Chapter 20
Shadows and Masquerades
Emi sat on her usual step, her legs crossed, a swirl of smoke drifting from her lips. Beside her, leaning against the railing with his effortless, feline grace, was Liam. He held a paperback in his hands—Agatha Christie’s A Christmas Tragedy.
"It’s a collection of short stories," Liam explained, tapping the cover. "I’m preparing my mind for the holiday season. Murder under the mistletoe. It feels appropriate."
"You have a dark mind, Architect," Emi teased, tapping ash into her portable tin. "But we have a more pressing tragedy to discuss. James’s party is tomorrow. We still don't have costumes."
Liam closed the book and slid it into his pocket. He looked at her with a grin that was both boyish and confident.
"I have a vision," he announced. "Classic. Powerful. A duo that runs the city. Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle."
Emi laughed, a husky sound that bounced off the walls.
She took a drag of her cigarette, shaking her head.
"Liam, look at you. You drive a black fortress, you wear three-piece suits made of materials I can’t pronounce, you brood on rooftops—or at least, penthouses—and you have a secret identity as a martial artist. You are Bruce Wayne. "
"I am not," Liam protested, though he looked pleased. "I don't have a butler. I have a Roomba."
"Wearing a tuxedo and a mask isn't a costume for you," Emi insisted, pointing her cigarette at him. "It’s just a Tuesday. It’s too easy. It’s too... close to the truth. I want something different. Something darker. More dramatic."
"Okay, Miss Creative Director," Liam crossed his arms. "What’s the pitch? Joker and Harley?"
"Too chaotic," Emi dismissed. "Ozzy and Sharon?"
"I don't think I can pull off the glasses," Liam mused.
"Amy Lee and Josh Hartzler," Emi said, her eyes lighting up. "Think about it. Evanescence vibes. Victorian Goth. High drama. Corsets, lace, velvet suits. It fits the 'Gothic Rock' theme perfectly, and it fits us. You’d make an incredible Josh Hartzler—stoic, stylish, supporting the drama."
Liam considered it. He looked at Emi—at the sharp angle of her jaw, the dark curtain of her bangs, the intensity in her brown eyes. She was right. She had the presence for it. She could carry the weight of that aesthetic.
"Josh Hartzler," Liam repeated. "So, I still get to wear a suit, but a cooler one?"
"A much cooler one," Emi promised. "And I get to wear a corset without HR calling me into a meeting."
"Sold," Liam smiled. "But only if we commit. No half-measures. If we’re going Goth, we’re going all the way."
"Deal," Emi stomped out her cigarette, standing up. "Dinner tonight. Then shopping. We have a transformation to engineer."
The evening air in Manhattan was crisp, carrying the undeniable scent of autumn—roasted nuts from street carts, decaying leaves from Bryant Park, and the sharp bite of impending winter
.
Liam parked the Ford Expedition near the park, the massive SUV looking right at home among the city traffic. They walked to a small bistro on 40th Street, enjoying a quick dinner of truffle pasta and sparkling water. The conversation was light, buzzing with the anticipation of the hunt.
After dinner, they drove south to SoHo. The neighborhood was a different world at night—cobblestone streets reflecting the amber glow of streetlamps, cast-iron buildings looming like industrial palaces.
They entered a boutique that specialized in alternative fashion. The air inside smelled of incense and leather. Emi was in her element. She moved through the racks of velvet and lace like a shark through water.
"This one," she said, pulling out a dress.
It was magnificent. A Victorian-inspired gown with a corset bodice made of black brocade, flowing into a voluminous skirt of tattered tulle and lace.
It was dramatic, melancholic, and utterly beautiful.
Liam found his own armor—a fitted velvet blazer in midnight black, a high-collared shirt with a subtle ruffle, and silver accessories that looked like antique relics.
When Emi stepped out of the dressing room, the shop assistant gasped. But Liam went silent.
He stood there, holding his blazer, and just stared. The corset cinched her waist, emphasizing her curves. The dark makeup she had tested—smoky eyes and deep plum lips—made her look like a queen from a dark fairytale. She looked powerful. She looked like the heroine of every book she loved.
"Well?" Emi asked, turning in a slow circle. "Too much?"
"Not enough," Liam whispered, walking over to her. He touched the lace of her sleeve. "You look... devastating, Emi. You look like a song."
"And you," Emi said, nodding at his reflection in the mirror where he held the velvet jacket against his chest, "look like the only man who could handle the music."
They bought the outfits, Liam handing over his card before Emi could even reach for her purse.
