“I’ll put it down when I know who you are.” I glanced behind me, eyeing the door. Selix had vanished into the room two doors down. If I was fast enough, I could run there before they could grab me. “Tell me. Right now.”
The older woman with ginger hair pointed at herself and then her friend, followed by the embroidered sigil on their matching breast pockets. “I’m Mel, and this is Nat. We’re from Social Art.”
“Social Art?” My hand grew slippery around my weapon. “What’s that?”
The red-lipsticked lady giggled. “Obviously someone didn’t pass on the message.”
When I gave her a blank look, she added, “We were hired by Mr. Prest to help you get ready for the masque.”
“Oh.”
A reply I could handle.
A response my flight or fight desires could accept.
Slowly, I put the letter opener down, my fingers creeping to my throat where prickling anxiety remained.
The masquerade.
I’d entirely forgotten about it.
All I wanted to do was rest. To somehow regroup from this afternoon and figure out what had happened to Elder. God, the thought of mingling with strangers...all of them wearing masks?
I gulped.
I can’t.
I wasn’t in the right headspace. If my ever-present fear had sprung up from two women, what would happen in a ballroom full of hundreds?
I had a better handle on my panic attacks, but what if one found me in the middle of a crowd? What if I collapsed and sobbed and screamed and Elder had to drag me away? I’d ruin his reputation and his meetings with whoever he planned to do business with.
Shaking my head, I bypassed them, spying a bathroom beyond. “I-I’m not feeling all that well.” I kicked off my ballet flats and made my way past a small table where a pad and pen embossed with the hotel logo begged me to scribble on it.
Pilfering the stationery, I didn’t care which hotel Selix had brought me to or whereabouts in London we were. We were in England, and that was all I knew. Back in the country I knew better than any other and I still found myself completely lost.
“Do you think you could call Mr. Prest and give him my apologies?” Inching toward the bathroom door—backing over the threshold and almost free from their sharp gazes—I shrugged. “I’m sorry, I’m really not feeling—”
Something whispered over my scalp, warm and heavy.
Oh, God.
Terror sprang. Self-preservation kicked in. I spun around ready to attack whoever had attacked me, only to bury my face in a billow of tulle.
“Ah, you found it.” Mel came forward, her heels silent on the carpet. “Your dress.”
Hugging my notepad and pen, I backed away, my lips parting as I studied the gown hanging from a collapsible wardrobe. Small shelving with the most delicious blood red heels and a box with Victoria Secret’s emblem rested beside the incredible creation of satin and lace.
“It’s one of our signature pieces,” Nat said as my arms went lax and I dropped the pad and paper. My entire body went floppy with awe. Shock. Amazement.
A rustle sounded behind me; followed by a soft voice. “That’s the dress he ordered. It’s from a collection called Bruised by Beauty by Nila Weaver.”
Mel chuckled. “Well, it’s a Weaver creation, but the designer of the company changed her last name a few years ago. In fact—” A light hand fluttered on my shoulder. “You’ll meet her tonight at the masque. She’s married to the owner—Jethro Hawk.”
Even being touched by a stranger couldn’t stop my wonderment as I studied the dress. It hung impersonal and lifeless, but it glowed with magic. Sorcery that promised whoever wore it wouldn’t be mere mortal anymore but someone transcended from mankind. Someone ethereal.
The bottom of the skirt was oversized and bell-shaped with acres of elegant swathes of every colour on the red and blue spectrum. Ochre to blood and midnight to forget-me-nots. The colours twisted and turned, smudged and battled to look exactly like a bruise upon human skin. Slowly, the colours stopped fighting, creeping up the dress until the war ended and red was the true winner.
Red—the colour of passion.
Red—the colour of pain.
It shimmered and beckoned and beamed with the richest, deepest crimson I’d ever seen—as if blood had cascaded right from someone’s heart. Off the shoulder with sashes of beadwork, navy and blue-black lace webbed like veins.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
And the most morbid.
Whoever wore this gown was shouting to the world she wasn’t pure. She wasn’t innocent. She was raw and bloodied and bruised and was so much stronger for it.
I choked on overwhelming love for Elder—that even running away he’d somehow found a way to tell me how proud he was.
The hand on my shoulder squeezed gently. “Whatever tiredness, worry, or illness you’re suffering, we have to find a way to fix it. This dress demands to be worn. You must be the one to wear it. It would be a sin not to.”
Nat pushed past me, clipping toward the vanity where rows of makeup already rested on black velvet runners. Bottles and brushes, palettes and creams all ready to paint their chosen one.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Mel plucked a large box from the floor and held it out to me, cracking open the lid. “This goes with it. The whole ensemble is called Queen Who Bled.”
With my heart lodged in my throat, my eyes fell on the final ingredient. And for the first time, I felt faint for all good reasons instead of bad. The familiar closing of my lungs and rush of panic in my veins only brought wonder and a touch of anxiety that I could never be beautiful enough to pull off such a mask.
A mask undoubtedly chosen by Elder.
A mask that would grant me protection, beauty, and queenly power.
I would go tonight.
I would wear the dress.
I would find Elder and thank him for everything he was.
And then I would kiss him.
Because gifts such as these...they deserved a hundred kisses.
A thousand.
More.
“I’m suddenly feeling much better,” I whispered.
“In that case.” Mel smiled. “Let’s get you ready for the ball.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elder
LIKE A COWARD, I hid.
I shirked all responsibility and ran so I could somehow get my head together and not take my self-loathing out on Pim.
I meant to return to the hotel and collect her. I had a big plan to meet her in the hotel foyer, decked out in my black tux with black cravat, black waistcoat, and black mask and wait for her to descend the stairs as any novel-hero would.
That was before my escape from the prison refused to settle my nerves. That was before my stalk through English suburbs left me worse than I’d been before.
I’d constantly checked my watch, plagued by questions. Where was she? What was she doing? Would Selix have taken her back to the hotel? Would she permit the Social Art crew to dress her or would she refuse—too hurt from my disappearance and too tired from the truth?
Run ragged and desperate for a joint, I found my way to the hotel and dressed. I let the magic of marijuana turn me as normal as possible and waved off Selix’s lecture of how dangerous it’d been roaming the streets without protection with the Chinmoku on the hunt.