These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel

by Zekas, Kelly

  “Stop her!” I heard Dr. Beck yell.

  I took off in a sprint.

  My shoes smacked across the thick stone roof and crinkled over the small gravel pits. The steady rumble of Claude’s tread followed me doggedly. I could feel him moments away from grabbing me, but I caught sight of the ledge, a few long strides away, and the simple plan burned into my mind. Just run, jump over it, and live. That’s all I had to do.

  So I leaped, my glimpse of heavenly freedom on the opposite building moving closer, closer, within reach. My stomach floated up weightlessly as my jump became a drop. My chest hit the edge of the roof hard, knocking out my breath. As I slid back, my hands scrambled to grasp brick, rock, anything, for God’s sake, please.

  And I fell.

  A rush of air and a blurry procession of bricks streamed by me and cut out with empty thuds and cracks of pain spiking through my legs and across my side. I tasted bitter metal, and a sudden numbness took over. Carriages clanked, a baby cried, bells rang, a woman screamed, and then it all quieted down to final thoughts (so this is what dying is?) before even those faded away into a blissful shroud of nothingness.

  A STARK ROOM greeted me when I awoke.

  With a groan, I sat up and rubbed the blur out of my eyes—it felt like I had overslept by several years. The glow of gas lamps shone through the room’s tiny window, and drops of rain pattered against the pane.

  I rolled and twisted off the bed, feeling a shudder when my feet touched the cold floor. Instinctively, I rubbed my leg: no lingering pain, no scar, no mark at all. My last memories were hazy, but I could distinctly recall the falling, the utter fear, and the peculiar understanding of pain. The reality of being fully recovered instead of fully broken sent goose pimples prickling up all over my body.

  At the sound of my sheets rustling, a nurse, slumped over in a rickety chair by the corner, stirred and shot straight up. “Miss Bradent, one moment, I’ll go fetch him,” she said, already halfway out of the room.

  Miss Bradent? I glanced around the room, noting the white stone walls and the dreary lights. I wasn’t in an asylum, was I? What other place on earth could look this depressing? It was too dark to see out the window and not quite tempting enough a prospect to wait and find out for myself. In a hurry, I slid off the stiff bed and tiptoed to the door. I pulled it open, and there stood Mr. Braddock on the other side of the threshold, his breath drained and his person drenched.

  “Miss . . . Wyndham . . .”

  “So. You’ve finally arrived,” I managed to mutter, my voice hoarse from disuse.

  Only a few inches away, he heard me clearly. His tense hands clutched the doorway, and his eyes dropped downward. “I’m—I’m sorry. How do you feel?”

  “Absolutely blissful. Perfect is an understatement,” I replied drily, pulling back and widening the gap. “How did you find me?”

  “The hospital. They found you in an alleyway with no identification. My card was in your pocket, and they contacted me.”

  As Mr. Braddock spoke, he raised his head and stared pointedly above my right shoulder, his flushed cheeks growing even redder. I looked down and realized my white hospital gown appeared to be slightly transparent. It was hard to care about covering up my body after it had been through so much, but for the sake of Mr. Braddock (who had retreated into the hallway), I turned around with forced composure, padded back inside the room, and crawled into the bed.

  “Mr. Braddock, please come in,” I called. “I don’t give a fig for propriety at the moment.”

  His dark head peeped around the corner. He slipped in, closed the door, and leaned against the farthest possible wall.

  “Why does the hospital think I am Miss Bradent?” I asked.

  “I told them you were my cousin Elizabeth and had you moved to this private room, so I could watch from the street,” he said.

  “Always a distant cousin,” I muttered.

  He bit his lip for a moment before giving in to the questions he was holding back. “Tell me. What happened? How did you come to be hurt?”

  “I fell off a roof,” I said vaguely, clenching my jaw. I wanted him to feel miserable.

  Concern and disbelief filled his eyes. “It was true, then,” he murmured, unlacing his arms and starting toward me before pulling back, remembering to remain stoic. “By the time the ambulance arrived, your injuries were so minor, they concluded you fainted in the alley. The only witness was a drunkard, and his story about the roof sounded too unbelievable—even to me. Given the circumstances, you were quite—”

  “Lucky?” I finished with a bitter laugh.

  The silence boiled through the room. If he bit his lower lip any more, it would fall off. “Does anything still hurt?” he finally asked.

  “No.”

  He rubbed the back of his head in distress, stepping forward slightly. “What were you even searching for? What was possibly worth all this?” he asked.

  I steadily told him about my encounters with Camille, William, Arthur, and Dr. Beck. When I finished, I found him glaring at me. I was getting particularly tired of that look.

  “So it was for nothing,” he said, taking another step. “I don’t think you fully understand how fortunate you are. We’re still figuring out the extent of your powers. You just as easily might not have been protected from such severe injuries. Or if the ambulance had arrived earlier, one of the doctors could have observed your healing ability, and you would be—I don’t know—locked up somewhere to be studied! It was pure chance that you’re not de—I thought you promised to stop this recklessness.”

  “And what about your promise? Why did you just disappear . . . ?”

