Chapter Thirty
Thirty
Luke stares at me and I stare at Luke. The flesh-and-blood one, not the one in the portrait.
But it is him in the portrait. The pink, puckered scar across the painting’s throat matches the white one he sports now, proving it. But that’s where the similarities end.
Because the Luke in the portrait is cold.
His eyes are black with no sign of the warm, earthy irises I’ve grown plenty familiar with over the past couple of days.
The crown on his head is tilted just so, adding to his uncaring, merciless air.
Everything about him is more defined: his jaw sharper, gaze harsher.
Even the taunting slant to his mouth alludes to a pompous smirk I’ve yet to see.
But no—I have seen it. In the photo of him and his brother pinned to his lampshade. I thought his smile was mischievous, but now I clock it for what it really was—devilish. It’s the same grin he wore this morning while staring up at me from between my thighs.
“Brie, we have to go. I promise I’ll tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but we have to go now.”
I know he’s right. I can hear it in the way the music is faster than ever.
The lights grow dimmer as the crow of the crowd rises to decibels that make it nearly impossible to hear him.
He reaches for me and I step away, bumping backs with the dancers.
They nearly mow me down, but I catch my balance, moving farther onto the floor to avoid another pleading attempt.
“It was you,” I say, the burning press of tears in my eyes. I gesture at the damning portrait, and, more aptly, the giant WANTED written in dripping white letters across his chest. “You’re the reason the hounds have been after us from the start. You weren’t just banished. You were their boss.”
For once, I can relate to those mutt assholes. Because right now, I want to kill him, too.
“I’m sorry,” he grates out, shame making his words raw. But is it even real? Was anything with him real? Or just a trick of the devil? “You have every right to be furious—”
“I’m not furious,” I interrupt, realizing it’s the truth. I wish it wasn’t. “I’m hurt.”
It cracks him open. He reaches for me again, but I move, running into the fray of revelers. I know he’s right—that we can’t abandon everything when we’re so close. But suddenly, I’m not even sure there is a veil.
The dress digs into my side, too tight, suffocating me like the airbag did after exploding in my face. I can’t breathe. Air. I need air. If I can just get outside, away from the music and dancing and him, get a few seconds to think and regroup, I’ll know what to do. I just need air.
The entrance doors are in sight when I stop short. Blocking them is a hell hound with golden ears. As if sensing my stare, he turns to look directly at me, the girl frozen in a room of cheering, gyrating bodies. His head tilts up and his chest expands. He’s inhaling. Sniffing.
A malicious grin peeks from under his mask as he starts toward me.
I shift course, running as fast as my dumb heels will allow for the stairs.
I’ve lost Luke, for better or worse, and don’t recognize a single person I shove past in my haste.
The performance continues overhead, the women spinning through the air in their tight red outfits looking like blood splatters slowly lowering toward me. A shit note of foreshadowing, no doubt.
I make it to the base of the stairs as a deep gong slices through the din.
Not a gong—a bell.
It’s midnight.
And I still wear the mask.
The toll is quickly followed by a second, a third. I sprint up the stairs as fast as my heels and dress allow. At the first landing where the stairs split in three, I glance back.
My stomach plummets at the pair of golden ears already at the bottom. My anonymity is crushed, and I have zero intention of spending the rest of my life looking like a jaguar.
However short that may be.
A fourth toll makes a scream rip up my throat, lost to the music.
“No!” I dig my fingers into my neck where the edge of the mask should be.
My nails scrape against skin as a fifth toll chimes, reverberating through my entire body since I’m right below the mighty clock.
If it gets to all twelve, it will be too late. It might already be.
I need to relax. That’s how the mask came off last time. I had to will it off. But it feels impossible to think straight as the toll chimes a sixth and seventh, then an eighth. A ninth, a tenth.
I force a deep breath, closing my eyes. My mother’s laughing face swims in front of my vision as the eleventh toll rings out.
My father’s smile. Krystal leaning against my desk at the end of the day, saying, “Ready to go, angel?” Luke telling me I’m beautiful and brave.
More lies, probably. But I clutch them nonetheless.
The edge of the mask lifts. I rip it off as the twelfth toll echoes through the room. It flies out of my hand and down the stairs, smacking the ascending hell hound right in the face.
I suck down gasps of air as I reach the balcony. My relief is short-lived as the hound rebounds quickly, prying the mask off and flinging it into the crowd. He sprints up the steps.
I am so fucked.
Applause explodes around the room as the aerial artists gracefully unravel to the ground or swing onto the railing to dismount their silks. I race down the length of the balcony, dodging chaises and ottomans like a running back on my way to the end zone.
“Brie?”
My name stops me short. It comes from one of the aerial artists standing by the railing. She removes her crimson mask.
