I run my fingers along the leather waistband of her trousers. My dress may be eighty years old, but Elia has kept it impeccable. Aliz’s trousers, on the other hand, look lived in, with tears hastily sewn shut here and there. She hesitates before she texts me again.
It’s a surprise.
Before I can complain about the vagueness of her answer, she asks if I want her to do my hair. “Sure,” I say. I sit on my desk chair, and she slowly pleats my hair into a crown, leaving a few loose strands to frame my face. “Do I look decent?” I ask as she tilts my head.
“Like an angel,” she whispers, momentarily forgetting her self-imposed silence.
“I suppose the wings help.”
She kisses me, but I try to keep it chaste, pulling back before we can get carried away. I can’t let her find the weapons strapped to my thigh.
I will tell her.
Regardless of what happens tonight, once midnight passes, whether I am free or the blood contract becomes permanent, I will tell her all that I’ve kept from her. Even if it costs me everything, even if she never looks at me again, I will not tell her another lie. At least once, I want to hear her say my real name.
What are you thinking?
I stare at her text, then back at her, my throat dry. If I tell her the truth now, I will ruin everything. So, I say the one thing about myself that isn’t a lie.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
I cycle to the hunting lodge, bow bouncing between my wings as I cross the stone bridge. There are silver arrows stashed throughout the palace. It’ll be fairly straightforward. Shoot Gustavsson in the head, and then beg Aliz to share his heart with me. Bile burns my throat, and I lookup.
The moon looms full and bloated over the woods. It won’t look red until midnight, during the eclipse. The wind nips my shoulders and the gaps in my flowy sleeves. Hopefully Elia has found a way to heat up the palace, or I may freeze to death before midnight strikes.
Elia has decorated the surrounding trees with the same crimson fairy lights as the rest of the house, and I recall that first dream of the maze, a crow with bright red eyes pecking Aliz’s dying body.
The ball is already in full swing when I walk in, hallways crowded with vampires drinking from wineglasses. Just one misdemeanor will give me an excuse to kill.
To steal a heart.
The vampires around me turn to stare, and as I avoid their thirst-filled gazes, I realise I am somewhat underdressed. My skirt falls justabove the knee. The surrounding vampires are in floor-length gowns covered in ruffles, lace, and crystals. Some look like avant-garde dresses straight off a runway, while others are period pieces from a myriad of countries and centuries. And all, regardless of their cut or style, are dripping with opulence.
Elia promised she’d convinced Gustavsson to play in a string quartet, and as I glance towards the end of the ballroom, I see him. My heart hammers in my chest. Even though he’s one of four, I somehow hear his cello above the rest, the sound of it engraved in my ears. He doesn’t glance in my direction.
Unease bubbles in my stomach. I soon spot Stephan and Ife amongst the dancing couples, the vampire laughing, throwing her head back while her human boyfriend whispers something in her ear. Stephan is dressed as a scarecrow, hay sticking out from a patchwork suit, a straw hat hiding his thick brown hair.
Ife is in an ethereal black gown with a bodice constructed entirely out of feathers, which elongate as they cascade down into the skirt. Silver details are sprinkled throughout, lines are painted around her eyes, creating swirling shimmers. Her hair is in braids, pinned atop her head with a little piece of hay sticking out, linking her costume to Stephan’s.
I’ve never felt jealous of them until now, when I realise I’ll never have what they have. Even if I miraculously get rid of the mark, even if Aliz decided that her feelings for me are real, we would never be able to act like they do. She wouldn’t love me in public.
“How do I look?”
Beside me, in a nineteenth-century suit full of tears and loose threads, is Julia. Her skin is painted in a myriad of blues, greens, and purples. There are a few carefully placed lines cutting across her skin. Stitches, holding together the mismatched hues. And pulling it all together are two metal bolts, glued to her hair.
“Ghastly,” I say. “Are you Frankenstein’s monster?”
“The one and only,” Julia says with a grin. “Want to dance?”
“I’m not very good,” I warn her.
Julia laughs. “Me neither,” she says.
Her cool hand feels brittle in my own, so light it could snap if I hold it tight. She glances around, trying to figure out the steps of the dance. “I think it’s a waltz,” I say, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her closer.
