.

“I hope you won’t be mad,” Séra said, reaching into a little jewelry box. She then pulled out a set of earrings, glimmering in the light, and I laughed, feeling my anxieties lift a little.

“You kept them.” The set I’d seen her try on in my room, a night that felt like eons ago.

“I thought maybe you’d want them.” She smiled.

“I meant what I said—you can have them. I think they’ll suit you better, anyway.”

She tucked them away, rooting through the box. “I have plenty to choose from. More in the wardrobe.”

“I’m done up enough as it is,” I said, turning my head to see her handiwork in the mirror. She’d applied rouge to my cheeks, a ruby red to my lips. Pitch-black lined my eyes, with little wings that seemed like knives, nearly mingling with my hair. She’d taken a pencil to my brows. I looked part seductress, part poutyactress, like the ones in the moving pictures. “Why could you not have done my makeup like this at the house?”

She gave me a look. “Because then I would’ve been fired.”

The faint sound of a trumpet, beginning a jazzy solo, rang through the house, heralding the guests who must’ve been spilling into the house, parking their expensive cars along the drive, ready for a night they would forget by morning. We were so far into the house, it was difficult to hear, but she grinned at me through the mirror, her teeth more elongated than I remembered: sharp as knives, glinting pearly white.

“It begins.”

It was not long before Séra was supplying me with glass upon glass of gin, throwing them back herself, but holding her own like they were water. We’d descended the stairs as the foyer was filling with people, the scents of their perfumes and smoke, the sounds of their shouting voices and laughter permeating the massive ballroom. The servers were stationed around the room, flutes of champagne at the ready.

Sinclair joined us for a moment, offering us both a cigarette, before placing a kiss on Séra’s forehead and retreating back upstairs.

I knew where he was likely going.

That damned room, where I’d found him; that cavern of indulgence and blood and consummation. Writhing bodies, mimicking the ones dancing down in the ballroom, the men and womenwith carefree masks adorned, drinking their worries away, while inhuman beings drank from each other, perhaps even from unwilling victims, right above. Shameless feasting.

“We should go with him,” I said, sipping on my fourth drink of the evening.

I wanted to see it again, and maybe it was perverse, but I wanted to watch. Women and men biting each other, puncturing a spot on the neck where blood flowed freely, thick and red and spurting, and tongues lapping it up like it was the ichor of the gods, a promise of immortality and strength and vigor.

Séra looped her arm with mine, her skin cool, her hip bumping mine. “It’s more entertaining down here,” she said, her fingers lifting the glass again to my lips, watching until I swallowed more of the heady liquid before she was satisfied.

“People make fools of themselves in the most entertaining way, if you stay long enough to watch.” She winked.

I couldn’t feel the burn of the drink any longer. My belly was warm, my muscles languid, though my mind was yet sharp.

“Where is he?” I wondered aloud, almost shouting over the din, the crowd becoming increasingly more packed, all of us bumping into each other’s shoulders. Séra moved with grace, avoiding every other body in the room. I was clumsy in my half-drunk human state. Vince—I hadn’t seen him since the afternoon.

Men ogled at us as we passed, not even hiding their staring, their gazes traveling up our thighs—no stockings—to the short hems of our skirts, hoping that they’d get a glimpse of what was underneath. To the way the fabric hugged our chests. Women staring, perhaps in jealousy, in envy. One woman caught my eye and winked her long lashes, pulling a blush to my cheeks.

“He must be busy.” Séra pulled me toward the dance floor. “People call in the evenings,” she revealed. “He’ll show up, don’t worry.”

He had that first night. It was lucky, the lull in his calls, then; when he came out to observe the floor and his eyes landed on me. I’d thought I’d seen a ghost.

We became part of the throng, our feet hardly touching the floor as we joined the dance floor. The room spun, the gin clouding my head. I felt light, almost like my feet weren’t touching the ground, like I was floating about the room.

A few stray hands found my hips, my arms, and I only laughed, every sensation electrified as the alcohol settled in.

I’d lost my glass and Séra was holding my hand while we threw ourselves into the music. We found the band amidst the crowd, a large string bass, a piano, a trumpet, a sax. The bass player grinned when we made eye contact, and I knew then he lived for these parties, as much as everyone else in the crowd. He fed off the energy, creating a beat for revelers to move to, and took in their dancing like it was worship to his music.

Séra moved like a trained dancer, like the professionals hired to entertain at these things. Her movements were lithe, her hips swinging and shimmying like a snake moves in the grass. I’d never seen her so animated. It was infectious.

I probably looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care, letting the bass player and his band move my limbs through their music. Laughter spilled from me, echoing that of the crowd. The illicit alcohol added a haze to everything, and I felt like I was in a dream, dancing amongst fairies, my feet tireless, my will to go on impenetrable.

Hands found my waist, and I nearly spun to shake them off, but the fingers dug in and a face nuzzled into my neck.