Page 18 of All Hallows Masque

Cruelty laughed, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re my only friend, silly. These are my courtiers.”

I gave her a strange look. “How old are you?”

“Rude,” she giggled, flicking her hair off her shoulder. “You should never ask a lady how old she is. But I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not old enough to have witnessed scenes like this when I was alive. I lived in the nineteen fifties, not thefifteenfifties.”

She seemed to find that hilarious, so I pulled my lips into a deeper smile. “Do you host many masquerades like this?”

“Nope.” She guided me past a gaggle of well-dressed ladies with beautiful hair, all their eyes following Cruelty and I as we moved deeper into the room. The chill spiked inside me until I had to fight a shiver. Still, no one’s voice rose above a polite murmur.

I’d been to enough events like this to know thatneverhappened, even when there were strict society dames to enforce volume rules. There was always a woman whose laugh could be heard from rooms away and a man who seemed to have no concept of how loud his voice was. These people, Cruelty’s courtiers, were dripping in riches, no doubt heiresses and politicians and business moguls. Quiet and reserved didnotgo hand in hand with new money. Or old money, for that fact.

They were her puppets, dancing on invisible strings, and the familiar melody ofDanse Macabreturned sinister as the quartet quickened their pace, the deep whine of a cello and strident cry of the violin quickening my heart. I glanced out the windows in desperation, searching for something normal, something familiar. Searching, I realised when I found only trees swaying in the wind, for my men.

As if she knew exactly what I was thinking, Cruelty gave me a beatific grin and leaned closer, whispering, “Remember. If you find your husband, I’ll spare him. So be sure to talk to everyone.”

And with that parting shot, she nudged me towards a couple in matching burgundy silk and left me to mingle.

12

Cat

My head throbbed like a tiny blacksmith had taken up residence inside my frontal lobe, and I was no closer to finding Death, if he was here at all.Clang, clang,the fucking blacksmith hammered my skull, but I pasted a polite smile on my face as the tall, horsey woman I was speaking to told me, in great detail, about her collection of Birkin bags. I made the mistake of complimenting her on her tiny leather bag, and the rest was history.

“But if you’re going to keep a bag like this, you really have to care for it. Saddle soap and a horsehair brush every few months will do a world of good and—”

My attention wandered as I searched the crowd. People hovered, chatting and making bland conversation, while others whirled around the dance floor to a string rendition of Ravel'sGaspard de la Nuit,the musicians all sitting with their headsbowed, white veils covering their faces. It reminded me of the hood Cruelty usually wore.

Speaking of the goddess, I hadn’t seen her since she thrust me into the crowd and disappeared. I kept waiting to hear her giggle or her high voice carrying over the music, but it was like she’d vanished into smoke. Her absence was ominous, but I was glad she wasn’t breathing down my neck. At least I didn’t have to choke down my hatred every time I looked at her.

The last time I was in this room, Honey was right beside me, and I had Tor, Death, and Miz with me. Were they here now, too? Was Cruelty telling the truth and one of my men was here, masked and hidden among all her courtiers? I scanned every male figure, every masked face, searching for the familiar curve of golden eyes, for rich chocolate skin, for swirling tattoos against a tanned throat, for the bright flash of a smile full of insanity.

Instead, it was the curve of a sapphire mask against a pale, freckled nose that caught my attention and grabbed my heart in a brutal fist.

“Honey,” I breathed, jerking away from the horsey woman and rushing past dancing couples, my eyes fixed on that bright vibrant mask the same colour as her eyes, like light reflected through lapis. I knew it couldn’t be her, but that didn’t stop my breathing racing or urgency clawing through my blood.

“Honey!” I gasped, grabbing her wrist, my heart soaring when she paused and turned, meeting my eyes. Her eyes were too big, too wide, too grey. “Sorry,” I blurted, letting go of the woman. Her jaw was the wrong shape too, and she was shorter than Honey. “I thought you were someone else.”

I escaped before she could say anything, choking back tears and glad for the mask I wore for the first time tonight. They hid the faces of everyone else, but at least they hid mine, too.

I headed directly for the bar Cruelty had set up along the left side of the room, blessedly far from the buffet and the chaos around the silver plates of devilled eggs, crudites, cheese souffles, and Jello salad.1 Knowing Cruelty was from the fifties, the menu made so much sense now.

“Vodka, neat,” I told the bartender dressed in champagne gold silk. A little flashy for a bartender, but everything Cruelty organised tonight could be described with that word. Flashy. My mother would have a conniption if she saw the tacky décor. Especially the ice sculptures of peacocks and polar bears and ballerinas. The thought of her seeing an event she’d organised with all these cliches and OTT extravagance made me smile, and I flicked a tear off my cheek.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said in a voice far too genuine and warm to belong here. There was no haughty self-importance, no judging drawl, not even the monotone droning of a good majority of Cruelty’s courtiers. I gave him a strange look as he grabbed a glass from under the bar and pumped two vodka shots into the glass. “You look like you need a double,” he said, placing it on a napkin before me. “Are you alright, darling? You look to have all the woes of the world resting on your shoulders.”

I flicked my eyebrows up and down in agreement, sipping the vodka when what I really wanted was to throw it back and demand another. “You’re not far off.” It wasn’t the first conversation I’d had with bar staff at one of these events, but I was surprised to find the confession rolling easily from my tongue.

My anxiety was at an all-time high, hence the blacksmith causing noisy, painful chaos against my skull with his anvil and hammer, but I’d met people like this before. A centre of calm in the middle of chaos, the eye of a storm. Far too good at setting people at ease. They fell into one of two categories: genuinelykind people who liked lending an ear and a shoulder to cry on, or secret collectors, who hoarded blackmail material like precious jewels.

I took a bigger drink, surveying the room full of dancing, beautiful people. I hated them all.

“Let me guess,” he said, leaning an elbow against the bar and propping his chin on his hand, “you’re unfathomably beautiful. The kind of stunning that has men falling at your feet.”

I snorted, giving him a strange look. “Not remotely close.”

“Nah. Sad girls are always beautiful. It’s a natural law of the universe.”

Was he seriously hitting on me? So much for warmth and kindness. I gave the man an unimpressed look, trailing my stare from the embroidered champagne-gold mask he wore, down the jacket that was perfectly tailored to his shoulders and trim waist, and ended at the rings on his hand—the only silver thing about him. One was a band of thorns that looked genuinely painful to wear, and another was a 3D silver lion, rendered in detail. The rest of him was pale, delicate gold from his skin to his clothes to the tight curls of his hair. Handsome, probably, beneath the mask, but any man who preyed on sad girls was abhorrent.

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