16. Helen
HELEN
I take one last look at myself before I leave my house.
The charcoal velvet skims my hips, falling clean from my waist. The fabric glows in dark ripples as I move.
Nothing digs into my ribs. Nothing fights my breath.
It flows as if someone actually considered the way I stand, the way I move, the way I like to be dressed.
My stilettos and clutch are silver, my lipstick red.
And the mask—angel and devil in one. It fits so well I own the contradiction. No one in the Game will know what I’m wearing, and I won’t know what Victor is wearing. God, I can hardly wait.
Carroll Gardens is still alive at this hour. I pass brownstone stoops and couples walking small dogs, the scent of garlic drifting from corner restaurants. A man waters his sidewalk. The sky holds the last threads of pink.
7:43 p.m.
I reach the corner of Sackett and Clinton and pretend I’m waiting to be picked up to a masquerade party.
7:45 p.m.
The limo arrives.
Gloss-black, long enough to fill the curb, headlights slashing across brick facades. Conversations on the sidewalk falter. Someone actually pauses mid-step. In Carroll Gardens, excess doesn’t go unnoticed.
The car draws up directly in front of me.
The passenger door unlocks as the chauffeur steps out.
Black suit, perfectly tailored. A black mask covers the upper half of his face.
Not the kind worn with a cape and a rapier.
This one has texture and it sits flush against his cheekbones, definitely custom-made.
“Miss,” he says, offering his hand. “It is very nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, placing my hand in his. He presses a polite kiss to my knuckles.
“For protocol, I’ll need a name.”
“It’s Hele—”
“Ssh.” His voice stays gentle. “Reconsider what you’re about to say.”
Oh, shit. Of course.
“Hellion,” I answer.
A hint of approval curves his mouth. He steps aside and gestures toward the open door. The leather interior receives me without a sound. The windows are blackout. Absolute. Soon the door closes.
My reflection stares back from the dark glass as we move. Victor is somewhere in this. Or he will be. I smooth my gown over my knees. My heartbeat isn’t frantic. It’s…anticipatory.
After about an hour of driving, the car slows, then stops.
The door opens again. Cooler air brushes my skin. We’re nowhere near brownstones anymore.
I step out.
In front of me rises a forged-steel gate, tall, intricate, flanked by stone pillars that look older than they should be this far from the city. Beyond it, I can just make out low golden light.
The chauffeur steps aside.
“The Game recognizes your arrival,” he says softly.
I step forward, and the gate responds, unlocking with a glide as though my presence alone is the key.
Beyond it lies a garden that feels less like landscaping and more like a private woodland.
Tall trees rise along the path, their canopies woven overhead.
Lanterns glow through the branches, revealing just enough of the gravel trail ahead.
And then I notice the rabbits.
One hops across the path ahead of me, its white tail flashing before it disappears into the undergrowth. Another lingers near a low hedge, nose twitching as it grazes. They move freely, completely at ease.
If this is meant to disarm me, it works.
The path carries me to a bridge over a thin stream. The air smells fresh, as if rain passed through recently. Beyond it, the trail bends right. The trees grow taller, closer together, the lantern light thinning. When I round the curve, he is simply there.
A man in a white suit stands beside a table, his face concealed by an ivory lacquer mask. It’s unadorned, almost clinical in its simplicity, the blank surface reflecting the lantern glow.
“Welcome, Hellion.”
I slow my steps then stop. “So you’re the gatekeeper.”
“You’re perceptive. Every game requires one.”
He then extends a gloved hand.
“Your purse, please.”
I pause to acknowledge what I’m surrendering, then set it in his palm.
“Everything will be returned to you at the end of the Game,” he says. “Untouched.”
“And if I decide I don’t like the Game?”
“You are free to leave at any time. You have the safe word.”
I nod, watching as he inspects the contents. Phone. House key. Lipstick. Tissues. Nothing sharp. Nothing concealed.
He removes only my phone. “You may keep the rest.” He returns the clutch. “Its contents have already been accounted for.”
I tuck it beneath my arm.
“You are who you choose to be here,” he says, drawing a silk cloth from the table and unveiling what lies beneath.
Three masks rest on velvet. They’re sculpted from whisper-thin composite, hand-set with diamonds that follow the curve of cheek and brow.
He gestures to the first with a slender wand.
“This will bring you good fortune.”
To the second.
“This one alters destiny.”
The third gleams without commentary, confident in its own value.
