by J. I. Radke
Such was a masquerade ball thrown by the Dietrich family.
Cain knew it all back and forth, in and out. It was as familiar in detail as the back of his hand—and equally unmoving.
He made his welcome speech to a hall full of vivacious supporters. He danced thrice with Emily and sipped idly at a glass of Mariani wine as he suffered through attempted conversations left and right. Aunt Ophelia snatched him aside and waited while he reluctantly changed into costume, bemoaning the entire way. It was definitely a political statement, to put it kindly—a fine slate-gray suit with the bones of a skeleton painted down the front of it so that he looked like some sort of macabre clown playing Death. There was a sloppy stitching of the Ruslaniv crest upside down on the right lapel, and a scarlet fur-lined cloak with a nice little hood. It was quite blatant mockery, a jab at the hated family, and the crowd would love it, surely.
“Sit still, now!” Aunt Ophelia cooed as her dress man, Ulrich, painted Cain’s face like a skull to match the costume, and Cain felt a little knot of tired pride.
He was only dressing up for Aunt Ophelia. She was far more excited about it than he was. She called it, theatrically, “the Death of the Ruslanivs.” Ridicule or not, Cain couldn’t have cared less. Full costume had never appealed to him. He was the Earl, for Christ’s sake. But he found comfort in the hope that maybe the costume would keep him hidden in the crowd, even in its shining political glory.
To an extent it worked, and he was immensely relieved.
The unveiling of the costume came with Aunt Ophelia’s hollering and wild laughter, and after the initial shock of the disrespectful costume, it dawned on the crowd like a ripple in water that it was him, their earl, wandering around and mocking those damn Ruslanivs in the lovely defamatory getup.
“Everyone, please welcome the Death of the Ruslanivs!”
“Look at that!”
“How delicious!”
“Only our earl would extend himself so far—”
“Take that, Ruslaniv dogs!”
But their whispering and laughter and wonderment from afar became enough for them, and Cain was so grateful to avoid conversation, with a wry little smile under his mask and hood.
Once the concerto started up, he sent Emily off to mingle with other young ladies jealous of her high standing, and the moment she left his side, the colors and voices and racket swarmed unapologetically around him. The commotion threatened to swallow him.
There was no escape from this sea of colorful garments and masked faces, cresting and crashing through the yawning ballroom to the moans of the cello and the prancing of other strings. Dancing, dancing, like the creatures of the fairy world painted on the wall over there. Glorious fashion, velvet and silk, delicate lace, masks, and jewels. The liveried waitstaff glided through with silver trays of wine and bubbly, biscuits and ices and other tasty things, their powdered hair like their sails as they drifted through, ships on tumultuous waves.
Cain just wanted to get this over with and retreat to his room, scrub off the greasepaint, fall into bed, and sleep.
But even that would not be easy, because the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind would probably refuse to rest and consume him with business concerns and vital items of contemplation—
There, shifting through the crowd, subtle, but not quite subtle enough—an obvious glance in his direction from behind the black mask he’d noticed earlier.
The eerie black mask, which stood out to him in this mass of eerie masks and clowns and monsters, painted faces, tributes to the spooky. The black mask that was simple but effective and looked like a raven.
Cain met the eyes behind the mask and startled to find them staring right back—in fact holding his for a distinct moment—before the mask disappeared into the crowd and was lost again in the sea of faces.
“My lord—”
Cain looked over. Butler’s uniform clean and crisp, Dietrich crest flashing in the light, Weston stepped closer and leaned to speak into Cain’s ear, confidential as always.
“Those on guard tonight have sent me with an update of security,” he said, voice like the last dry leaf rattling on a tree in winter. “They’ve located a rather rambunctious group. They send their promises to keep a close watch on these persons and will send periodic updates should anything urgent or significant arise.”
Cain scoffed wearily. He crossed his arms. “There’s always something, no matter what the hell’s going on. That’s just the way it is. Tell Security ‘Very well, then, but don’t slack on the rest of your duties for some simple delinquency.’ Thank you, Weston.”