“Shonda?!” I exclaim, recognizing her snake-like eyes. It’s only been three full days since she saved my ass at the Night Market, but it feels like weeks.
“What are you doing here? And girl, why are you always running? Are those bitch boys after you again?”
“Yes,” I pant, taking cover behind a tall wingback chair. “I just…need a second…to think.”
“Shit, the hound is coming. I don’t think I can hide you this time.”
She’s right. In a matter of seconds, he’ll be upon us and I’m a sitting duck waiting for the gunshot. I’m done depending on Luke, wherever the hell he is. It’s on me to save myself.
Tied to the railing are the silks Shonda used during her performance. The other ends are still connected to the ceiling.
A ludicrous idea enters my mind.
“You’re done with those, right?” I grab the silks.
“We have another set before the eclipse, but that’s not for a couple hours. What are you—”
“I need them.”
She stares at me. “For what?”
“To get downstairs.” I get them unknotted and swing my leg up onto the railing. There’s no way I can do what I’m about to do in platform heels. “Can you help me unbuckle my shoes?”
“Uh, okay,” she obliges. I switch feet, and the second platform drops beside the first. I wish I could take them with me, but it will be a miracle if I can pull off what I’m about to do without any additional hindrances.
“Help me over.”
She supports me while I climb over the railing. I’m so high up my vision blurs.
The crowd faces the stairs, clapping and bowing as the quadrant of hell hounds moves from the doorway into the room. With everyone focused on the entrance of their devil, no one will notice the measly mortal hanging above them.
Hopefully.
“You’re out of time, babe,” Shonda regretfully informs me.
The hell hound comes into view. I don’t have a single thought in my head other than getting away from him as I launch off the balcony and swing through the air like a pendulum.
I strain to remember every morsel of information from my three aerial classes, but I was twenty-one and likely hungover and at least thirty pounds lighter at the time, not to mention mostly there to goof off with my friend. A friend I pushed away when I burned my old life to a crisp.
Some things must have stuck, because I don’t immediately plummet to the ground. I tangle in the silks, falling a few feet before coming to a halt. The swinging doesn’t help, especially when I near the balcony I just leapt from and narrowly avoid a swipe from the hell hound.
If I want to get to the ground in one piece, I need to take this slow and steady.
I’m already gaining a small audience, but most partyers are focused on everything going on by the throne.
I twist my body to free it from the silks so I can descend another handful of feet.
It works, but all the swinging has me disoriented and dizzy.
I’m not half as strong as Shonda and the artists. I can’t do this.
The panic makes my hands sweaty. My grip slips, the silky fabric sliding past my fingers and burning my palms. It stings like the slice of a blade. But even that can’t compare to the icy fear that grips me as I fall. I just—fall.
The fabric unravels around me, marginally slowing my reckless descent.
People scream below, dashing out of the way from my swinging catastrophe.
I reach the end of the silks and crash onto a charcuterie table.
Meats and cheeses and questionable hors d’oeuvres explode into the atmosphere as the table breaks beneath me, the crack of it hitting the ground piercing the air in an epic finale.
Complete silence. I gasp for breath that’s not there, unsure what pain is worse—my hands or back or the humiliation coursing through my veins.
Slowly, laughter starts, an inescapable swell that rises to a crescendo so loud I bet it can be heard in the overworld.
The grotesque masked faces blend with the beautiful ones in a nightmarish blur as guests jeer and mock me, taking a peek at the stupid mortal who just put on a spectacular show.
Somehow, I am not dead. Regrettably.
Footsteps approach, clicking across the marble as everyone shuffles out of the way, growing quiet once again.
Tears leak out of my eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s because I’m crying or asphyxiating, since I can’t suck down a breath.
Despite that, the corset feels looser. I probably tore a handful of stitches.
I’d check to make sure my boobs aren’t spilling out, but I don’t think I could survive the additional embarrassment if they are.
I turn my pounding head to see shiny alligator-skin shoes stop beside me.
My gaze travels up the length of a black fitted tux as I take in the man looming above.
The top half of his face is covered by a simple black mask.
The only adornment is the magnificent rams’ horns protruding from his temple and curving up and away from his head.
The lower half of his face betrays a sardonic grin. “If you wanted all the attention for yourself, you should have just asked. You’d be surprised how good I am at sharing. Though it is my party.”
My lungs finally remember how to work as I suck down a breath. Vehemently opposed to the movement, my ribs scream. The pain pales in comparison to my horror as the icy tenor of his voice slides past my likely concussed brain, his words clicking. It is my party. My party. My party.
This is him. This is him.
I think I hear Luke shouting from afar—potentially, possibly. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking as the throbbing pain in my skull makes my vision dim.
Despite the fear pulsing through me, I muster a grin, tasting blood on my teeth.
“You throw a hell of a bash,” I wheeze as darkness pulls me under.