9. Wickedest Mask
9
WICKEDEST MASK
RIOT
It’s Saturday and everything hurts. Nostalgia hurts worse than pain because the agony of it is so blunt and unwanted. I hate this house, the memories of my parents, the life my brother lived, and the uncertainty of my life while I resided here. To stand here, in the place I allowed Krypt to go unloved and unwanted, clashes with the memory of the night we killed our parents in this same spot.
He went through hell, but more importantly, I embarrassed myself by not being the older brother. The shame of it is what fucks me up.
To the left, I see my parents whispering about sending Keegan away. To my right, I see their blood splattered all over the walls and carpet, our teenage selves coming to life for the first time. Such misery and relief mixed in such a small space. A house that never felt like a home, but a building that holds the only memories of our early lives.
Let it go or keep it?
Torture or reprieve?
Why the fuck does this house still have a hold on me?
Walking into the room that was mine on the second floor, I know why. It’s not because I care about the walls and the plaster and the carpet. It’s not even memories that hold me hostage. It’s confusion and failure, self-loathing because I hate myself for being that weak. It was living a lie while my brother paid for the same lie because he didn’t know how to act. It’s the fact that I was someone here, learned to mask here, and lost myself here. A three-step process I never learned how to reverse.
I’m afraid to get rid of the house because… what if some clue about who I am under all my well-placed disguises still resides within these walls? Does the base version of me still exist here?
Safe up here to crack with no eyes on me, because I can hear Krypt and Remi’s footsteps on the first floor, I allow myself a single moment to feel weak. More pathetic than anything. Because I long for someone to fucking recognize me without all my masks. How pathetic is that? I’m Killian Hallows, Riot of Vile House, and no one’s opinion of me holds power over me.
To them, I am strength and sinister glee. I am the charmer, the chaos creator, the powerhouse, and the one with no morals getting in my way. I lack empathy and show no remorse, making me terrifying in their eyes, and I’ve come to enjoy being terrifying. I like my reputation, no matter whose perspective it’s coming from. Whether they loathe me because I’m better than them, need me because I’m more skilled than them, or love me because I fake it better than them, it doesn’t matter. All my smiles have a place and a purpose. Every look, mannerism, movement, and word packs a punch however I need it to, and I’ve become comfortable reading everyone so well that I know exactly how to charm or scare them.
I am power!
Internally, I’m powerless because I forget who I am. A thought I will never admit aloud. A thought I barely admit to myself. Because I learned to read people but lost the ability to read myself.
Some people have body dysmorphia. I have self-dysmorphia. I mask that, too. I’m buried under so many layers I’m suffocating while thriving, too chickenshit to start peeling them back to see what sits underneath the bottom one.
What if it’s nothing? What if I’m no one?
My nape prickles a second later, alerting me that I’m not alone. It’s not Krypt or Remi because I can still hear them downstairs. Only one person moves so silently, so I steel my nerves, tame my temper, and turn to face him.
“How long have you been standing there?”
Ghost leans against the doorframe to my former bedroom, arms crossed, not breathing hard enough to make a sound. Even his energy is quiet. He grins, blue eyes deep and bright, dark blond hair flopped over his forehead. I don’t know what he sees when he looks into my eyes, but whatever it is, his grin falters and his eyes deepen. He doesn’t move, but something about the way he’s standing changes. Like he relaxes or shifts focus or something. I know the look for what it is, and it’s not something that belongs on his face.
Fucking worry. Pity. Sympathy.
“Don’t,” I snarl at him. Don’t look for something that isn’t there .
“You’re not as hard to read as you think you are,” he says, voice calm. “You hate the quiet, don’t you? If something isn’t life-or-death or getting you off, you don’t know how to function. You don’t know how to be alone because you can’t manipulate yourself.” His grin comes back when I scowl. “So fucking transparent.”
“And you’re any better?” I scoff. “You taunt death because you can’t stand to live normally.”
