Page 12

Cat

V iolets. Their soft, powdery fragrance filled the courtyard of Ford School of Medicine, cloying in my lungs, tarnishing my mind. The scent was soft and romantic, feminine and beautiful. I was going to throw up.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Cruelty gushed, linking her arm with mine as we strolled up the path towards Milton Hall.

No students were visible at all, not even a teacher.

Instead, Cruelty’s own people milled around in metallic gowns and jewel-toned dresses, the men resplendent in velvet blazers and tuxedos of shining, flawless black.

As black as the night sky above. Not a single star was out tonight.

If the moon was up there, she was hiding. I envied her.

“So beautiful,” I simpered, swallowing hard, tasting violets, the scent fucking everywhere.

I was right back in Death’s garden with Nightmare taunting me, my men bleeding and dangerously weak. Death was frozen on the ground with empty, unseeing eyes, Madde’s pain carved through my chest, Miz was dying, and Tor was missing.

Then her blood was in my mouth, her flesh gnawed into easily digested chunks, and I could still smell those infernal flowers.

I flinched when Cruelty towed me up the steps and into the old hall, elegant trails of light arching over the door, leading the way inside. It smelled the same. I don’t know why I’d expected blood and copper; it still smelled of dust and history. And violets.

“Are you alright, Kitty?” she asked with true concern.

She patted my hand and peered into my face.

I was adorned with makeup, sharp liner and smoky silver swept over my eyelids to accentuate my irises, my foundation as flawless as it had ever been.

I wondered if I was as white as a ghost under it, wondered if the ghosts were still here, if Darya remained.

I hadn’t seen a single person I knew, though I’d glimpsed faces against the windows of Lawrence Hall and Ford House as we passed, the students all locked away as if they knew predators were prowling the night and they’d be devoured if they dared to step outside.

“Violets,” I managed to choke out as she led me down a familiar hallway towards the Old Ford House, where Byron’s memorial had been held.

Where Honey went missing, and Phil triggered her betrayal.

I knew she was behind the blackout. How many times did she mess with us, betray us, without us knowing?

“Oh, Kitty,” Cruelty murmured, squeezing my hand. “I forgot, you were surrounded by violets the night you killed Nightmare. Is it terribly upsetting for you?”

“Yes,” I bit out, and knew she did this on purpose. She was messing with me, trying to break me. But fuck her. I was a lioness, the wife of death gods. I wouldn’t be broken by the scent of flowers.

I wasn’t in Death’s garden anymore, and Nightmare was dead.

I didn’t regret killing her. I reminded myself of that over and over as we walked the glittering halls of Ford, Cruelty’s arm in mine.

Rich purple petals trailed over the floor, dripping from bunches of violets that covered the walls in bright colour, so many of them that I could never count them.

I’m just borrowing her face. Honey is dead.

Honey was dead. My best friend was gone forever and these fucking flowers were a reminder of that.

Cruelty wanted me to be in pain tonight, wanted me to be an easy opponent to beat.

Because this was a game, like her laughing as I chased her through Darkmore’s grounds in subject form was a game, like me faking being her friend was a game.

She wanted to see how far I’d go, how well I could play the role.

Or she really was just a sad, pathetic woman who was so starved for friendship she’d blackmail herself a friend.

Cool air rushed over my body, finding the slit in my silver dress, the breaks in the fabric across my chest and ribs, my exposed back, and I shuddered hard.

“Don’t worry,” Cruelty said with a wide, guileless glance in my direction.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of tonight.

Nightmare’s gone forever, and no one will ever hurt you while I’m here.

” Her light blue eyes were soft when she smiled, and I arranged my mouth into a semblance of a matching smile.

“No one hurts my best friend and gets to live.”

I swallowed and tasted blood. “I know,” I said in a hard voice, sucking in a deep breath and straightening my back.

She didn’t have to know my I know wasn’t a bland agreement, but a promise to myself. No one hurt my best friends and got to live, either. No one hurt my men, my husbands, my bonded ones, whatever she wanted to call them, they were off limits.

I strode into the Old Ford house, and a shiver rolled over me. The last time I was here, I was a different person. How many times would Ford incinerate my soul to ruins, then rebuild me from the ashes?

“Isn’t it pretty?” Cruelty cooed, letting me go to clap her hands together, bright sparkling catchlights in her eyes as she stared at the space.

It was too similar to the memorial for comfort, but where that had been classy, this was overstated and gauche, like a high society ball organised by a teenager with an unlimited budget.

Silver and powder blue silk draped the walls—matching our dresses, I couldn’t help but notice—with twinkling lights and fragrant sprays of violets exploding around them.

The smell had stalked me here, but I kept my spine straight and refused to be beaten.

Courtiers thronged here too, carrying conversations in low murmurs, each face covered by an ornate mask or veil, light reflecting on sequins and diamantes and glitter.

It was like no charity ball I’d ever been to, something about it not quite right.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it raised goosebumps on my arms as I followed Cruelty inside.

Ice sculptures of elegant dancers framed a string quartet at the far end of the space, and dotted throughout the crowd were twelve marble statues so detailed and beautiful they ought to be in a museum.

Like the topiaries outside Darkmore Manor, these sculptures were of every shape and size of person, from muscular guys with abs and stern expressions to men with dad bods and kind eyes, to slim, Amazonian women and short, curvy beauties whose bodies were so realistically rendered I half-expected them to come to life.

“They’re beautiful,” I said without meaning to, the first genuine moment I’d given Cruelty.

“Aren’t they perfect?” She bounced on her silk-slippered toes beside me. “My masterpieces.”

“The deer skulls ruin the vibe a little,” I remarked, gesturing at the skulls hanging between swaths of fabric on the walls.

Cruelty scoffed. “They add to the ambience, I’ll have you know.”

I shook my head, forcing an amused expression on my face, creasing my eyes to make it look more real.

Cruelty was brimming with enthusiasm beside me, her master plan unfolding all around us.

I jumped when the string quartet struck up a slow, graceful version of Saint-Saens' Danse Macabre, covering the low murmur of voices.

That was when it hit me. The chatter; that was what crawled down the back of my neck and made me shiver with awareness.

It was slightly… off. Mechanical and repetitive, like people reading from a script.

No whisper-hissed arguments, no chastisements from parents to their outwardly perfect children, no loud guffaws of laughter, no booming voices of overconfident men. They were all … level.

“Who are these people?” I asked, taking a few tentative steps past a towering sculpture of a regal woman with a stern face and long neck, more comfortable with inanimate people than the real ones drowning in diamonds and silks milling around us.

As the music swelled, couples grouped together and began to dance, faces hidden behind Venetian masks or filigree half-masks or swaths of bejewelled velvet. “Your friends?”

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 the fifteen fifties.”

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 that never happened, 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 did not go hand in hand with new money. Or old money, for that fact.

They were her puppets, dancing on invisible strings, and the familiar melody of Danse Macabre turned 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.