Page 13

Cat

M y head throbbed like a tiny blacksmith had taken up residence inside my frontal lobe, and I was no closer to finding Death, if he was here at all.

Clang, clang, the fucking blacksmith hammered my skull, but I pasted a polite smile on my face as the tall, horsey woman I was speaking to told me, in great detail, about her collection of Birkin bags.

I made the mistake of complimenting her on her tiny leather bag, and the rest was history.

“But if you’re going to keep a bag like this, you really have to care for it. Saddle soap and a horsehair brush every few months will do a world of good and—”

My attention wandered as I searched the crowd.

People hovered, chatting and making bland conversation, while others whirled around the dance floor to a string rendition of Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit, the musicians all sitting with their heads bowed, white veils covering their faces.

It reminded me of the hood Cruelty usually wore.

Speaking of the goddess, I hadn’t seen her since she thrust me into the crowd and disappeared.

I kept waiting to hear her giggle or her high voice carrying over the music, but it was like she’d vanished into smoke.

Her absence was ominous, but I was glad she wasn’t breathing down my neck.

At least I didn’t have to choke down my hatred every time I looked at her.

The last time I was in this room, Honey was right beside me, and I had Tor, Death, and Miz with me.

Were they here now, too? Was Cruelty telling the truth and one of my men was here, masked and hidden among all her courtiers?

I scanned every male figure, every masked face, searching for the familiar curve of golden eyes, for rich chocolate skin, for swirling tattoos against a tanned throat, for the bright flash of a smile full of insanity.

Instead, it was the curve of a sapphire mask against a pale, freckled nose that caught my attention and grabbed my heart in a brutal fist.

“Honey,” I breathed, jerking away from the horsey woman and rushing past dancing couples, my eyes fixed on that bright vibrant mask the same colour as her eyes, like light reflected through lapis.

I knew it couldn’t be her, but that didn’t stop my breathing racing or urgency clawing through my blood.

“Honey!” I gasped, grabbing her wrist, my heart soaring when she paused and turned, meeting my eyes. Her eyes were too big, too wide, too grey. “Sorry,” I blurted, letting go of the woman. Her jaw was the wrong shape too, and she was shorter than Honey. “I thought you were someone else.”

I escaped before she could say anything, choking back tears and glad for the mask I wore for the first time tonight. They hid the faces of everyone else, but at least they hid mine, too.

I headed directly for the bar Cruelty had set up along the left side of the room, blessedly far from the buffet and the chaos around the silver plates of devilled eggs, crudites, cheese souffles, and Jello salad. 1 Knowing Cruelty was from the fifties, the menu made so much sense now.

“Vodka, neat,” I told the bartender dressed in champagne gold silk.

A little flashy for a bartender, but everything Cruelty organised tonight could be described with that word.

Flashy. My mother would have a conniption if she saw the tacky décor.

Especially the ice sculptures of peacocks and polar bears and ballerinas.

The thought of her seeing an event she’d organised with all these cliches and OTT extravagance made me smile, and I flicked a tear off my cheek.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said in a voice far too genuine and warm to belong here.

There was no haughty self-importance, no judging drawl, not even the monotone droning of a good majority of Cruelty’s courtiers.

I gave him a strange look as he grabbed a glass from under the bar and pumped two vodka shots into the glass.

“You look like you need a double,” he said, placing it on a napkin before me.

“Are you alright, darling? You look to have all the woes of the world resting on your shoulders.”

I flicked my eyebrows up and down in agreement, sipping the vodka when what I really wanted was to throw it back and demand another.

“You’re not far off.” It wasn’t the first conversation I’d had with bar staff at one of these events, but I was surprised to find the confession rolling easily from my tongue.

My anxiety was at an all-time high, hence the blacksmith causing noisy, painful chaos against my skull with his anvil and hammer, but I’d met people like this before.

A centre of calm in the middle of chaos, the eye of a storm.