"My treat," he said firmly. "Consider it a consulting fee for talking me out of the Batman costume."
They drove back uptown, the bags rustling in the back seat.
The city lights blurred past, orange and red streaks against the night.
Emi reached across the console, resting her hand on Liam’s arm.
He covered it with his own, his thumb stroking her skin.
They were partners in crime, ready to conquer the masquerade.
—-----------------------------
Friday night arrived with a howling wind that rattled the windows, perfect weather for All Hallows' Eve.
The drive to Long Island took an hour, the Ford Expedition eating up the miles on the L.I.E. As they moved further east, the dense urban sprawl gave way to the manicured darkness of the Gold Coast.
James’s parents' house was not a house; it was an estate.
Liam pulled through the iron gates, the gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The property sprawled over 3.5 acres, a manicured landscape that tumbled down toward the black water of the bay.
The main house was a sprawling colonial mansion, illuminated by floodlights that turned the white fa?ade into a ghost ship against the night sky.
"Subtle," Emi noted dryly as they parked next to a lineup of Porsches and Range Rovers.
"James doesn't do subtle," Liam laughed, killing the engine. "He does 'Great Gatsby' with a side of chaos."
They stepped out into the wind.
The transformation was complete. Emi moved with a rustle of tulle and silk, her black hair styled in wild, voluminous waves that framed her pale face.
Her makeup was severe and striking—dark eyes, blood-red lips.
Liam was her shadow, tall and imposing in his velvet jacket and silver jewelry, his hair slicked back but with a few deliberate strands falling loose.
They walked toward the back of the house, where the party was in full swing. The patio space was immense, dotted with heat lamps and fire pits. Beyond it, the tennis court had been converted into a dance floor, and the pool glowed an eerie, supernatural green.
"Trick or treat!" James shouted, spotting them.
James was dressed as a very convincing Captain Jack Sparrow, stumbling slightly—whether from the character or the punch was unclear.
"Liam! Emi!" James clapped Liam on the back. "Or should I say, the Lord and Lady of Darkness? You guys look incredible. Serious commitment to the bit."
"We try," Liam smiled, the "Josh Hartzler" persona giving him an air of mysterious cool.
"Come in, come in!" James ushered them toward the bar. "We have Apple Bobbing in the boathouse, a haunted maze in the cottage, and Mummy Wrapping starts in twenty minutes. Henry is already mummified. It’s hilarious."
They merged into the crowd. It was a sea of monsters, superheroes, and celebrities. Emi felt a thrill of anonymity. Behind the heavy makeup and the costume, she wasn't the Finance Manager. She wasn't the girl from Pietermaritzburg. She was Amy Lee—dark, vocal, and fearless.
Liam stayed close to her, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back.
They played the games with childlike enthusiasm.
Liam, despite his expensive velvet jacket, dunked his head into the water bucket for Apple Bobbing, emerging triumphant with a Red Delicious clamped between his teeth, water dripping down his face while Emi cheered.
They carved a pumpkin together, Liam using his architectural precision to carve a terrifyingly accurate skyscraper with a face, while Emi carved a jagged heart.
"It’s abstract," she defended her creation.
"It’s terrifying," Liam teased, kissing her temple.
Later, they stood by the railing overlooking the bay. The wind whipped the dark water into whitecaps. The boathouse lights flickered below them.
"Happy Halloween, Emi," Liam said, wrapping his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Happy Halloween, Liam," she whispered, leaning back into him. "Thank you. For this. For being my Josh Hartzler."
"Always," he murmured.
While the party raged on the patio, a different scene was unfolding in the service driveway near the garages.
A battered work van from Kim’s Auto Repair pulled up next to the row of luxury cars.
The driver’s side door creaked open, and Michael stepped out, carrying a heavy toolbox.
Ran stepped out of the passenger side, pulling up the collar of his mechanic’s jacket against the wind.
"Rich people," Ran muttered, looking at the mansion. "They have a party, break a bike, and call us at 9 PM on a Friday."
"It’s triple time, Ran," Michael reminded him, grabbing a diagnostic scanner. "And it’s James. He’s a good tipper. Besides, look at the bike. It’s a beauty."
They walked toward the separate garage bay where the motorcycle was parked. It was a beast—a Triumph Rocket 3 Storm GT, the Evel Knievel Edition. A limited-run monster of a machine, gleaming with chrome and patriotic paint.
"Won't start," Michael briefed him. "James thinks it's the battery, but he hears a click. Probably the starter solenoid or a loose ground."