He left Weston and followed the wall to the other side of the ballroom, where all the multipaned doors stood open upon the courtyard. The night air beckoned him, refreshing and cool, and he dropped his hood and pulled his half mask off as he stepped out onto the stone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
It was much better out here, under the moon and the lights strung up along the balconies and eaves of the manor. People out here were not really dancing, but talking, lingering, getting fresh air and sipping their drinks, and Cain didn’t mind that. The overwhelming bustle, the socializing—that was inside. Outside, it was not as constricting. Nobody would bother him. Nobody would care apart from the comments from a distance on his costume—
There, again.
The black mask with the feathers and the chains, the sharp nose, and little skulls at the temple.
Before he really deemed the idea fit or not, Cain dipped into the thin crowd outside, skirting guests and waitstaff. His eyes cut over someone’s shoulder and met those behind the black mask directly. Again he was shocked to find them looking right back. He blushed, embarrassed by such brazen eye contact. He averted his glance immediately, continuing on his way to the other side of the patio as if that had been his intention in the first place.
But there was heat on the back of his neck, obvious and heavy, and he glanced over his shoulder as he strolled to a stop below some overhanging shrubbery.
Yes, once more.
The man in the black mask met his eyes briefly and then vanished into the crowd again.
A smile twitched at Cain’s mouth, amused. So the fellow wanted to play that game, did he?
He brushed past a woman in purple silk, slipped between her and a man in a gray suit, and his smile broadened as he used his admittedly smaller stature to his advantage. He slithered through the crowd between the shoulders of others, scanning faces and glancing to and fro, and—
Yes, the black mask.
This close, he saw just how young the man wearing it was. Why, maybe not even that much older than Cain himself. And then he was gone again, and Cain came to a stumbling halt as a woman who smelled a little too strongly of brandy touched his arm and cried out, “O Death, where is your sting? O Grave, where is your victory?” Her laughter was drunken and shrill, and over her shoulder was the sprawling shadow of the manor, above it the star-studded sky.
Who was the man in the black mask? More importantly, who did he think he was, playing games with Cain? Even more importantly, why did it make Cain’s heart thump so to play right back?
Cain could see his breath as he realized the stumbling woman was still talking to him, going on and on about his getup, but he didn’t know what to say, so he just shook loose and brushed past her. He escaped by turning past one of the hired hands with a silver tray of turkish delight. As he sidestepped back-to-back with the waiter, he looked up and met the eyes of the young man in the black mask, and his heart gave a thrilled jump.
Everyone was dancing—and obviously so were they, in their own way, Cain and this stranger. The stranger hovered just a few inches away, standing at the back of some burly man in red, and beneath the chained bottom of his mask, the young man’s mouth turned up in a most curious smile.
“The Death of the Ruslanivs, is it?” he whispered, just loud enough for Cain to hear, referencing Aunt Ophelia’s introduction in a strange manner. It wasn’t overexcited lik
e everyone else, tickled by the satire. It was soft and thoughtful, with narrowed eyes. “It’s an honor….”
Cain straightened with a little glimmer of pride, a gentle smirk tugging at his mouth as he waited for the guest to bow—but he didn’t, and Cain’s smirk faltered. Disrespectful bastard. Oh, right, perhaps the man still didn’t realize it was him. Or perhaps he meant it was an honor to be meeting “the Death of the Ruslanivs.”
“It’s an honor more than you’ll ever know again in your lifetime,” Cain retorted coldly, and strode back into the crowd.
He didn’t make it far. The young man in the mask slipped into his periphery again. Somewhere to Cain’s left, a lady gasped, and before he could take another step, the man in the black mask waltzed right past him with the gasping woman in his arms.
He found Cain’s eyes and smiled as if to say, Your move.
As the young man circled by, he purred, with a voice like burnt silk, “Oh, I think I understand the importance of this moment in my life. Very much so.”
“What—?” Incensed, but in a good way, Cain followed as the man in the black mask waltzed away. The young woman taken as dancing hostage glanced between them, lost, and as a waiter came through, the young masked man twirled the lady out of his arms and released her into the crowd again, offering a slight bow as Cain stumbled to a sharp stop before him.
