by RJ Blain
I didn’t have that. I doubted I ever would.
Once a rogue, always a rogue.
I closed my eyes. Why would they give me a mask that could tame my nature and hold my instincts at bay?
I shivered.
“Don’t like the dark?” the Wicked Witch of the West cooed.
“I’m surprised nothing’s jumped out at us yet,” I replied.
“Don’t worry. The frights won’t happen until the lights come back on.” I felt Mrs. Livingston draw closer. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and said, “I helped set it up.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Just wait until later. We’ve barely begun.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a refreshment table, is there?” Vodka probably wouldn’t impress Mark’s dear mother, but I’d take anything to help dull the edge of my nervousness. I kept smiling. I suspected I’d keep on smiling until my face hurt and my expression froze into place. “Water would be fine.”
“Oh, child. We can do much better than that.” The witch cackled. She led me to a secluded corner of the room. A table surrounded by candelabras waited, covered in wineglasses and cocktail shooters. “Come, then. I guess Mark doesn’t talk about the family much, does he?”
“Some,” I said.
“Oh?”
“His birth mother died when he was little.”
“He actually told you that?
I blinked at the surprise in the old woman’s voice. “Well, yes. I think he said he was five or six? Kindred spirits, I guess. I never knew my mother.”
“Oh, child. I’m sorry. I guess you would understand him a little, then.”
“He doesn’t talk a lot about his family,” I admitted.
Neither did I, but unless the witch asked, I wasn’t going to give her my life story. Not when I couldn’t guess which one of us was older at a glance.
“He doesn’t. Did he tell you anything about his mother?”
Maybe it was due to the mask, maybe it was due to the sad tone of her voice, but I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Chocolate chip cookies.”
“What?”
“She made him chocolate chip cookies.”
The Wicked Witch of the West picked up one of the glasses of wine, handed it to me, then took one for herself. I sniffed at the red liquid, which looked a little too much like blood for my comfort. It tasted cloyingly sweet.
A woman in a red gown glided to the table, edging away from Mrs. Livingston in the same cautious fashion of someone escaping the striking range of a hissing cobra.
“Caroline, I’m so pleased you could make it,” the Wicked Witch of the West crooned.
I’m not sure which one of us shuddered harder. Mrs. Livingston stared at the front of the girl’s dress. Pale sequins forming a W across her chest gleamed in the firelight. I fluttered my fan so I could catch the young woman’s scent. Relief left me weak in my knees.
Caroline didn’t smell like a werewolf, at least. Another witch? It made the exquisite mask make much more sense. With so many real witches around, it would ensure there weren’t any unfortunate mistakes. An old memory tried to resurface, but I quelled it. Witches and wolves were fire and gasoline far too often, and any one of them could’ve been the Inquisition’s slave.
If I had known helping Mark would involve the risk of burning at the stake by the self-called protectors of humanity, I would’ve already been on a flight back to Atlanta. If I didn’t pass muster with Mrs. Livingston, I’d be in a lot of trouble.
“What is your costume, Caroline?”
“Scarlet letter,” the girl mumbled, chugging down the contents of her glass and grabbing another.
I sipped at mine, struggling to keep my expression neutral. Caroline was wise to fear Mrs. Livingston, and with each passing second, I wanted to join the woman in drinking as much as possible to take off the edge of my growing anxiety.
The old witch sniffed. “How fitting.”
Caroline fled.
“I’m surprised he told you about the cookies,” Mrs. Livingston said, staring at Caroline’s back.
I blinked, jerking my head in the old woman’s direction. “Why?”
“I was certain he had gone and recruited some girl to get out of his upcoming engagement. That clever, clever boy.”
I was going to need a lot more than one glass of wine to deal with this conversation. I took a sip to buy myself some time. It wouldn’t help my ruse if I knew about Mark’s betrothal. I forced my eyes to widen. “What engagement?”
The Wicked Witch of the West’s gaze snapped to my face.
