Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) (8 page)

“The tunnels Malcontent has taken over?”

“They all connect.” Elliott turns to the clockmaker. “Does this one come up someplace near?”

“Yes, if you go down, and then to the left. You will come out near the library.”

“Perfect,” Elliott says.

I take two steps down, running my fingers over the crumbling masonry. Bits of red brick rain down to the grimy floor. Then I turn, waiting for Elliott. The clockmaker hands him a candle on a metal holder.

“I’m sure you have something to light it with.”

In answer, Elliott strikes a match against the wall. Then he makes a formal bow. “As always, I am sorry.”

If the clockmaker makes any reply, I don’t wait to hear it.

At the bottom of the staircase the tunnel widens, though not quite wide enough for us to walk side by side. The floor here is made of packed earth. It’s not muddy, but it is damp. Malcontent’s flooding must have swept through here, too.

“I can walk in front if you’d like,” Elliott offers.

I shake my head. I’m tired of following him around. “No.”

“Don’t blame me if you walk into a spiderweb,” he mutters. “Here, take the candle.” The darkness beyond my candle is absolute.

“I didn’t think he would tell you,” Elliott says, “About what I did.”

The horror of it overwhelms me.

“He wanted to punish you. You’d visited him before?”

“After I left the palace, I visited him often. I made sure he had enough food. He never seemed to appreciate it.”

“It’s hard to blame him. . . . Your visits probably reminded him of what he had lost.” We walk on in silence. “Did you check on all of the people your uncle made you hurt?” I like that he cared enough to do this.

“Only those who are still alive.” And the conversation seems to be over. We move slowly, fumbling through the passage. Every few feet there is an arched area made of brick. The mortar crumbles down on us as we walk along.

“I can still remember the way my hands shook, holding the hammer. I was thirteen years old.” His voice is steady, neither confession nor bragging. Just simple fact. I don’t know how to respond. But even with this new insight, I can still believe that Will saw Elliott kill a man while smiling. “My uncle doesn’t always kill the people who anger him. Sometimes he does worse.”

“Did you have nightmares?”

“Yes.” He is silent for a time. “Eventually I found ways to deal with them.”

The first time I met Elliott I asked for oblivion, and he brought out his silver syringe. “That night in the Debauchery Club, you said that you rarely shared . . .” My voice is soft.

He puts his hands on my waist, pulling me back and spinning me around. “I know all about the need for oblivion,” he says. His mask hangs down around his neck. He lets his pack fall to the earthen floor of the tunnel.

We are very much alike, Elliott and I. He takes the candle in its bent metal holder from me and sets it on a rough rock ledge. It flickers, casting weak shadows around us.

“But I haven’t needed it since I met you,” he tells me. And then he pulls my mask away from my face and kisses me.

This time he’s not gentle. He’s rough, and my head snaps back, hitting the wall. Bits of stone to fall all around us. I kiss him back, just as hard.

My hair catches on the rough stone of the wall as he lifts me, so I’m pressed against him. I wrap my legs around him. What’s left of my dress bunches up around me. The bandage on my shoulder shifts and the wound stings, but we don’t stop. My arms are around his neck.

I’ve been looking for oblivion in all the wrong ways.

I pull back for a moment, and in the flickering candlelight he’s so handsome. His eyes are just slightly open, and I want to memorize all of him in this instant.

Elliott sets me down.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He lifts one hand to smooth the mortar and dirt from my hair. “We shouldn’t be . . . this is not a suitable place. . . .” I can’t pull my eyes away, fascinated and confused as his sudden regret is replaced by wariness. His eyes narrow. “It’s been a long time since I lost control like that, even for a few moments.”

I retrieve the candle, readjust the shreds of my dress. My heart is racing, and yet I feel ashamed that we stopped here to kiss when so much is at stake.

Eventually I start walking again. Leading the way back to Will.

Ahead of us is a ladder leading upward, much like the one that April and I climbed to escape when the tunnels were flooding. A draft from above blows the candle out.

“Elliott?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think there are crocodiles in these tunnels?”

He laughs. “No. Why do you ask?”

I caress the tender area to the left of the wound on my shoulder. “No reason.” I reach up, and Elliott gives me a boost. His hands linger at my waist, and for a brief moment I think that he may try to rekindle whatever just happened between us. I pull away, ready to see sunlight again.