Cain didn’t even notice his own smile as the young man looked up at him through the mask without lifting his head, which was something Cain found unbearably attractive. So casual, so indifferent, so cool and confident—
But Cain wasn’t satisfied yet. “The import in meeting me face-to-face?” he spat, hoping to clarify in this game of quick words and wit.
Another waiter passed and Cain followed him around at the coattails until he stood behind the man in the mask, still bowing as he was. Ah, didn’t the man know never to leave his back unguarded?
“Why…. Yes.” The young masked man stood, casting Cain a heavy glance over his shoulder.
Cain’s gaze roamed him head to toe, appraising: the modest black broadcloth with the blue lily-of-the-Nile stuck in the pocket—Dietrich blue—the brocade waistcoat of perfect gold, the chain of a pocket watch and the loose linen shirt with the top few buttons unfastened. The man was handsome, dangerously handsome, like men were before life destroyed them, and he showed the sideways glances of a clever mind and a slight shadow to his dimpled, saintly smiles. He finger combed his fine, dirty-blond hair out of his face, and it broke into almost curls just behind the ears.
“Oh, did you want to dance?” Cain smirked, pleased by his own scathing humor. “Let me guess, your favorite author is Oscar Wilde.”
The man in the black mask laughed. It was a confident laugh, a charming laugh, a dry, rustling laugh that was totally unaffected by Cain’s curt jab. A laugh that said, Ah, you’ve caught me, but two can play at that game.
Cain took the opportunity to move back into the crowd, gaze lingering on the laughing stranger, shoulders tense. Who was this fellow anyway? A Dietrich supporter, obviously, or the son of a Dietrich patron. God, but why did the laughter catch him up so? Why was he wasting his time with this fool in the first place? Briefly he considered having the young man thrown out, just out of giddy spite, but the ball would be unbearable again if he did that. The rest of the masquerade threatened to destroy his sanity tonight, and sometimes it was nice just to bicker and banter with strangers who could hold their own—
Cain snatched a glass of port from a passing waiter and threw it back in one hasty swallow. And as his vision leveled again, of course, there he was, quick and efficient as a ghost. That cocky stranger, smiling at him from behind the elegant black mask as he danced by with yet another unsuspecting lady.
Cain scoffed. He was not about to be trumped. He turned, shoving his empty glass into the hands of some gentleman behind him and taking the hand of the woman at his side. The man sputtered at first, angry, but he seemed to get over it quickly, smoking a fat cigar and cradling a large tumbler of brandy.
Cain led the lady with far from a patient step, scanning the faces around them intently until finally catching sight of the feathered mask and curious smile once more over the woman’s bare shoulder, near the bushes. Cain turned, drifting closer to the young man’s side until their elbows brushed.
“Is playing this game of cat and mouse really more entertaining than the offered festivities?” Cain demanded under his breath. The nighttime air fell to voices and commotion as the music from the vestibule came to an end and the dancing stopped until the next piece was struck up. The woman Cain had stolen smiled and gave a warm glance before moving off to find her date again, and the young man in the black mask motioned his own dance partner off elsewhere. She gave a little curtsey before hurrying off toward a group of girls, waiting on the other side of the patio with faces just as pink as hers.
Cain cast the masked man a cold and calculating eye. The masked man peered back, still smirking in that sly and disarming way.
“Forgive me,” the masked man confessed below the buzz of the crowd, “I’m just honored to have the Death of the Ruslanivs playing with me.”
Cain looked away with a little huff, stunned by the shy jump of his own heart. He’d had probably a little too much to drink already, enough to loosen his usually oh-so-tight nerves. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed, but the truth was, if he really didn’t want to waste his time on this fellow, he would have moved away already.
“It’s someone else’s satire, isn’t it?” the young man observed.
Cain bristled. “It’s my costume, isn’t it?” he fired back.
“But you’re not wearing it,” the masked man murmured. “It’s wearing you.”