  “. . . leaving me to that terror and pain?” was the unspoken end to the question, but he heard it nonetheless. A stricken expression crossed his face, making him look younger and gaunter as he grasped the end of the bed. I almost felt delight in his reaction. Then I remembered the mountain of guilt he was already struggling with and simply felt wretched for us both.

  “I was following Lord Ridgewood,” he said.

  “And lied to me about searching together,” I said dully.

  “I specifically chose not to inform you, because I worried something dangerous might happen,” he said, angrily grabbing the bedsheets. “And I stand by that. This afternoon, Lord Ridgewood realized I was following him and paid three men to attack me.”

  I stilled, heart hammering, searching him for injury. The menacing black eye and bruise on his face were fading, but they still lingered. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. But he disappeared while I was occupied.”

  Not ready to concede the point, I continued. “It still sounds like I would have been safer with you.”

  “You would have been even safer remaining at home,” he returned sharply, moving himself much closer. My heart quickened, and suddenly he was so close, I could smell leather and mint. “Do you know what it was like? To hear you were in a hospital? I thought you were dead. I thought—” He cut himself off, but by now he was sitting next to me, cradling my face in his hands.

  We both seemed to realize his actions at the same time. I couldn’t feel anything except the rush of blood that sprang up wherever his fingers touched my skin. I couldn’t hear anything except for the rustle of my hair as he brushed a strand behind my ear. I couldn’t see anything except his expression, so strange I was sure he was about to kiss me again. But when he leaned forward, lips parted, I found my voice.

  “At least I found Dr. Beck,” I said, choking back this moment we shared, hoping to return us to our natural state: bickering. Slowly, he pulled back, as well. I could almost read disappointment in his eyes before a sneer took over his face.

  “Being ambushed hardly qualifies as finding the man.” The walls were back up, and I should have felt safe, secure. But somehow, it was only isolating.

  “Well, unlike you—”

  “Please, stop,” he interrupted, backing away to the farthest corner. “It’s late. If it’s all the same to
you, we can continue this argument while we get you home.”

  “I don’t have any proper clothes,” I snapped.

  “I bought you a dress,” he snapped back, gesturing to a simple green gown hanging by the window. “And . . . things. For underneath it.”

  “What? Wh-where did you even get it?”

  “Is it not to your liking? I had to kill two peo—no, that isn’t very funny . . .” His attempt at levity only brought more tension to his shoulders and lines to his injured face.

  “It’s, ah, fine,” I said, slightly stunned. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll wait outside. Take your time,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  That man. I took a deep breath and wiped my face with his handkerchief left by my bedside. I hardly knew if it was my injuries or the conversation or the brief touch, but I felt a rush in my head, as if I were still falling through the air without control of my movements or my thoughts.

  I stood and slipped off the hospital gown to assess my body closely for injuries. There was nothing to be found. No one would know what happened to me today, and that was exactly how I wanted it to stay. The green dress fit perfectly, and I could even admire its rich color. Nothing could be done with my wild hair besides running my fingers swiftly through the heavy strands.

  When I was ready, Mr. Braddock met me in the corridor and walked me through its twists and turns. He spoke to the woman at the front desk, but she seemed to be distracted by a crisis over a stabbing victim. My sloppy Elizabeth Bradent signature was sufficient to sweep our way out of the dingy hospital and into the waiting hansom.

  “Now, I believe you were yelling at me?” Mr. Braddock said, once we were on our way.

  “Did you learn anything from those men who attacked you?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied with a grimace. “They’d only met him minutes prior.”

  “Do you have another plan?”

  “Camille’s building is the only possibility—though I doubt she would have remained there, considering the recent commotion.”

  “But there is no reason for her to move. I’m the only one who knew the location, and they didn’t expect me to survive that fall. We should go now.”

  I already knew what he was going to say, but I thought if I slipped in the suggestion quickly and he agreed to it by accident, it would somehow be set in stone.

  But he caught it, his brow knitted in frustration. “No. There’s no we for this search. In fact, there are even more reasons for you to stay away now. If they see you are healed, Dr. Beck will want you for his experiments, too.”

  “I doubt you will get very far yourself. We clearly need each other’s assistance.”

  He scoffed at that. “You need my assistance. Your presence only makes it more difficult for me.”

  “Then you don’t need to know what Dr. Beck’s power is? Silly me, I thought it might be helpful.”

  His eyes stopped, dead still, his lips half parted and frozen. I had his full attention. “You learned what it is?”

  “He admitted it on the roof. He can see the future, expect things before they happen.”

  Lines twisted across Mr. Braddock’s forehead as he receded from the present, replaying his encounters with the man. “He never did seem surprised or anxious. He always looked bored, like you were speaking too slowly.”

  “So if it’s true, what do we do now?”

  For an eternity, he stared out the window at the streaming rain, the muddy streets, the dark shops shuttered and gated, the buildings half hidden in fog. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’m sorry. I need more time to think.”

  “I have one idea,” I lied.

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t need to know that yet. I’m sure you plan to go to Camille’s tonight after you take me home. But I won’t have you doing everything without me. Tomorrow morning, you will pick me up, along with Miss Grey and Mr. Kent, and we will go together. If not, I shall go out on my own again, and you will have to kidnap me to fully stop me, which in some ways would be considered a strange and criminal turn of events.”