“All genuine gemstones,” he says. “All exceptional.”
They are breathtaking.
I lift my hand to the mask already resting against my skin, tracing the curve where black meets white. It was given to me without a promise of luck or some prophecy attached. It felt right when I put it on.
“I’ll keep this one,” I say.
He inclines his head in a measured bow, then draws the tablecloth out from beneath the setting. When I look up again, he’s gone, leaving only the table and the wand.
The lanterns dim without warning. Darkness settles in, and for a suspended moment there is nothing but the rush of my own breath and the rustle of the fabric of my gown against my legs.
When the light returns, ahead of me is no longer a garden. In its place stands a smooth wall, pale and seamless, interrupted only by three doors arranged side by side.
The first door stands ajar. Leaning in its frame is a man wearing a mouse mask—sleek, silver-gray, the snout narrow and clever. His shirt is open low, his build athletic.
“Care to explore?” he asks, pushing the door wider with two fingers.
He is friggin’ handsome. That much is obvious. But the smile beneath the mask feels rehearsed, as if he has delivered it a hundred times to a hundred women who mistook charm for safety.
“Oh,” I murmur, tilting my head. “Tempting.”
He steps back to allow space for me to enter.
I don’t move. Temptation offered this easily rarely holds value. I turn instead toward the second door.
This one is guarded. A broad-shouldered man stands before it in a leather harness and nothing else. The bronze mask he wears exaggerates his features into something almost mythic. He steps into my path, extending a hand toward the handle behind him.
I consider him for a moment. “Russell Crowe,” I mutter. “You look ready for the arena.” Muscles like those…my palms almost ache.
I walk away from the door. He shifts, moving to block my path as I head toward the last one, but I slip past him before he can adjust.
“Sorry,” I add, brushing by with velvet trailing in my wake. He’d be an exceptional escort, but I don’t think he’ll help me advance. The invitation was clear—be wise. “You’re the dream. Just not what I need.”
A sound follows me. The gladiator, no doubt. Approval? Amusement? I don’t pause to decode it. The third door waits.
It’s closed.
I reach for it.
The handle resists. Locked.
Movement near the floor catches my eye. A small shape darts across the stone before disappearing into a narrow opening along the base of the wall. I lower myself, careful of my gown, and peer into the shallow hollow where the mouse has vanished.
“Oh, hello,” I say.
Inside, half-buried in the earth, lies a glass bottle fixed at an angle, its neck tilted upward to reveal the glint of metal at the bottom. A key.
I reach in, but the bottle refuses to budge. It has been planted firmly in place, impossible to tip. The opening is too narrow, it’s impossible to coax the key free with bare fingers.
When I glance back over my shoulder, the wall is different. The other two doors are gone. Were they just projections? The men with them have vanished too, as if they were never there.
Only the locked door remains.
And the problem.
The magician’s parting gesture returns to me then—his wand.
It’s still there, abandoned on the table.
I retrieve it, turning it once in my hand before lowering its tip carefully into the bottle’s neck.
The resistance I feel is magnetic, and the key lifts toward the polished end with a soft metallic click.
“That’s better!”
The key slides free, and when I stand and fit it into the waiting lock, it turns without struggle. The door opens inward onto a narrow corridor paneled in dark wood, the lighting low and directional, guiding rather than illuminating.
At the far end stands a figure in a red fox mask, the color deep and vivid against the dim surroundings. He is watching me without visible motion. For a fleeting second I study the angle of his shoulders, the line of his stance, searching for familiarity.
Then he turns the corner and vanishes.
Was it Victor?
I follow.
The corridor branches, splitting left and right. Panels slide into place behind me, redirecting my steps until I am no longer certain whether I am pursuing or being guided. When I pause, a man in a zebra mask emerges from a side passage.
“You appear to be circling,” he observes.
“I dislike repetition,” I reply.
“I can guide you out,” he says. “Or you may continue discovering the pattern yourself.”
There is no urgency in him, no insistence. Just a calmness that makes him seem dependable.
“Lead,” I decide.
He walks ahead without touching me, navigating the shifting passages, turning through an opening I had not registered as a door until he revealed it.
We step through.
The maze falls away behind us, and I enter a room so dim it feels less like architecture and more like atmosphere waiting to close in.
A single oval table sits at its center beneath a focused wash of light.
The rest of the room recedes into shadow, as though spectators exist but prefer not to be seen.