Cain shrugged and shook his head, slowly, and limply, clamming up at how easily the man could see through him. “I’m not really one for lampooning and parodying. Poking fun, sure. But this kind of mockery is a waste of hatred and I have to wear the ugly Ruslaniv crest too. No, I’m more prone to direct and rather undiluted hostility.”
The masked man smirked faintly, regarding Cain with hooded eyes. He didn’t say anything, but something seemed to pass between them then, unspoken and intimate, in the vicinity of sweet nothings.
Cain ducked away under a lamp-strung tree, letting the shadows of the parterre swallow him. A maze of rose bushes and carefully trimmed trees, a hallway of leaves and petals, which through delicate branches filtered in the lights and sounds of the courtyard. There was a safety there, among the walls of the garden, a safety for secrets, and when Cain peeked over his shoulder and saw the blond man in the black mask was indeed tailing him yet, he couldn’t repress a guilty grin.
“Either you’re an assassin sent to take care of me….” Cain whispered, stopping with his back to a large and full corner of shrubbery, which hung over the stone path like a roof woven of vines and twigs. He offered the masked man an admittedly daring stare. “Or you and I share a similar idea of fun.”
A shadow seemed to pass through the masked man’s eyes then, some fast and sudden thought like he’d been hoping for the very words Cain had spoken or he hadn’t expected them at all. It distracted him for a moment, though it did not take the smile from his face.
“But what if I’m both?” the masked man suggested gently.
“Then I suppose I’d just have to hope the fun you have with me convinces you to give up arms,” Cain countered, meaning to sound quite more threatening than he did as the young masked man caged him in against the bushes and caught his mouth in a masterfully stolen kiss.
It really was a wonder how many gentlemen one could find who leaned that way on a regular basis.
There was no way the stranger was a hit man, but as surely as always there was the constant possibility, a dance with the devil that Cain danced quite eagerly. He couldn’t help it. Something about living in the womb of danger and thrill was just an intrinsic part of him—not to mention that in moments such as the present, it was an absolute tu
rn-on.
Sparks of lust clustered at the base of Cain’s spine. In the dark of the garden, they kissed—in a soft and passionate way at first—and Cain shuddered when the blond man’s tongue darted out across his lower lip. He could feel himself giving way to the cupid’s dart. He wanted the blond man, badly. And he didn’t even know his first name yet. Whatever, it didn’t matter, this was how boys kissed. Boys and men. Rough and raw and aggressive, and the blond man’s hands tore at his clothes as their kisses deepened, not to rip them off, but to feel every angle and curve beneath the velvet and brocade. It was a bracing sort of anxiety, colliding in the dark like this, a stimulating sense of the illicit. The greedy graze of teeth left Cain’s mouth feeling bruised. There was something liberating about it too, like screaming at somebody or throwing something across the room.
Imagine, if the night just went well for once! Uneventful, free of care… No one to stop him from having a little fun the way he wanted it, not even the newly invasive presence of his cousin and fiancée. Oh, but it wasn’t Emily’s fault. He was an awful, awful man to be doing this behind her back. But no, it wasn’t behind her back. It was not like he did this with her, anyway.
The young blond man’s eyes gave him the chills. With half his face hidden by that mask, his gaze was more intense. All right, so maybe the man wasn’t a complete nuisance. His kisses sure as hell weren’t. Maybe he was just as unmoved as Cain—by the ball, by the world, by responsibility, and paperwork, and the stars overhead. Maybe it was something to be said that he’d managed to keep Cain entertained for the last quarter of an hour or so. Not that Cain could afford friends or really even wanted to, but perhaps tonight was one of the nights he would let his guard down low enough to enjoy himself. He’d toss back another drink or two and show the masked man around the upper wings of the manor. And after some more witty back-and-forth, flirty as it was, the sexual tension would just snap and Cain could snatch off that black mask and let curious hands crawl into his trousers—look, the man had perfect hands, wide but slim in an elegant way. Tragic how difficult it was to get the head of the Dietrich household alone in a world where two families warred one against the other and no one was safe.