I took another sip of wine, hoping my smile didn’t show. When she didn’t answer, I moved my shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. “It is something he would do, I have to admit.”
“Yes, it is. You’re after his wealth, aren’t you?”
I choked back a laugh. “I don’t need Mark’s money. I didn’t even know I was going to meet you until I arrived in the city.”
The darkness hid the old woman’s expression. “Is that so. . .”
“It is. Ah, hell. Samantha’s going to kill me if she gets another call today about me,” I muttered. While I was dressed for a gala at the Plaza, that wouldn’t stop me from getting kicked out if I caused too much trouble.
“Samantha?”
I didn’t snort. I wanted to, but I didn’t. There was no way I was telling her about my finances, Mark’s mother or not. I’d become the prey she believed her son was. “She’s my assistant whenever I’m in New York.”
Anger and suspicion burned in the witch’s eyes. “What does a freelance accountant need with an assistant when in New York?”
I took another sip of my wine without looking away from the old woman’s face. Women, wolves, witches, and the wealthy had a tendency to share one important belief: The one who looked away first was the weakest.
We locked gazes until the old woman inclined her head. I matched her gesture, and we both averted our eyes at the same time. As Mark’s girlfriend, I had to have the strength to stand up to the wealthy. I had to stand on my own two feet. I had to make her believe I was nothing more than a girl Mark fancied.
So long as she never guessed I was a wolf, I would live to see the dawn. To do that, I had to make her believe I was a serious contender for Mark’s hand in marriage.
Faking a wince, I gestured at my gown. “I have the fashion sense of a blind, three-toed tree sloth. Without her help, I’d still be shopping, and my clothes would clash.”
“Mark may have mentioned your normal attire.”
I finished off my glass, placing it back on the table. Count Dracula materialized from the shadows, whisking it away. I waited for the man to depart. “What can I say, Mrs. Livingston? Tonight is a night of masks.”
Maybe it was because of the wine, or maybe I was tired of being pushed around, but I smiled and met her gaze again. “Even a girl like me enjoys playing Cinderella every now and then. If I wanted your son’s money, I wouldn’t date him for it. There’s something called a prenuptial, ma’am, and I won’t marry anyone without one.”
“And what do you have that my son might possibly want?”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with him,” I replied, eying the neat rows of half-filled wine glasses.
If I got drunk enough, maybe I’d be incapable of a transformation, fancy witch-worked mask or not. The Wicked Witch of the West tested my patience in a way no other woman had in at least fifty years.
Maybe instead of gold, rubies, and diamonds, I should have worn enough silver to knock myself into a stupor.
“You have a lot more backbone than I thought you would, Cinderella.”
“Just wait ‘til midnight,” I muttered, reaching for another glass of wine. The lights turned on. White flashes danced in front of my eyes. “Ugh, they could have warned us.”
“Mayhem. Murder. Masks,” the deep voice of the narrator boomed through the room. “There is one less of you than there was before
. But who could have done it? Why?”
The lights dimmed and a spotlight fell onto a figure lying on the floor. Caroline’s crimson dress pooled on the floor around her. The crowd converged on her.
“The rules are simple, children of the night. All of the clues you need to solve this dastardly crime can be found within the Plaza. Good luck, and act swiftly, or you might be next.
Mrs. Livingston cackled.
~*~
Caroline was either the best actress I’d ever seen, or she was really dead. I crouched next to her, torn between touching her neck to feel for a pulse and running away before the sweet scent of a fresh kill overwhelmed my restraint.
A clock chimed ten. The power of the full moon slammed into me, tugging at my heart and tightening my chest. The need to embrace my inner beast and become one with the night quickened my breath.
Scents flooded my nose. Strong perfumes mingled with cologne, and the sweat of hot, living bodies stirred my hunger. I licked my lips, and for one brief moment, I imagined the salty sweetness of fresh blood on my tongue.
There was another hunter in the room with me, taunting me with their kill. Their prey was either dead or left to die. It was a challenge to the scavengers, to the hunters, and a warning to the prey.