  He had no response, or—judging by his expression—no polite, gentlemanly one. His eyes flickered as he struggled to determine what clues he had overlooked, what I had solved that he couldn’t. After another long, uncomfortable silence, Mr. Braddock filled it with a half-grunted, half-muttered something that sounded like “As you wish.”

  The victory felt hollow this time. “Well, I wish I knew what the right choice was.”

  He looked at me steadily, perhaps trying to determine if I was being sarcastic. “What do you mean?”

  “If Dr. Beck can see the future, then he knows what actions he must take to realize it, no matter how vicious they may be. But all we can do is make a decision and pray it’s the right one. None of them have been so far, though.”

  He turned away in contemplation. With every movement of the cab, the glare of the reading lamp washed over his cheek, the moonlight glimmered in his green eyes, and the gas lanterns flickered around his straight nose. The hues mingled together, floating over his face, exchanging caresses with the shadows.

  “I don’t believe there’s ever a right choice,” he said finally. “No matter how much you plan, there’s always something unexpected, something unaccounted for that goes wrong.”

  “That . . . is a terrible answer,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I suspected you would say that.”

  “Because it was terrible.”

  “Because of who you are. When we first met, I thought you angry, stubborn, and infuriatingly willful.”

  “And now?” Even as I spoke the words, I wondered why I cared so much.

  He blinked. “I still think you’re angry, stubborn, and infuriatingly willful. But I’ve come to rather like it, especially when it’s directed at someone who isn’t me. You simply refuse to settle. You keep pushing forward to get what you want, no matter what gets in your way, no matter what hurts you. It’s most admirable.”

  I found his admiration made my head spin slightly and had to have a quick, firm talk with myself before I could meet his eyes again. The carriage stopped outside the Kents’, and Mr. Braddock climbed out, circled around, and helped me down. My fingers prickled from his touch, which seemed to last an age.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said, letting go of my hand.

  “Tomorrow,” I repeated, swells of my breath mingling with the frigid air. The fog had risen out of the streets, kissing the rooftops of buildings, and the rain had stopped, leaving the city slick, shiny, and vivid. “If I can trust you’ll come this time.”

  “You can.” Mr. Braddock hesitated at the cab and half turned, looking unconvinced himself. He came back to me, taking off his hat and speaking hurriedly. “But I know my word isn’t quite enough for you now. All I have left to offer you is my name, so that you may curse it if necessary.”

  “I’ve already done that a great deal, Mr. Braddock.”

  His fingers tapped on the hat. “Well, I—I was hoping my given name had a clean slate.”

  Oh, that’s what he was asking. My face warmed as I tested the name in my head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “That was improper of me to ask. I apologize—”

  “No, it’s . . . certainly no more improper than seeing me in a hospital gown. I was just seeing how I liked it.”

  The corner of his lip pulled up slightly. And was that a blush? “Does it meet your approval?”

  “Well, Sebastian,” I said, feeling the strange sound wash over my tongue like a breaking wave. “It isn’t at all good for cursing. But I suppose we can find another use for it. As you might with mine.”

  He smiled widely at that and opened the cab door.

  “I look forward to it, Evelyn,” he replied, and the way my name left his lips and drifted into the air sent a peculiar glow through me, not unlike his touch did.

  Except this lingered long after he rolled away.

&n
bsp; TUFFINS OPENED THE door with a bleak expression. The lights were bright, and the muffled sounds of a chattering crowd floated downstairs. The dinner party.

  “Lady Kent wishes to see you in the drawing room,” he said, almost timidly.

  My stomach roiled as he marched through the portrait-plastered hallway, up the stairs, and past the music room, where all the guests seemed to be gathered. I desperately clung to the hope that all this fuss was to offer me a fresh raspberry tart to try before the others, but Tuffins’s manner made me feel more like a prisoner being led to the gallows.

  “Do I get any last words?” I asked.

  A smile almost broke on his reserved expression. He let me into the room. “She will be here in a moment,” he said, shutting the door gently behind me.

  As usual, the stuffy room was filled with the waft of perfume and smoke. I stood in the center, unsure what my strategy should be. This was about my absence, surely. I needed a good excuse. I cautiously huddled into a side chair by the fireplace, preparing profuse apologies and innocent gazes.

  The door flew open, and in hobbled Lady Kent, who greeted me with a glare.

  “Miss Wyndham,” she said before stiffly lowering herself into an uncomfortably close seat, only a low tea table separating us. She took a sip from her wineglass and twisted her mouth sourly. “Absent all day again.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” I said with such remorse, one would have thought I burned down a schoolhouse full of sick children. “I did not mean to return so late. I was at the Cages’ in the afternoon, and they insisted I stay longer, and I was such a poor judge of time. Between listening to Eliza play the pianoforte and hearing John tell stories of his travels, I completely lost track of the evening! Oh heavens, I feel so very awful for not being here. Is Laura cross with me?”

  “Did you say the Cages?” Lady Kent asked, leaning forward with a piercing look.