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Xave frowns at James’s hand over mine. I pull away and try to look calm and unaffected.
“What’s going on?” Xave asks. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out cracked. I clear my throat and make a show of looking around the room, when what I really want to do is run, run, run. “L-look at this place. It’s ... huge.”
Reluctantly, Xave unlocks his gaze from mine and checks our surroundings. A hard line forms between his eyebrows. “I don’t like it,” he says. “Not one bit.”
In a place like this, there should be nothing to dislike. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every single detail spells opulence. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, exquisite art work, a grand staircase. Wealth drips from the ceiling like rain from a leaky roof. It’s despicable. The vibe is all wrong.
As people mingle, toasting each other, gossiping, laughing, my head drones and my skin crawls with a million spiders. Xave feels something, too. I can tell by the muscle jumping on his jaw, and the sweat building on his brow. Whatever it is, it hangs thick in the air, like the stench of road-kill right against our noses.
James motions for us to move deeper into the crowd. My knees lock, and I consider bolting, forgetting him and his gang and even my intense desire to find answers and a cure. But who am I kidding? I’d sooner click the ring’s button again than lose this chance.
I square my shoulders. I’m strong. I’m my father’s daughter, and I don’t give up. I will stay here with my throbbing finger and buzzing head. I will find out what this curse is, and I will free myself.
Xave’s feet are glued to the ground. I try to pull him along, but he doesn’t budge. Leaving him behind, I follow James and Blare.
“Hey!” He catches up and takes my hand in his. “You’re not going anywhere without me.” A crooked smile touches his lips, but not his eyes. He’s just as scared as I am, but he’s also brave.
I let my eyes travel over the room. Everywhere I look it’s the same. Men and women hanging out in couples, feeding each other, locking arms, dancing, kissing. It’s like Saint freakin’ Valentine’s day. A tall brunette walks beside me, wearing so many diamonds she literally sparkles. She’s dazzling, but the sight of her kicks up the hammering inside my head. I look into her companion’s face, a man with angular features and the most perfect eyebrows I’ve ever seen. The droning quiets down one degree, and I can think again.
As I assess everyone, I realize my head hums for one member of each couple, but not the other. It puzzles me, then—as I remember what James said in the car—it begins to make sense. “Everyone is expected to bring a date.” My gaze darts around the room, validating the pattern. The more couples I evaluate, the more certain I become. They’re all like Xave and I, like James and Blare.
One of them has shadows eating their brains out, while the other is normal and unaware that their companion is a freak. They’re happy and carefree, laughing, making conversation, nuzzling each other’s necks and laughing again. I feel like I’m going to scream, lose it, ruin this whole plan that I’ve not yet begun to understand.
Just when I think things can’t get any worse, the sound of leather soles against the marble floor enters my awareness. Each step beats in the back of my head, as if I’m being carved out of stone and the sculptor stands behind me pounding away with his tools, moving the chisel a tiny fraction after each blow and hammering with all his might over and over again.
Sweat slicks Xave’s grip in my hand. I’ve gone cold and my knees refuse to hold my weight. I’m at the brink of collapsing.
The ring.
Pain.
My thumb fumbles for the release. I look up and find my gaze locked on a pair of golden eyes. They seem to float toward me before I realize there’s a face that goes with them, the face of the person whose steps are pounding my brain into mashed potatoes. Those eyes narrow and fix on mine. Flecks of copper surround pupils that seem to be nothing but pinpricks. Their strange, animalistic quality terrifies me to the bone. He smiles at me.
I push the button. A thousand piranha teeth pierce my skin. It takes all my willpower to stifle a cry along with the panic that begs me to check if my finger’s still attached to my hand. Instead, I smile back at Golden Eyes, return his gaze and act as if this really is Valentine’s Day and blissful chocolate is about to start pouring from the ceiling.
“My dear James,” the man says in a thick English accent. “What a delight to have you here tonight. So glad you could make it.”
“Hello, Elliot. Back from the motherland?” James says, shaking his hand.
The man smiles with so much English charm, I feel like puking. I lean on Xave as I take the man in. He’s in his early fifties and wears a dark tailored suit and some sort of silky mess around his neck. What posh name do they call those things? Cravat? Oh heck, I don’t know, but the pattern looks like cat puke and the whole style is just too effeminate for my taste.
I blink several times to clear my head. I should be scrambling out of here and this is what I’m thinking about?! Obviously, random thoughts have taken over as my default self-preservation mechanism.
Elliot takes Blare’s hand. “And Veronica, as staggering as always.” He plants a kiss on her hand and nothing but the smallest tightness around her eyes reveals any emotion besides pleasure.
Veronica? I wonder if that’s her real name.
“Same to you,” Blare says.
“And who do we have here?” Elliot turns.
