Page 37 of Red Masquerade

People didn’t drink blood, didn’t…consummatewhile bathing in it.

That was something out of a lewd horror novel, and this was real life.

Maybe it was an elaborate performance? Meant to mystify unsuspecting guests?

But Sinclair had blood staining his chin, his teeth. A woman at his side, sucking on his neck, and a man in his lap, unclothed. There was a shamelessness in that room that I hadn’t seen before.

And Adam, amidst it all, was totally unfazed by Sinclair’s blood-stained appearance.

I mulled it over and over in my head, and couldn’t make sense of it.

How was this Adam,myAdam? The same boy that ran into me on the street, the same one with ink-stained hands and a disdain for extravagance? And yet, there he was, in the most extravagant house in the whole city, the whole state, casually waiting for me to stumble upon him all over again.

I grew tired so quickly when all I did was dwell on it, and as I fell into a doze, there came a knock on my door.

My eyes had only snapped open when Flora walked in. Her lips were pursed as she entered the room, wearing a soft pink day dress, her brow furrowed as she saw me laying like a corpse in bed.

She shut the door softly behind her and came to the bed.

“Why haven’t I heard from you?” She sat at my feet, concern lacing her words.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I pushed my hair out of my face. “I’ve been… resting.”

She raised a brow. “For four days?”

I shrugged. I had days to come up with an excuse, but nothing even remotely convincing had come to me. My preoccupation with the truth took over.

“What happened?”

“Why did something need to happen?” I asked. Knowing I was being difficult but I was so overwhelmed, so tired.

She sighed. “Helena, you know you can talk to me.” She reached for my arm, gently placing her palm against mine. “I know your brother’s coming, and I know that’s not going to be easy for you. But holing yourself away won’t make you feel better.”

I bit my lip.

This was another problem—Lucas was coming, and Adam was back. I didn’t even want to know what would happen if the two ran into each other.

“It’s just…” The words fled from me, stalled in my throat.

But she was silent and patient.

Flora was my friend, mybestfriend, and had been my whole life. If I could tell anyone, it would be her.

“Adam isn’t dead.”

I could hardly believe it even as I said it. My throat constricted, the dull ache there ever-present since I’d returned home, days ago.

She blinked. I saw as it hit her.

“But heis,” she said slowly. “We had a funeral. His parents got a letter.”

I remembered well. A letter from the government, issuing an apology that their son was missing, believed dead. Not even a pair of tags to show for it. I remembered the way his mother wailed at the funeral, unable to stay as the priest prayed overnothing, no casket, no printed photo of him; remembered his father’s stoic expression, hardened after years of work and now this, his son missing—dead.

There was never a body.

I shook my head, tears welling up in my lashes, tears I had not let fall the past few days. “He’s alive. I saw him.”

“What happened?” she repeated.