Far too good at setting people at ease. They fell into one of two categories: genuinely kind people who liked lending an ear and a shoulder to cry on, or secret collectors, who hoarded blackmail material like precious jewels.

I took a bigger drink, surveying the room full of dancing, beautiful people. I hated them all.

“Let me guess,” he said, leaning an elbow against the bar and propping his chin on his hand, “you’re unfathomably beautiful. The kind of stunning that has men falling at your feet.”

I snorted, giving him a strange look. “Not remotely close.”

“Nah. Sad girls are always beautiful. It’s a natural law of the universe.”

Was he seriously hitting on me? So much for warmth and kindness.

I gave the man an unimpressed look, trailing my stare from the embroidered champagne-gold mask he wore, down the jacket that was perfectly tailored to his shoulders and trim waist, and ended at the rings on his hand—the only silver thing about him.

One was a band of thorns that looked genuinely painful to wear, and another was a 3D silver lion, rendered in detail.

The rest of him was pale, delicate gold from his skin to his clothes to the tight curls of his hair.

Handsome, probably, beneath the mask, but any man who preyed on sad girls was abhorrent.

“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, ice cream 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 because he 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.

“There's no one matching that description here,” he replied, and I believed him.

My head bowed as I stared into my drink. Death was the most likely person Cruelty had locked up to use against me, but if she was telling the truth, one of my husbands was here somewhere tonight. And if I found him, we could go home.

“What about a tall man with white hair and gold eyes? He’d probably be pissing people off by being judgy and a little snappish, but he’s so goddamn beautiful there’d be no missing him even in a mask.”

Which was what made it so terrifying that I hadn’t found him. Not Miz, not Tor, not Madde, not Death.

The bartender was already shaking his head. “I’ve heard about a lot of people, darling woe, but not him.”

“What about a shorter man with a shaved head and a million tattoos? You’d know if you met him; he has a way of moving through the world with so much confidence that it bends around him, but he’s the sweetest, kindest person.

Tell me you’ve met him.” My voice strangled but I ignored it, choking back vodka and wondering why the buzz wasn’t hitting me yet.

The bartender shook his head with a sigh.

“Or a redheaded man who literally can’t stand still, always talking and smiling and laughing.

He’s practically covered in freckles from head to toe, and has the most vivid blue eyes.

He’s a little crazy but so sweet, and I know he’d be looking for me.

He calls me lioness. Please. You must have met him.

You must have met one of them. It’s the only reason I’m here. ”

Pain twisted my chest into a knot as I stared at the masked stranger, all my hopes, all my dreams hanging on his response. I knew what it would be when his shoulders slumped and he sighed, genuine remorse in his hazel eyes.

“Darling, I hate to add to your sadness,” he said with sympathy that made my chest hurt more violently. I looked away from him, a lump in my throat. “But none of them are here.”

“I know,” I rasped, my voice choked. They weren’t. I knew them too well, would have felt it the moment any of them walked into the room. Cruelty lied to me. This was all another trick.

I could have sworn I saw a flicker of darkness beside me, like shadows reaching out, desperate to touch me, but there was nothing there.

I jumped when a warm hand covered mine, squeezing. “I wish I had another answer for you,” the bartender sighed. “For whatever it’s worth, you have my heart, darling woe.”

“God, stop flirting,” I groaned.

“I’m not,” he protested. “I mean it. Literally. I—ah, shit,” he groaned, his attention on something beyond me as if he’d felt the atmosphere of the room twisting, darkening before I did.

“What?” I demanded, turning to scan the opulent room, the masked faces, the twirling dancers. A space had cleared in the middle of the floor but not for more dancing. No, three people stood in a tight circle, draped in ink-black robes with their hoods up to conceal their faces, heads bent together.

Cold shot through me like adrenaline as they began to murmur, then to chant louder than the string quartet played.

The fucking robed figures. The bastards from Ford’s Halloween party that started all this were back. Which could only mean one thing.

Cruelty was casting a curse.