“What do you think?” Mark’s mother asked.
“She’s an amazing actress,” I replied, careful to keep my tone light. I rose to my feet. If I grew a tail, I could only hope my gown would hide it long enough for me to slip from the party and find a place to gain control over myself.
Or complete the change and go on a rampage.
Another minute passed in silence. I shook my head. “This would be why I’m not a police officer.”
The Wicked Witch of the West giggled. I shivered at the sound. “I see. Very well, Cinderella. Shall we mingle with the other guests and learn about this terrible, terrible deed?”
“I thought this was when Mark was supposed to come rescue me from a fate worse than death,” I muttered.
Oops. So much for staying civil. I guess it was inevitable. Bodies brought out the worst in me. Especially when the body wasn’t one of my making. To make matters worse, I couldn’t exactly raise the alarm.
If I did, I’d reveal to those who knew the truth about werewolves and witches that I wasn’t just some girl after a wealthy boy. Then the Inquisition would find silver old enough to reduce me to ashes, purging the world of one more rogue werewolf.
“Why can’t you be wealthy?” Mrs. Livingston lamented.
The old woman’s question caught me by surprise. Had she heard me? Did she think it an amusing quip?
Was it possible the woman actually liked me? Confused at the question, I answered honestly. “Ma’am, who says I’m not? I’m your son’s accountant. Do you really think he’d trust someone who didn’t have access to at least some money with his money?” I glared at the old woman. At least the brewing fight between us distracted me from Caroline’s body a little. “Don’t forget: I know exactly how much he makes a year, where he transfers his funds, who owes him how much, and what he owes. I know how much he’s paid in taxes, and I know how much I saved him last tax season.”
The witch’s mouth dropped open. “Just what—”
“I paid more in taxes than he did last year. I’ll let you do the math. Unless, of course, he learned how to count from you.” I pivoted on a heel and stalked my way towards the refreshment stand.
The lights dimmed, and the spotlight focused on the fallen woman once more. “By now, you have all had a chance to look at the unfortunate victim. Why was she killed? Who can you trust? One among you is the killer. You hide among us, plotting and scheming, biding your time to strike again.”
The crowd cheered. To me, Caroline looked so pale, strangely peaceful, and entirely alone.
Guilt nibbled at me before taking a huge bite. A woman was dead, and I had, for a brief moment, seen her as nothing more than wasted food. I might not have known her, but she had been someone’s daughter. Maybe she had a lover. She certainly had friends who would miss her.
Everyone else saw her as a pawn in a game, unaware of the truth.
Maybe.
I despaired. Halloween truly was a night of masks, horrors, murder, and lies.
~*~
Like Cinderella at the prince’s ball, hiding in the crowd was impossible. My rubies and diamonds twinkled in the light, and drew every eye to me. While the deep voice of the narrator rumbled on, laying out the rules of engagement for the mystery game, I staked out the guests. I listened, I watched, and I waited.
I also went through two glasses of wine, one for each hand. I was classy like that. It’d take a cask or more to dull the edge of my irritation and quench my thirst for the hunt.
Dracula passed me with a tray. I drained the last of the wine and plunked down both glasses.
“Vould the very lovely lady vant another one?” Dracula purred at me.
“No, but you have my thanks,” I replied. It wasn’t the staff’s fault the wealthy had extravagant tastes and twisted morals, after all. The poor man probably didn’t know he’d passed by a corpse several times while serving other guests.
“You vould make a lovely bride,” Dracula replied before wandering off. He flashed a smile at me over his shoulder.
The lights dimmed once more. I sighed. What were the stupidly rich going to try next? Wasn’t the death of one woman enough?
A wolf howled. The high pitched, reedy sound cut over the murmur of conversation. I froze. It wasn’t a bark of warning or a signal to the hunting pack.
It was a cry for help.
“Now that you have heard the rules,” the narrator continued when the howl quieted, “I am pleased to introduce to you the grand prize of this evening’s festivities. Behold! A rare black tundra wolf.”