His lashes feather his cheekbones when he looks down, pushing off the doorframe to step into my room. I only came here to ensure the house hadn’t fallen down, not to have this confrontation. His feet still don’t make a sound on the carpet, and instead of hearing his heartbeat, I feel it thudding in my chest. I clear my throat and shake my head to rid myself of the feeling, refusing to back up as he gets closer.
“Quite the pair we are to be in a bargain, yeah? Maybe Reaper Corp will do you a favour and kill me tonight when they come.”
“If Yates can be believed.”
He’s right in front of me now, his heart beating even harder in my chest. Why the fuck can I feel it? I look at his chest, trying to see the thump of it through his shirt. His pecs are taut under the thin, long-sleeved shirt he wears, but there’s no movement that I can see—not the expansion of an inhale or the beat of his heart. When I look up at his eyes, the blue of them sinks straight to my solar plexus, like a punch that hurts more than all this nostalgia.
Is he seeing through my masks?
“You know,” he starts, steps casually coming to a stop in front of me, “you’re not as tough as you think you are. I had all this faith in you, Riot.”
“What faith?”
His throat rolls with a swallow, moving so much more than his chest does. Something still beats in mine, and the feel of it is so overwhelming that my throat rolls to match his. To swallow this fucking pressure and the strange looks and the way he’s seeing something about me that even I can’t see.
“You’ve been my opponent for years now, haven’t you?” He shifts his weight to the other foot, not making a sound. I stare at the carpet, wondering how he commands it to shut up. “And you’ve never cracked like this before.”
“I’m not fucking cracking.”
Ghost laughs, harsh but mellow. “Oh, you’re already cracked wide open, baby .” The pet name comes out with a mocking cackle that worsens the beat in my chest. “I see it all.”
How? How does he see it all and how can I manipulate him into teaching me how without him knowing he’s giving me the lesson?
“You wear a different face for me, right? It never used to be this see-through, but a few months ago, when I started toying with you even harder, you became transparent. Actually, no.” He tips my chin up from staring at the quiet carpet. “You aren’t transparent. You keep donning new masks, layering them on so thick, trying to find the one that works on me, but it’s pointless now, Riot. Because I’ve figured out how to look beneath them.”
His knuckles under my chin are driving me insane, but I’m rooted here, a prisoner to his words and the way he wields them. It only makes me loathe him more. Anyone with the ability to read me better than I can read myself isn’t someone I want in this world. Ghost needs to die for real, because if he ever finds the very base layer of me, he’ll realize I’ve never been the opponent he thinks I am.
He's jagged and put together beautifully. I’m covered and masked to perfection. His ugly has already been morphed into something so pretty it hurts, but my ugly is simply hidden, able to be revealed. Ghost isn’t stupid. He’ll figure out that unmasking me is the epitome of breaking me. Because when the ugliness beneath is laid bare, it will end me and all my meticulous lies, and I’ll become the boy who sat in this bedroom and listened to his brother lose his mind, too pathetic to do anything about it.
I want to ask what he sees when he looks through the masks, but I fear the answer, so I don’t. I jerk my chin away from his knuckles, looking straight into his eyes as I don one more mask. The god in control of his life. The demon chasing him to tempt the afterlife. The powerful Vile Boy who has no weaknesses or vulnerabilities.
As my transformation happens, Ghost’s smile widens. “Mmm,” he hums sensually. “This is my favourite mask.”
“It’s not a mask. It’s your fate.” I’m so close to demanding the ninety seconds. This feels like too much, and I need the reprieve.
“You’re my fate,” he counters, leaning in until his nose brushes mine. In a husky whisper, he says, “And I’ve always loved tempting my fate.”
I close my eyes to feel his words in my chest. They beat and bang and thump so hard my skin prickles with goosebumps and the fine hairs on my arms stand up. It’s a declaration of who we are and what our purpose is. It’s his body so near mine, alive and thriving, taunting me into turning it dead and sombre. When the thump in my chest stops, it’ll be when he’s gone.
