Chapter 13
Outside the gates of her friend’s townhouse, Elodie and Will paused once more to straighten his tie, collar, and pocket square.
While dressing for the evening, he had decided to trust Elodie.
Behind that pretty face, gears were always turning and pieces of a mosaic falling into place, forming a picture only she could see.
The ballroom, the chimera, whatever had happened at the council meeting, and even Will himself—they all felt too carefully arranged to be coincidence.
And he wanted to believe she meant well.
Elodie stepped closer, far too close for propriety, though as always, the streets were deserted at this late hour, and fastened a button on his jacket. “Why do you always wear white?”
Will shrugged and plucked a stray hair from her collar. “It takes courage. Why do you always cover yourself to the throat?”
“A lack of courage… It prevents strangers from cutting us and stealing our blood.”
“Is that a danger?” Damp sea air swept up the peninsula, making the autumn evening mild and the sky clear.
“Weaker people can be manipulated with only a few drops.”
Will leaned down with a conspiratorial smile. “And are you a weak person?”
Her eyes flashed. “No.”
“Then don’t dress like one.” Will offered her his arm.
Her smile was infectious, and together they passed through the gates of Lady Katelyn’s townhouse.
The guests had already gathered in a parlor. A little over fifteen young men and women stood scattered among upholstered chairs and card tables, the room alive with conversation and the clink of glasses.
“Elodie is here!” a lady called, and everyone turned toward them.
Will smiled at the circle of unfamiliar, fascinating faces, but his gaze caught on the dark figure beside the fireplace: Mr. Arcos, dressed as always in flawless black.
Every detail was perfect, from the pressed silk jacket and black shirt with its matching cravat to the ruby-set pin, the exact fall of his trouser legs, and the gleam of his polished boots.
Despite his disappointment at being rejected, Will absorbed every detail while Mr. Arcos went pale and his sharp features tightened.
Before Will could make sense of the reaction, he caught sight of a woman hurrying toward him with open arms. Instinctively, he welcomed her embrace, realizing only too late that something was wrong.
The moment her arms closed around him, she exploded.
A flood of red blinded him, splashing across his face, his clothes, the entire length of his body. It poured into his startled mouth, clogged his nose, and smeared through his hair.
Gasping and spitting, Will stumbled back. Shreds of skin and brain clung to him. He tried to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, but the sodden fabric only spread the mess. What remained of the woman’s face, now little more than a flap of skin, slid down his jacket and hit the floor with a wet slap.
He reached out blindly, as though he could still help her—still catch her. But an empty dress collapsed to the floor.
Only then did he hear the shouting, the laughter, and the cheers.
He blinked into the room through lashes clotted with blood.
“He looks even more beautiful in red!”
“You were right—he is something special.”
“Barto, you have outdone yourself!”
And now Will saw that Elodie had stepped back. Her dress was spotless. One hand covered her mouth, hiding a smile.
Will’s expression froze, and the curses died on his lips.
Cold blood dripped from his chin, and he felt a lump slide slowly down his temple.
At the same time, whatever small flame her smile had kindled in him went out.
Oh, his anger was cold. If he opened his mouth now, a winter storm would ride his tongue and blow ice crystals into their sparkling wine glasses until their breath failed and their fingers turned first pale, then blue.
Sixteen people frozen in the midst of their laughter.
He could almost feel the second heartbeat inside his chest.
But Will lifted his chin, swept a hand through his hair, pushed the blood-red strands from his face, and smiled. “You are all completely mad.”
Cheers and hurrahs answered him, along with hearty slaps on the shoulder and the chiming of sparkling wine flutes.
Will could still taste the pig’s blood drying on his lips as he smiled into their faces.
Their cheerful words barely reached him.
The guests whirled around him like a carousel of distorted images, more demons than people.
They drew him into their circle, pressed a drink into his hand, and welcomed him among them.
“I’ll show you where you can wash,” Elodie’s voice finally reached him. A delicate hand settled on his arm. He wanted to bite it off.
Still, he followed her, and the moment the washroom door closed behind them, he spun around and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Elodie struck the wallpaper with her back, and Will pinned her there, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of red.
He did not know what enraged him more—the obvious hazing ritual or the fact that she had betrayed him.
Every young man in the Capitol who hoped to join the high society had endured his share of such ordeals, each crueler and more humiliating than the last. Will had avoided most of them and borne the others in stoic silence, only to return home and break down in tears.
What could be more degrading than arriving somewhere new, nervous and vulnerable, hoping to earn the acceptance of strangers, only to be rendered utterly helpless and mocked for it?
That helplessness was probably what Will hated most—the expectation that, in the end, he must laugh along with them, at his own expense.
But he was no longer eighteen. He should have behaved like a gentleman and rebuked Elodie with stern words, but that didn’t feel enough.
Her eyes widened as the oil lamp flickered and the temperature in the room began to fall. “Will.” Her voice was rough beneath his hand.
He felt her pulse hammering under his fingers, almost as loudly as his own. Perhaps he had overestimated her. Perhaps she was no better than all the other noblewomen. The bitter realization cooled his anger, and slowly, he forced it back under control.
At last, he released her, shook his head, and turned away. He was not a man who hurt women. For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself.
The roar of waves subsided inside his heart, and the taste of salt dulled into that of stale pig’s blood. Mechanically, he washed his face. In the mirror, he saw that most of the blood had already dried. How long had he stood out there talking and laughing with those people?
He wondered where Mr. Arcos had been through all of it. By the time Will had wiped the blood from his eyes, the man had disappeared.
“Will…” Elodie’s hand was warm through the thin fabric of his shirt as she touched his back. This time, his body did not respond.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. He met her gaze in the mirror. “You will never defeat Mr. Arcos by surrendering to society’s expectations.”
With those words, he left the room, abandoning Elodie with her missing apology.