We turn the corner and stumble upon the old cemetery.
An iron gate made of angel wings sits propped open in the high stone wall, the bars rusted, the paint peeling. Most of the headstones are weathered and cracked, covered in ivy, the names having faded with time. We take a winding dirt trail toward the very center of the cemetery, where a stone cottage sits atop a hill. Its windows glow warmly from within; the party has already started. I spot that familiar symbol, the eye and the pentagram, that I noticed on my first day of work. It adorns the cottage roof and several of the nearby tombstones.
Waiting for us beneath the drooping branches of a leafless tree, Dorian stands dressed in a robe and holding his own Venetianmask in his gloved hand. He smiles when he sees us, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. I want them to bite me. He waves at us with his mask, one that will cover half his face in swirls of red and gold.
“The artist himself,” he says, making me blush.
“You like it?” I ask.
“It’s perfect.” Dorian’s eyes stay on me, lingering maybe a little too long.
Raven gives me a sidelong glance, then clears her throat. “Right,” she says, slipping her mask over her face and pulling up her hood. “Shall we?” Raven steps up to the door and knocks. A slat in the aging wood slides open, and a pair of dark eyes peer out.
“Speak the password,” says the person on the other side. We see only her lips, painted red and luscious.
Raven traces an X through the air as she says, “Omnes una manet nox.”
Sparks trail after her finger.
The slot slides closed and the door flies open, the music booming.
Inside, I’m overwhelmed with noise, both auditory and psychic. The party is staged inside a vast empty sepulcher. Marble busts line the walls, and a single floating chandelier flashes with multicolored lights. It’s the only source of illumination and turns the space into a dizzying whirl of rainbow and shadow. The room is packed, everyone gathering around a tall and intimidating figure, a man in a glittering jacket and black face mask. He yells something unintelligible into a microphone. The music thumps, surrounding me in sound, but there are no speakers in the room. Then I realize the busts that line the tomb are all singing, acting like magical speakers. With a wave of his hand, the figure in the glittering jacket controls the music, raising the volume.
Students float through the room, laughing and talking. Their emotions wash over me like a great ocean wave, and it makes my world spin. Raven and Dorian brighten visibly, their spirits lifted as they take in the scene. Everyone’s dancing. People cheer and holler, screaming for more as the bass booms.
I want to be happy. I really need to enjoy tonight. Everything has been so tense. Raven, the Rosette, work, Dorian, desire. I need to dance, and drink, and forget. But I can’t.
I’m starting to regret ever coming to the party. I didn’t think it’d be this bad. The heightened emotion of the room is nauseating. There’s too many things happening at once, too many voices, too many feelings. I squeeze my eyes shut and think about the digits of pi:three-point-one-four-one-five-nine…
I want my thoughts to be my own, but my internal voice is pushed out by someone wondering if there’s Elysian mead in the punch bowl. I gather it’s some sort of drink brewed magically, but the voice vanishes before I can hear the rest, replaced by some girl wondering if she’s going to get lucky tonight.
Half a dozen voices hit me at the same time:I…bathroom—beautiful night—sweating so much in this mask—oh my God, he’s so funny!…Who’s that golden god, is he in Sorcery 101? No, I think he works here. At Old Bones. Always wears gloves.
“Raven!” A voice cuts through the cacophony, and a guy—Aspen, I assume—appears at Raven’s side, beaming, with a red, possibly Venetian, mask in hand. He lights up, literally—his aura glows when he sees her. Raven’s right, he’s like a Labrador as a person. “You made it,” he says, yelling over the music, which has, once again, increased in volume.
Raven doffs her mask, but when she smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Aspen! These are my friends Dorian and Atticus.”
Aspen shakes Dorian’s gloved hand, but I only manage towave. I’d remove my mask, but my hands are shaking too much, and I worry I’d drop it. I’m a mess. My stomach is tied in knots, and there’s a tense feeling climbing up my throat. I’m going to puke. I know it. My chest tightens, stomach convulsing.
“It’s nice meeting you guys,” Aspen says to Dorian and me, then turns to Raven and extends an elbow. “Come on. I want to introduce you to some people.”
Raven offers us a fleeting look, but I manage to give her a thumbs-up. Donning her mask again, she lets Aspen escort her deeper into the party.
“You look amazing,” I hear Aspen say to her, his voice fading into the music.
“He seems nice,” says Dorian flatly, but I’m not really paying attention.
I spin around, searching for somewhere quiet. I don’t even bother to tell Dorian where I’m going. I stumble into the kitchen, but it’s worse in there. They’re doing some kind of drinking game with magic, levitating shots of vodka and dropping them into people’s mouths. The voices in my head are drunk and loud. I wave my hand through the air, trying to bat them away, but I can’t. I find a stairway and rush up the steps, scaling them two at a time. I stumble down the upstairs hall, searching. For what I don’t know. I can’t breathe. This mask is suffocating me. The voices threaten to drown me in the cacophony.
At the end of the hall, I find an empty room. I throw the door open, whip off the mask, and take a deep, relieved breath. No more voices, no more images.
It’s quieter here, and I feel like myself again.
“Finch?”
I turn to see Dorian peeking into the room, his brow knitted with concern. He’s taken off his mask and lowered his hood.
“You all right?” he asks. “You rushed off.”