Because my heart beats maliciously for his—because of his. Spiteful and cruel. Honest and offbeat.
His phantom warmth still lingers, but he’s no longer here when I open my eyes. Gone, just like the ghost he is.
“You okay?” Remi startles me from the doorway. He looks like his brother, but their vortexes are vastly different.
“Where’s Soren?”
Remi’s face scrunches. “Soren? He never came here.”
I hate that it takes me a second to question my thoughts. Was he here, or was he a figment of my imagination?
When I look down and see the corner of a calling card peeking out of my jeans pocket, I know it was real. Teal splashes across the skeletal torso, and on the opposite side, Ghost’s message.
How can I descend any further when you are my deepest pit in Hell?
* * *
Something isn’t right.
Moros is unsettled. The streets are vacant and dark, illuminated only by shop signs and the moon, and the curtains are all pulled back, owners peering through to see what may or may not come. Remi’s shop plays sad, melancholic music that drifts out onto Death Row in gloomy waves, setting the tone for a night we have yet to experience.
Is this ambush coming or is Yates a fucking liar?
Masked, I sit atop The Midnight Diner, watching Death Row before me and a backstreet behind me. The asylum’s tallest turrets are visible from this high up, and even it appears still, holding its breath in anticipation of the madness it might be tasked with unleashing. Axel sits in there somewhere, waiting for his opportunity to brainwash a member of Reaper Corp.
Most porch lights are unlit, not wanting to invite the kind of company promised on a night such as this. The shutters are drawn, the cars parked and locked, but no one is sleeping. It isn’t a restful evening because our town is on the precipice of turmoil. Reaper Corp is coming, and tonight might be their first strike.
Yates only said ‘something is coming’ but we’re not stupid.
Ransom paces behind me, his red mask as menacing as it always is. Across the street, Monster stands stonily while Menace shifts from foot to foot beside him. Scattered throughout town, the Vile Boys are on watch, guarding the areas most likely to be attacked. Death Row. Vile House. The Asylum. The Cemetery. But Ghost is at Misfit Hall, playing the part of a gang member to relay any information from Yates. It was Yates who warned of this ambush, so it’s Yates we watch closest.
Menace climbs over to the roof of the tattoo shop, Death Mark, and then hits the street to do a ground-level sweep. My eyes track him, but he soon dips out of sight in his blue mask.
“Monster talk to you the other night?” Ransom asks.
“Not verbally.”
“How’d he seem?”
“The same as he always is, but quieter.” I shift my mask to get a better view through the eyeholes. “What’s the deal with you two? You fuck him to make it all better?”
“Watch your fucking mouth, Riot.”
I grin behind my mask. Ransom isn’t easy to rile, and since I’ve known him, the only time I’ve witnessed it has been when it has something to do with Monster. Sometimes, it’s a threat to Monster, but most times, it’s the little shit himself. He knows how to button push, and he’s made a living out of pushing Ransom’s. It’s their dynamic, but I’m curious if it extends to the bedroom.
“Anything?” Ransom asks into his earpiece. “Ghost?”
“Nothing here,” Seven says. He’s at Vile House.
“Nada,” Glitch adds from the asylum with Axel.
“Kyd?”
Kyd makes the radio sound before answering. “I found a stripped deer carcass. Think it’s from my lion? Over.”
We all look in the direction of the cemetery, wondering if that crazy fuck is wandering around amongst the lion he freed from the zoo.
“His name is Fabrizio, remember? Over.” He makes another radio sound. “Not over. He gets his name because his mane is dark and wavy like a sexy Italian. Over.”
“Take that as a no,” Ransom says, moving on. “Ghost?”
“Comms have been cut off at Misfit Hall,” Director says through our ears. “I can’t access any of our audio or video.”
