Page 1 of Red Masquerade

Part One

Nouveau Riche

In my dreams, I have wings. They are white and feathered, soft like silk, light and airy. They sprout from my back, but it doesn’t hurt—it’s euphoric; it feels like every nerve ending is doused in pleasure when my wings return to me. Like the cells of my body know that I am once again complete. Shivers roll through my body until the transformation is complete; until I am whole.

I do not feel my bones rearrange. It is fluid, the reconstruction of myself. My wings appear when I need them, as if they had never left in the first place. The veil lifted, uncovering the magnificence hidden beneath my flesh.

They reach wide, and are powerful, and I only allow those I wish to see them.

In my nightmares, my wings are taken from me. I find myself soaring, high above all, and suddenly, I am falling, tumbling through the air, careening to the ground, where my mother and my father and Lucas await my return. They catch me in theirarms, hands grabbing, ripping, and the loss of my wings feels like agony, rivulets of blood staining my nightgown, the flesh of my back ripped to shreds. Yet they still grab at me, pull me in, their fingers digging into the serrated skin, nails biting. Their hands gouge, they claw, they rip and pull, and before I know it, my flesh is a mess of blood and tissue and tears, my screams ignored—hushed, even.

They leave me on the ground, Mother and Father staring with seeming disapproval, whether at my reaction to their brutality or the fact that I am an anomaly, I am not sure. They stare down their noses, hands clasped to themselves, my blood nowhere to be seen on their immaculate hands, their pristine clothing. And they walk away, hands clean, their disdain sending sharp stabs of pain through me.

Lucas remains, and it always plays out the same: he crouches, bringing himself down to my level, but he remains steady on his feet. His hands grip my hair, wrench my face back, so that all I can see is him. And by this point, I am in such agony I cannot move, my limbs shocked into limpness. His glaring eyes meet mine, and the darkness within them spreads until it is all I see, and though he doesn’t say anything, I know, somehow Iknow, he is telling me in those endless, soulless eyes, that it is him, it isalwayshim, who will own my wings. Who will bring blood and do it with purpose.

In my dreams, my wings are mine.

But it does not take me long to realize that I do not dream, that I am indeed Sisyphus, and this is hell.

One

It began in a dark corner of an illegal bar, with a stranger holding my hand to his lips, smoke wafting between us and gin humming in my veins. There was a fogginess in my head that I didn’t mind as the stranger peeked up at me, smiling. The dim lamplight cast a sickly green glow across his face, my own skin the color of absinthe, the shadows of the room rippling as though alive, our own existences swimming through time that had seemed to stop, the large clock upon the wall silent and unmoving.

“Another drink?” he asked.

I shrugged, though the smart answer would have beenNo. My blood was warm. I felt heat in my cheeks, my legs like jelly, even though I sat upon a velvet bench.

I could not tell if it was the haze, but the shadows of his face seemed to waver.

He raised his hand to get the attention of one of the bartenders, who quickly made his way over with two fresh glasses of spirits.

Though illicit, the small bar was crowded with patrons. Men leaned on the bar, facing each other, arms moving animatedly, the women in beaded dresses hanging on their arms forgotten amidst the carousing. Cigarettes burned, barks of laughter interrupted the shouting.

The man before me pushed my new glass over to me.

My fingers found the etchings in the glass, condensation collecting on my skin. “You have not yet told me your name.”

“Brancato,” he told me, and seemed proud of it. He leaned back in his seat. “Marcel Brancato.”

There was a lilt to his words, a sort of foreign accent I couldn’t place. I vaguely recognized the name. My father must have mentioned it long ago when speaking of one business deal or another. Business I cared nothing for, especially once Lucas took over.

“And I know who you are,” he said, eyes shimmering.

“Oh?”

“Helena Quintrell.” He smiled triumphantly, like he had won a game.

“I hope it’s not abadthing you recognize me,” I laughed.

“Quite the opposite.” He brought his own glass to his lips, and those dark eyes pierced through mine, a lock of his brown hair falling across his forehead. “I have been wanting to meet you.”

He was not unattractive; when he had first approached me, I thought that perhaps he was rather good-looking. His cheeks were clean-shaven, his hair styled back and waved, his jacket unwrinkled and smart. He leaned against hischair with a casualness many of these men seemed to exude, a pull to his lips that suggested an easiness and confidence that could not be interrupted.

But already I was finding he was like every other man, his gaze dipping down to my bodice, the exposed skin of my chest, lower, thinking about how I would look on his arm, what I could do for him.

“And why is that?” I asked, sneaking a glance around the room, wondering where Flora had run off to. I knew she was somewhere with Lord Dixon, her usual beau.

It normally went this way: we would arrive to the club or bar of the evening, and shortly after, Dixon would arrive, and as though parting the Red Sea, she would run right to his arms, and I would be alone for the rest of the evening, forgotten and left to entertain whoever bought me a drink. Most often, my companions for the evening were charming, fun enough to make the night worth it. Though, every so often, I could see a darkness in their eyes, an awareness that didn’t sit right with me, and I’d have to make excuses to escape their attention.