That’s it. I’m getting out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
* * *
Grace
I see him almost the minute we get to the Masquerade Soirée: a man in a dark, soft T-shirt and jeans, wearing the kind of ski mask he had on last night.
I don’t think he notices me at first, but it’s him. I know it. There’s something about the smooth, predatory way he walks around the space, always watching, always moving.
There’s something a little unnatural about me doing the stalking, but after a while I suspect that my undivided attention sounded some deep, instinctive, animal alarm, because he turns and stares right at me.
A full body shiver shakes me, from my borrowed carnival mask, over the T-shirt I’ve tucked into Max’s long, red tutu, to the toes of my sandal-clad feet.
His eyes narrow behind the mask, his body tenses. I feel a responding tautness in my own, count to three under my breath, and take off.
Between dancing bodies, under swaying cages, complete with human songbirds in nothing but paint, around benches that are too obscene for me to look at, through curtain after curtain after curtain, I race, my heart and body thrumming from the thrill of it.
I smack into someone. He steadies me. “Hey, there, Grace.”
It’s the tall guy from last night, I think. “Hi,” I have to yell to be heard over the booming music.
I look over my shoulder.
“It’s Zed.” He leans close, stares behind me, then back to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Another quick scan of the crowd. Oh. There! There he is, coming toward me, moving fast. “Gotta go.”
I take off, smack into a group of people watching something. I can’t look. I won’t look. Oh, shit. Needles. I spin away, knock into someone else, peek back and see Zed block my pursuer’s path in a way that looks fumbling and inept, but…
I narrow my eyes. Is he doing it on purpose?
My stalker throws an elbow at Zed and continues, his progress frightening and inevitable.
He’s gaining on me, which my body feels so keenly, I want to moan.
I swerve, push another curtain out of my way, and run into a bench.
Dead end.
I take two steps back the way I came and run smack into him.
“Hey.” His hands go to my shoulders. “Wanna play?” he yells above the music. His voice is not what I expected.
The hands on my shoulders are hot, a little clammy.
“Yeah.”
“Yes?”
“Yes!” I yell through the too-loud beat. I nod and give a smile that feels wooden and fake—the way I’d smile at a cop who’s busy scrawling out my speeding ticket.
“What do I call you?”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Should I give my name? “Rosebud,” I spit out in a rush of inspiration.
I think he smiles. I can’t tell with the mask. “Cute. I’m Blade.”
“Hi.”
