The line moves, and I don my half Leviathan mask. Ushers take the Ninja before I’m escorted inside, where mosaic floors and walls painted in breathtaking frescoes greet me. The artistry is charmingyet haunting: fallen angels weeping into their hands; demons looming over mortals cowering in fear. Many pieces are incomplete. As if whoever started them died before they could finish.
I’m led through the maze of corridors with the other masked guests to a grand courtyard open to the night. A string quartet plays Bach from a shadowy corner. Tables carved into the shape of crescent moons line the walls, set for a feast that could feed an entire army. Snatching a sparkling drink from a passing tray, I pace the perimeter and scan the crowd for any familiar faces.
I lock gazes with a woman in a black, crushed velvet gown whose wild cinnamon curls and big blue eyes I instantly recognize.
What the fuck is Quinn doing here?
“Poppy?” She approaches with a bemused smile. “I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“Touché.”
“Oh, Christ, this probably looks like it’s something it isn’t. I got an invitation when Shane was still…” She clears her throat, her lashes glistening. “I wasn’t going to come, but then Brontë left work sick, and I figured instead of wasting this one chance, I’d see if maybe Shane would be here.”
Too many questions war for my tongue. The first is: “Brontë is sick?”
“Anyone would be after mixing coffee with pizza.”
My nose scrunches. “Gross.”
“No kidding.”
Not willing to lower my guard, I check my phone. “Ah, he did try calling. Along with texting me your number. You called, too…?”
“We were talking boys.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I haven’t seen Shane. Have you?”
“Nope.” Technically, it’s not a lie.
Quinn nods, sipping her drink and casting her attention to the sea of masked guests around us. “Maybe he’s running late.”
“Sure, possibly.”
I crane my neck to watch the people funneling in. There’s hundreds in attendance. All filthy rich, judging by the couture and gold and general posturing as if someone shoved sticks up their asses.
An itch forms beneath my skin the longer I study the guests. Many know each other, exchanging hugs and familiar smiles. Which is a worrisome level of odd, considering Leviathan’s members are blind to one another’s identities. These people seem more like those you’d see at a church or community event.
Followers, perhaps?If so, how is that possible? Leviathan is a ghost.
I peer at a nearby trio of women huddled closely, sniggering amongst themselves, and I swear on every star in the cosmos I see fangs flashing—
A tall figure slinks through the courtyard, derailing my thoughts. Broad shoulders, generous muscles, dark hair. For a moment, I imagine Brontë beneath the mask.
But then I see his eyes, and my own widen.
They’re mismatched: the right is pale ivy, the other white as death. Four brutal scars slash from his left temple to the edge of his opposite cheek. They look like they were made by an animal. Something big and pissed.
Whoever he is, he easily spies me gawking. He recognizes me instantly, jerking forward. Silver metal flickers in his hand.
I reach for my gun.
Then he sees someone behind me and freezes mid-step.
Quinn suddenly latches onto my arm, startling me. “I think I see Shane! Come on. This way.”
Too shellshocked, I let her drag me through the crowd. We stumble past the strange man. A musk of citrus and cigarette smoke clings to him like a shadow. My elbow grazes his knuckles as Quinn tows me behind her.
That’s when I see it: the lighter clenched in his fist.
Whoever they are, they’re a smoker.