His eyes, those iridescent, spell-binding eyes, land on me. I feel hypnotized by them and their strange, inhuman color. My breathing quickens, and suddenly I need pain to ground me, to stop the incessant droning that beats to a new, unprecedented rhythm.
Pain!
I bite the inside of my cheek, until my teeth mash together. My mouth fills with blood.
Awkwardly, James steps in front of Xave, jolting my attention to his gray eyes. “This is Marci and her friend Xave. Guys, this is Elliot Whitehouse.”
Elliot frowns and his nose flares like those of the guards outside. One of his eyebrows goes up, appraising me, revealing a small hint of suspicion. I know I must pull it together. Something big is at stake here, even if I don’t know what.
I shed pounds of repulsion and put my hand out. I open my mouth to speak and, for a second, I fear nothing will come out. Yet, my voice is steady, pleasant even.
“Elliot.” The name rolls off my tongue, as if I’m savoring it, but it nearly gags me. “May I call you that? I’m Marci ... Milan. I hope you don’t mind, James took the liberty of inviting us.” I pull what I think is my most enchanting smile.
Xave gapes. Blare reevaluates me. James smiles with what I know must be relief. Elliot inclines his head and gives a slow nod. A smile stretches his lips, revealing perfect teeth, erasing the suspicion that never quite materialized.
He takes my hand in his and says, “Not at all. Any friend of James is welcome in my humble home.” He leans a bit closer and inhales, as if I’m some sort of flower and he a proud gardener. “Ah, such youth. A new generation full of promise. Well done, James.” He pauses, then releases my hand at last.
He spares a curt nod for Xave before his attention shifts back to James. After all that charm and manners, I feel like protesting his rudeness toward my friend, but that would be a mistake. Those eyes need to shift their attention elsewhere. The quicker, the better.
“A nice new addition to your small circle of friends, James,” Elliot says. Then he turns to Blare. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Veronica, I will borrow your date for a few minutes. In the meantime, enjoy the party. My entire house is at your disposal.”
Elliot walks away, and in spite of my little performance, he leaves me feeling desolate. I take two ragged breaths, trying to pretend the world keeps on turning outside this nightmare.
“I’ll be right back,” James says. “Don’t go far.”
We stay behind, our body language screaming for James not to leave us.
Xave clears his throat. “Is that the monster James was talking about? What does he do? Kill you with ... charm?”
Blare spins around. “I need a drink,” she says, walking toward a large table laden with hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
“Me, too.” Xave turns and follows.
I stay planted like a sapling, weak and new to this cruel world. My forefinger throbs and it feels as if I’ve grown a second heart. I squeeze it with my other hand and feel the wetness. When I examine it, I discover thin streaks of blood decorating its full length and am reminded of a candy cane.
Wincing, I search the crowd for James and find him standing with Elliot, his back turned. Elliot looks past James and locks his gaze to mine. They’re talking about me. I know it. Suddenly, I want to hurt him, to rip that ridiculous thing off his neck and stuff it down his bloody throat. I never knew there was hatred at first sight, but there you have it.
Elliot gestures to a waiter, who brings over a tray with drinks. James takes one and brings it to his nose. He closes his eyes and smiles. After a few sips, they walk over to a painting on the wall and examine it. Bored and disgusted, I look away and go back to face-surfing. I study the crowd, wondering what all these people are doing here.
A blond man dances with a brunette.
She’s petite and curvaceous.
He is one of them.
One of me.
A middle-aged woman with cruel features leads a younger man toward the grand staircase. She looks delighted as they ascend.
He’s barely thirty and average looking.
She’s one of them.
One of me.
I shiver. Fear brews inside my ribcage, turning dark and viscous, like spent motor-oil. I think of my bedroom, nestled in whirring computer equipment and my father’s old books. There’s comfort there, safety. I look toward the entrance and imagine myself walking away, turning my back on IgNiTe and this place. I can go home to my sanctuary—the only place where I can be myself.
Be myself. Be myself. Be myself.
Looking at all these faces, the lie echoes louder than ever before. How can I be myself if I don’t know who—no, what—I am? No, I can’t run. I can’t hide from this no matter how terrifying. I have to know and, maybe then, I will be free.
Suddenly I notice James at my side. He’s saying something, but his words float away before I catch their meaning.
“Here, take this.” He hands me a handkerchief.
For an instant, I wonder about its purpose, then, cottoning on, I use it to clean the blood on my hands.
“Who’s that guy?” I ask.
“Elliot? A man with exquisite taste in Scotch and art, but terrible respect for others.”
What is that supposed to mean?
“C’mon,” he urges.
“Are we leaving?” My question is really a plea.
“No, Marci.” Sympathy flashes across his gaze but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “We haven’t done what we came here to do.”