My instincts all tumble over one another, unsure if that means Ghost is in trouble or not. While Glitch and Facts talk about trying to fix our planted devices, I pull my phone from my pocket, taking a risk Director won’t like. I pull out my earpiece and press my phone to my ear while it rings.
“Who the fuck are you calling?” Ransom barks.
“Hey, Kill.”
“Lock,” I answer. “Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Can you get to Misfit Hall?”
“Uh, yeah. What’s up?” he asks, shuffling around in the background. “Soren alright?”
“I dunno. All our—I can’t get a hold of him, but you were there when—” Fuck. I’m just straight up giving myself away tonight, and I’ve never even come close to being this reckless with my Vile identity. “He said Yates warned of an ambush, and now I can’t get in touch with him.”
Lock is silent for a bit, probably choosing not to call me out on who I am or how I know these things, and then his front door slams loud enough for me to hear it. “Heading over there now. You coming?”
I can’t. My post is here until we get further instructions. As much as I want to go there, I won’t leave my wingman either. We’re a unit, and I need to be a reliable part of it for once. “Just call me when you find him. Let me know what’s going on over there. Something ain’t right.”
“K.” He hangs up on me, and I put my earpiece back in.
“Lockan Tate?” Ransom asks, and I nod. “Why?”
“He’s got access to Misfit Hall. Why not?”
“He know you’re Vile?”
Probably. “No.” I stand when I spot someone walking down the middle of Death Row. My hackles rise, staring at a person walking through our town like they belong here. They don’t.
“Menace?” Ransom asks through the comms because Menace is the closest, being at that end of the street.
“Woman,” Menace says. “Robes. Can’t tell if she’s armed. Not a local.”
She passes Menace’s location, and he creeps out to follow her until she stops right in front of Death Mark, the ink shop he works at. She just stands there, not doing anything or saying anything. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat, but I know she doesn’t belong here. I’ve studied the people of Moros as much as I’ve studied myself, and her posture isn’t one I recognize. She’s not a tourist because we put the town on lockdown and sent them home or to their hotel.
The cello and piano music from The Ambient Raven becomes louder now that we’ve all held our breath and focused our ears. A recording of Remi and his dad playing together sets the tone for the unknown, and my fingers loop into the holed handles of my throwing knives. I don’t care who she is, if she doesn’t make her intentions clear in the next minute, I will throw a dagger between her eyes and not stick around for her corpse to hit the street.
Her hands rise above her head like she’s going to cast a fucking spell or something, her billowing maroon robes flowing like flower petals as she does a spin.
“Menace,” Ransom warns as he stalks closer to her.
Monster is above her now, looking down from the roof of Death Mark, having Menace’s back as he approaches her from behind.
“Town’s on lockdown, lady,” Menace calls to her.
She stops spinning, pausing with her back to him. No one puts their back to a strange man in a mask, especially not in Moros, so I pull a dagger free from its holster and position my feet to throw it.
“What ever for?” she asks the empty street.
“Who are you?” Menace gets closer.
I can’t see her face, but I swear to fuck I see her teeth flash through a sick smile before she twirls to face Menace. My dagger flies at the same time she pulls a gun free and a bang goes off. My second dagger flies as Menace clutches his stomach, and Ransom leaps over the side of the building, just like Monster is doing from his side of the street, when Menace hits the ground. The woman’s gun clatters to the street, going off again all on its own.
“Reaper Corp is coming,” the lady shouts as I climb over the front of The Midnight Diner. “And you can’t stop us.” Her robes open to reveal my daggers in her gut… and her hands. In both of them, a red light blinks, counting down time.
“Menace!” I shout, my feet hitting the ground painfully.
“Monster, get back!” Ransom shouts, running straight for him.
But Monster drops right on top of the woman, knocking the handheld explosives from her grip. He rips her hat off and his yellow mask looks down at her. A breath later, the yellow is splashed red, and this woman chortles as she dies.
