As with Oliver, the war and its aftermath set something free in Tor, something good. While others’ scars stayed tender, laced with guilt and haunting them until the end of their days, Tor’s cleansed him. He was able to finally fight for something, for himself, and for those who loved him, something he’d turned his back on before. But the war allowed him a clean slate, enabled him to eventually put away his regrets and pay his penance. I was unsure of him at first, so still and aloof on the outside, yet with a roiling wildness just underneath the skin. Yet I grew to love his subtle kindness, his fierceness tempered with an innate gentleness.

—Cindra, Letter to Omega

“Grace!” I shouted, my voice lost in the pounding music and delighted moans. As I raced toward her, a couple fell across my path, the man’s pants around his ankles as he rode between the woman’s thighs. She grabbed at me as I strode past them, my feet tangling in the hem of the dress that pooled over her shoulder.

“No, thank you,” I said tartly. The woman didn’t seem to care, moaning deeply and grabbing the man’s hair as she came.

I tapped the closest man on the shoulder. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Here’s another one, boys,” he said, rubbing his hands together with delight.

I ignored him. “Grace, it’s me, Ailith.” At the sound of my voice, she let out a loud sob. “Come over to me, Grace. Don’t worry about them.” Her dress was torn at the shoulder, but she seemed unhurt.

“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the men asked her as she scrambled to her feet. He grabbed her upper arm.

“Let me go,” she blurted. “Get your hands off me.”

“What’s wrong? We’re having a party, sweetling. Don’t you want to celebrate? I can show you a good time.” He gyrated his hips suggestively.

“Grace, come here,” I repeated. “Ignore him.”

She did as I said, wrenching her arm away and sprinting past the other three men.

“Now then,” the man said to me. “If you’re going to spoil our fun, you’re going to have to take her place.”

I felt, rather than saw, Cindra and Pax materialize at my back. “That’s not going to happen,” I replied. “Grace, are you all right?”

Grace was not all right. She was frightened. And pissed off. “I’ll rip your dick off,” she shrieked, emboldened by the three cyborgs at her back. She flew toward the man who’d grabbed her, her fingernails clawing for the eyes of his mask. He raised his hands to block her, but she was too quick, and, with a sharp tug, yanked his mask off. It was his turned to be shocked. The face that stared back at us was…so normal. Sandy hair, just a hint of a mustache, and pale brown eyes that darted around the room in a panic.

The music stopped. Even the cacophony of moans switched off, as though someone had hit the mute button. The man dropped to his knees. “No, no. Please, no.” The crowd advanced on us, forming a circle around the prostrate man.

“No one is to remove their mask,” a voice boomed out over the silent crowd. “No one is ever to remove their mask.”

The man pressed his forehead to the floor as he continued to grovel. “Please, it wasn’t my fault—”

“Step back,” I murmured to Grace, and the four of us melted into the crowd. I gripped Grace’s hand until it became stuck to mine with nervous sweat.

The crowd parted, and a man dressed all in white strode through to stand over the cowering figure. “You know what the penalty is for removing your mask.”

That voice. William.

Besides the waiters, he was the only one in the room not wearing a mask, though a metal band encircled his neck. His face was bare, a narrow, pale oval that made his eyes seem too large. His dark blond hair had been raggedly cut, accentuating his pointed chin and full, almost feminine mouth. He looked like a painting of an angel who’d fallen down a hole to Hell.

“Get up,” he demanded.

The man whimpered into the jade-tiled floor.

William sighed. He leaned over and grabbed the man by the hair then jerked his head back and forced him onto his heels. The man hung limply in William’s hands, his head lolling against his chest as sobs wracked his body. The crowd wailed.

As the crowd’s howls climbed in pitch, William leaned over and spoke into the man’s ear, just loud enough for me to hear. “Please. Don’t make this any worse for me. You know how much I hate this.” The man sniffled. “You know you’ll come back.” The man took a deep breath and nodded once in acquiescence.

William straightened and addressed the crowd. “Those who remove their masks must pay the price.” The throng of partygoers, some of whom were only partially dressed, began to keen, a high-pitched howl that sent chills up my spine. A long, pale-bladed dagger materialized in William’s right hand, and he drew his arm back.

“It’s better this way,” he muttered. “You know what happens at the end.” He thrust his arm forward, piercing the man’s chest with the dagger as the mob screeched. The pointed tip emerged from the man’s back, his blood beading on the polished blade. He gasped and looked up at William, a slight smile curling his lips. William twisted the blade and drove it in further.

