Page 19 of All Hallows Masque

“Why would you need to guess I’m beautiful?” I said with a sneer. “You’re looking right at me.”

He snorted, his smile settling deeper into his cheeks. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, darling woe. I can’t see shit. I’m blind.”

I winced, sinking a little lower and glad he couldn’t see me as my ears burned and my face heated. “Well. That’s no excuse for flirting with sad girls. Sad girls just want to be left alone.”

“That can’t be true.” A furrow dug into his brow, visible above the curve of the mask. “By my scientific equation, sad girls and sad boys aren’t too different. And if sad boys want hugs, icecream cake, and free concert tickets, sad girls probably want the same.”

My smile was cynical and annoyed, but it was a smile all the same. It felt weird to smile without the pressure of Cruelty’s watchful eyes on me. “Are you offering me free concert tickets?”

“Fuck, no. Do I look like I’m made of money?”

“Hard to tell with the mask.”

His soft smile broke into a grin, and green-hazel eyes lit up like an inner sun shone from within him. “I’d take it off for you to gaze upon my beauty, but I’m afraid it’s welded to my cheeks.”

“Sure.” I drained the rest of my vodka and held my glass out for a refill. I wasn’t paying for the alcohol, so why not take advantage of the free bar? “So, no free tickets?”

“Sadly, not. There’s a depressing dearth of ice cream cake, too.”

“What are you even good for?” I sighed, but let a smile colour my voice so could hear I was joking. He was still the best company in this room, even if he had a sad girl kink.

“Booze,” he replied with a sweeping gesture at the rows of bottles behind him. It occurred to me that a) I was a dumbass and b) he hadn’t seen me hold out my glass for a refill becausehe couldn’t see.“More vodka, m’lady?”

“God,” I blurted. “Don’t call me that, you sound like a creep.”

Colour crept across his cheeks. “Noted.”

“More vodka sounds good,” I said, ignoring the twinge in my chest. It wasn’t my fault he was acting like a weirdo; I was just calling a spade a spade. Although … my danger radar wasn’t going off, and my anxiety was starting to settle now I didn’t have to talk to so many people. And if anyone had seen Death or my husbands, it would be the bar staff. Of which there was only one, I noticed. Huh. I’d expect Cruelty to go overboard with her staffing too. One barkeep was the most reserved thing she’d done.

He scooped up my glass and poured me another double shot. “What’s your favourite fruit, darling woe?”

“The name’s annoying.”

“Don’t care,” he replied brightly, snorting as if he could sense my answering scowl. “Go on, name any fruit.”

“Mango.”

“Uh. Name any fruit that’s orange or glacé cherries,” he amended with a smile that made his eyes a brighter shade of green. He was pretty, I’d give him that.

“You have glacé cherries?” I asked, my mood lifting for the first time all night. “I love glacé cherries.”

He put my glass on the bar and ducked towards a fridge, coming up with a whole jar of cherries and a cocktail stick. “There, see I’m good for more than booze. Just don’t tell Mrs. Anthony; she’s been demanding cherries in her old fashioneds all night.”

I greedily opened the jar and helped myself, the sweet, tangy flavour a strange comfort. “Why are you so interested in me?” I asked, because it was bothering me.

“Ah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his curls. “You have a nice voice. Low and sweet, with a little smokiness.”

“Hm.” Of all the compliments he could have given, that one actually hit. I’d never been told I had a nice voice before. Instead of wanting to throw my drink all over him, I accepted it.

“It’s customary to return a compliment.” He propped his head on his chin again and fluttered his lashes at me. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m pretty?”

“You’re the one person I haven’t thought about murdering tonight,” I offered, the truest compliment I could give. Even Horsey McBirkinBag made me want to sew her mouth shut until she stopped talking. “Hey, you must have spoken to everyone in here tonight, right? I’m looking for someone. Or someones.”

He straightened, aiming a sharper, attentive look in my direction. I should probably have noticed before now that he only looked vaguely at me, his stare glancing off my shoulder, or the top of my head.

“Obviously, the masks make it a little difficult,” I said, nerves tangling my stomach. I wanted my husbands; wanted to go home. Instead I forced a slow breath and said, “But have you heard anyone talking about someone who’s really tall, with dark skin and long braids, probably tied back? I don’t know what colour suit he’d be wearing, or what mask, but … have you? Heard anyone mention him?”

The bartender’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his shoulders slumping like he felt sorry for me, or maybe my sadness was contagious.

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