“Any others?” I ask my earpiece and start running.
“Death Row is clear.”
My breath dampens the inside of my mask as I run to Menace, sliding to his side as he bleeds out on the street. I see the frosty blue of his eyes through his mask, panicked, but mostly just pissed off.
“The explosives!” he chokes out in a ragged yell.
Both small explosives are just sitting on the pavement, still blinking. Their size doesn’t matter; they’re meant to cause chaos, and they will if we don’t get off this street. I press my hands to the bullet hole in Menace’s side, looking at Ransom as I do it. Glitch isn’t here, and he’s the only one of us who knows how to disarm a bomb. He shakes his head, knowing they’re going to go off.
Right next to Menace.
“Let’s go!” I shout.
Monster and Ransom grab Menace’s legs and I grab his armpits. We drag him down Death Row, blood oozing from his abdomen and harsh, wheezing breaths panting through his lips.
“Leave me behind the dumpster and fucking run!” Menace demands. “Hurry up.”
The first bomb clicks. Then explodes. My chest booms, harder than it did the night I felt Ghost’s heartbeat. The echo of the explosion sends me flying down Death Row, my arms still hooked under Menace’s armpits. Suspended in time, everything muffles and slows down. The sound doesn’t register right away, the boom of it so powerful my ears ring without hearing, my lungs cease, and my eyes close at the heat. When I slam against the ground with Menace between my legs, the second explosion strikes, shattering glass, setting off car alarms, and making debris rain down on us.
I try to blink through it, to get my eyes to focus, but all I see is smoke and fire and blood. Dust and debris make them water and sting. Shit. I look down, watching Menace struggle to sit up, blood coating the street and making his black outfit appear wet. Dampness trickles from my ears, sticking the sides of my mask to my face as I look back, making sure no other explosions are going to shatter us further.
“Director! We need Medic,” Ransom shouts. Monster is next to him, the two of them stumbling towards us. I press my hands to Menace’s stomach again, making him hiss out in pain.
“Thought you liked pain?” I ask to distract him, my voice too far away from my lips.
He chokes out a laugh, grimacing as his breathing intensifies. “Only when my dick is hard.”
Monster kneels next to me, yanking at Menace’s shirt to find the bullet hole.
“I’m a nurse!” someone shouts, and for the first time in a while, Monster makes a sound. He growls at the nurse approaching us wearily, her hands lifted in innocence.
“Let her through,” I tell Monster. “His face is covered.”
Monster points at his torso, indicating that his many tattoos are distinguishable. I stand, approaching the nurse. Grabbing her by her slender throat, not to harm, but to get all her attention, I bend until my face is right in front of hers. “If you recognize a single thing about him, you will keep it to your fucking self, got it?”
“I p-promise. I-I only want to help.”
I study her for a long few seconds, finding her sincere. She’s friends with Glitch’s parents, and I recognize her as a good Moros local. “Thank you.”
I let her through, and Ransom grabs her hand to help her over the debris. Director tells us Medic is coming, and I stand here, looking at the carnage of my fucking street! My town does not deserve to suffer a scar like this. Death Mark is burning on one side, and the windows of The Ambient Raven are blown out. The Neon Demon’s front windows are no better, shattered, leaking fluorescent purple neon light onto Death Row. Cars burn, the sidewalk is destroyed, and decorations from Halloween are strewn everywhere, catching fire.
No. Reaper Corp will not have my town.
“Riot!” Ransom shouts at me through my muffled hearing. “Your phone is ringing.”
Fuck. With sticky hands, I pull it from my pocket and answer silently, still unsure if I can hear normally. Lockan.
“Get the fuck over here, Kill. Misfit Hall is under attack.”
All the good parts of me fade away as I don my most wicked mask. Because I’m the only one who chases Soren Sauder to a death he secretly doesn’t want.
Reaper Corp will not have him either.