The man slumped over the hilt, and the crowd rushed forward, swarming around William and the dead man, obscuring them. The ebony clock chimed, and a classical melody rose from the strings of the orchestra. The now silent, orange-clad mob stepped back, and William raised his hands.

“Please, enjoy the evening. Feast, dance…whatever. For as you know, death comes to us all,” he intoned as though by rote, rolling his eyes. As his voice carried through the room, the revelers paired off, circling across the floor in a somber waltz. He turned, disappearing into the crowd. The man’s body was gone, leaving no trace that he’d ever existed.

“William!” I called after him. “William!” But he’d disappeared, lost in the swirling autumn hues. I turned back to the others. “I think that was William.”

“I don’t think he’s the ally we’re looking for, Ailith. Not after what he just did,” Cindra said.

The way he’d spoken to the man before he’d killed him. “I’m not so sure,” I replied. “There’s more going on here than we understand.” But even so, it was a mistake to come here. My mistake.

Grace stood with her fist stuffed into her mouth under her mask. Exaggerated purple bags hung from the eyes of her disguise, and her peach dress was almost matronly. She backed away from us, shaking her head, and into a small orangewood table holding an amber-crystal vase of torch lilies. The vase wobbled then fell, toppling over the edge of the table and into the hands of a stranger whose mask wore a crooked grimace of stained yellow teeth.

Grace’s shriek was drowned out by the orchestra, and she crouched to the ground, holding her head. The stranger deftly balanced the vase back on the table and held up both hands.

“It’s okay. It’s me, Oliver. I saw the commotion and figured if there was any trouble, you lot had to be at the center of it.”

Cindra nearly knocked the lilies over again as she rushed into his arms. “Oliver, I-I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice broke.

“Well, this is a bit of a shitshow, isn’t it? I mean, even for us. Do any of you know what the hell’s going on?” He narrowed his eyes at Pax and me. “Who’s that? Ailith? And I’d recognize Pax’s beanpole body anywhere.” We nodded, our oversized heads bobbing grotesquely.

“And that’s Grace.” I pointed to the floor where Grace still sat. She’d calmed down a bit once she’d realized it was Oliver, but she still wasn’t ready to stand.

“So no ideas?” he asked again. “Have we just fallen down the rabbit hole? And what the hell happened to that guy?”

“I think the man in white was William,” I replied. “But I have no idea what the rest of it—”

“I think I know,” Cindra interrupted. I couldn’t see her face, but she sounded choked, like she was going to throw up. “ The Masque of the Red Death.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Oliver sounded as confused as I was.

“The Masque of the Red Death,” Cindra repeated. “By Edgar Allan Poe.”

Oliver shook his head. “No idea? Ailith? Pax?”

“Nope.”

Cindra sighed loudly. “I know it’s an old book, but you all should really start reading.”

“Cindra, if we make it out of here alive, I promise you, I’ll read everything you put in my hands. But right now, just tell us what the hell you think is going on. Because anything called Masque of the Red Death can’t be good.”

“The story was first published in 1842—” she began.

“Cindra, I love how much you love stories, but please, give us the short version. No themes, no symbolism…just tells us the bad news,” Oliver chided her.

“Sorry. Okay, so basically, in the Masque of The Red Death, the people are sealed away at a party with seven rooms, each one a different color: blue, purple, green, orange, white, violet, and black. The colors are thought to symbolize the different stages of life. For example—”

“Cindra,” Oliver reminded her.

“Sorry,” she said again. “We’re now in the orange room. That means there are only two rooms left until the black room.”

“What happens in the black room?” I asked. “Or can I guess?”

“You can probably guess. The Red Death appears in the black room as a blood-soaked specter that slaughters every single guest.”

We were silent. Refined laughter drifted from the dance floor.

“So when this room turns black, we’re all going to die?” Oliver asked.

Grace wailed from her spot on the floor.

“Well, that’s how the story plays out in Poe’s work,” Cindra replied.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Oliver said and began to lift the edge of his mask.

“Oliver, don’t!” I shrieked and leaped over Grace to tug the mask back over his chin. “You saw what happened.”

“Fuck,” he said again, his voice shaky.

Cindra squeezed his hand. “I know we’re more resilient than most, love, but let’s try to come up with a better plan.”

“We need to find Fane. Oliver, have you seen him?”

“No,” he replied. “Which is odd. I would’ve expected him to search for you.”

“We need to find Fane first then we need a plan. Cindra? How many more rooms are there before the black room again?”

“Two,” she said. “White and vio—”

The black clock struck again, and the responding ripple turned the room into a winter wonderland.

“One,” Cindra said. “One more room before the Red Death.”