A spotlight illuminated the far side of the room. Dark cloth covered a raised platform. Two of the werewolf-masked men in black suits unveiled a cage. White light gleamed on silver bars. Necklaces, bracelets, and rings dangled from chains woven around the wolf’s prison.
The black animal cowered on a fur blanket. I gasped along with half of the room.
“When you win this wolf, you will acquire all paperwork and permits required to keep the animal in the state of your choice. Boarding will be provided until you can create a proper habitat for your prize. The winner will also receive one hundred thousand dollars on a prepaid credit card.”
The crowd applauded.
I trembled, unable to tear my eyes away from the wolf. It howled again. I breathed in. Fear, excitement, and perfume mingled with the musky scent of a male wolf. A sneeze doubled me over. An itch irritated my nose and spread over my cheeks. My eyes burned. I cursed my werewolf heritage. A human’s nose wasn’t sensitive enough to smell a wolf—or react to their presence if allergic to domesticated dogs.
“In order to be declared the winner, you must bring proof of the killer’s identity and motivation to the Keeper of Secrets before sunrise.”
I groaned and retreated towards the lobby. When I found out where Mark had gone, I was going to kill him. He knew I was allergic to dogs, wolves, foxes, and any other beast even remotely related to a canine.
Werewolves, however, were the worst. I felt the blood drain from my face. With so much silver around, my brother wolf wouldn’t be able to transform back into human form once the lure of the full moon wore off.
How long could a man live as a beast before he forgot his human heritage? If I lost, I’d never know. If I won, another werewolf would learn I existed. The weight of hopelessness crashed down on me.
If I made a noticeable, serious effort to win, Mark would notice. Under any normal circumstances, I would’ve left. I dug through my purse for my handkerchief, cursing myself for foolishly believing the Plaza wouldn’t have dogs, let alone werewolves.
The lights turned on.
“Please enjoy your night of chills and thrills,” the narrator concluded.
I wouldn’t, but
I kept my mouth shut. The lobby of the hotel was still dark, lit by the flickering glow of the candles. I fished my cell phone out of my purse and started to dial Samantha’s number.
“I’m sorry, Lady, but cell phones aren’t permitted for the duration of the party,” a zombie said, shuffling for me.
I squeaked and hung up the phone. Globs of flesh dangled from the ruined remnants of the man’s jaw.
“Was going to call a friend to bring my medicine,” I replied, choking back a snarl. Even with my nose in its itching, clogged state, I was pretty certain the man wasn’t actually an undead.
“This way, Lady. The concierge will see to your needs.”
I put away the phone and followed the zombie across the lobby.
After tonight, I doubted I’d ever enjoy Halloween or parties again.
Especially not Halloween parties.
Chapter Three
Caroline’s body was gone by the time I made it back to the reception hall. Whatever medicines the concierge had given me numbed me for the most part. My eyes were still burning holes into my head, but the itching and sneezing faded to something almost tolerable.
The wolf’s cage was covered, but his scent lingered in the air. I sniffled.
“Allison, where on Earth have you been?” The Wicked Witch of the West pounced on me before I’d managed to take three steps into the room. I blinked at her and clasped my hands in front of me so I wouldn’t rub at my sore eyes.
“Mark didn’t tell you?” I squinted at the old woman and blinked several times to keep my eyes from watering. Sniffling was inevitable.
The old woman tensed. “Mark didn’t tell me what?”
“I’m—” I sneezed and covered my nose with my handkerchief. “I’m allergic to dogs.”
“Oh. Oh! Oh, my. Now, that is a problem, isn’t it?” Mrs. Livingston glanced at the covered cage, deep lines scoring her brow. “Will you be all right?”
“I think so,” I replied, rubbing at my nose with my handkerchief. It didn’t stop my next sneeze. “They gave me pills.” My tongue felt thick in my mouth. I made a disgusted noise. My normal medication had a little bit of a kick, but whatever they were stashing behind the counter, it was strong, I had to give them that.