“Wouldn’t want to keep Will waiting, would we?” he remarks.

But we have. I’ve lost track of time, but it must have been more than an hour. It feels like we’ve been underground for a very long time.

At the top of the ladder is a heavy metal cover. Instead of asking Elliott for help raising it, I push with all my might, relying on my left hand, and the metal circle clanks to the side. I like being in the lead. I feel like everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve been following April, or Elliott, occasionally even Will. I’m ready for someone to follow me.

Once we’re out, I let Elliott put it back in place.

Will is lounging on the third step of a columned building that must be the library. A small bottle and a brush sit between his feet. His left boot is untied, and the laces are muddy. His eyes travel up my body, from my own muddy shoes, to what’s left of my dress. When he gets to my face, I inadvertently put my hand to my mask, as if he can see through it. As if he can tell how my lips are still throbbing.

“Your paint.” He holds a bottle out to me.

“Maybe it’s stupid, to try to leave a message,” I falter, but then I catch sight of a wall unmarred by graffiti, and my resolve returns.

I uncork the paint and test my brush strokes. They are messy and the surface of the building is uneven, but it will do.

FIND ME,
I write.
IF YOU REMEMBER FINN.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
HATE WRITING MY BROTHER’S NAME. IN ALL
these years, it was never said aloud in our home. But if Father sees this, he’ll know it’s from me.

“How can I tell him we’ll be at the club?”

Elliott grabs my wrist to stop me from writing. “We don’t want to announce that. Not yet.” He takes the paintbrush and draws an eye.

“I’m not sure Father knows about your—” I begin.

“He will,” Elliott says. The meeting with the clockmaker certainly didn’t affect his arrogance for long.

I scrawl messages wherever there is room, desecrating every wall with any proximity to the science building. Elliott paces, checking alleys and scanning balconies. Whenever I need more paint, Will is next to me, holding the bottle.

“He’s manipulating you,” Will says finally, in an undertone, eyeing Elliott.

I answer him while still painting my message. “From the stories April tells me, and from my only experience . . .” I flash him a look. “That’s what guys do.”

“You deserve better.” His hand hovers near the side of my skirt, where the seams are nearly destroyed and the green satin is stained from my time in the tunnel with Elliott.

We’ve circled behind the building once more. Evening has fallen, and the quiet of this area has become ominous. Once the university had the most well-preserved buildings in the city. Now it feels haunted.

“Time to go,” Elliott says, surveying the area. “We need information. The best way to collect it is to buy some drinks, and to listen.”

Will and I fall into line behind him as he winds his way off the university campus. Dropping beside me, he opens his pack and removes the terrible flowered dress that the innkeeper’s wife gave me.

“You should change. Yours is in extremely poor condition, and we’re trying to avoid undue attention.” As if he has any right to complain about the condition of my dress. Especially when his hand strokes down my side, lingering where my skin shows.

“This
was
a nice dress,” I mutter, taking the cotton one from him. Elliott leads us into a narrow alley, thankfully free of corpses, through a back door, and into a dimly lit room.

Low tables, sofas, and chairs are scattered through a series of interconnected rooms. A makeshift bar has been set up on a table, with an array of bottles and glasses. Though I can’t see into the darkest corners, I think I see a door opened to a bedroom or sleeping chamber of some kind.

“This place was popular with university students,” Elliott says, “when the university was still open.” He points to the back. “The washroom is back there.”

I can already tell this is not the sort of place where one wants to linger in the washroom. And I’m right. Though a mural has been painted on the wall, an alfresco painting of flowers and a scene that I think is supposed to be Venice, the room smells of mold and something even worse. A wide mirror is flanked by several candles, so at least there is some light as I attempt to make myself presentable.

I pull off my dress and fold it, then hold the new one in front of my body. It has a wide lace collar, and the hem falls almost to my ankles. Once I slip it over my head, I no longer look like a girl who spends her evenings at the Debauchery Club. I look sallow and lumpy in places where I am not. I know it’s silly to care—at least I am alive—but . . .

At least by candlelight my hair still looks lustrous. April always said that candlelight was flattering to almost anyone.

I step out of the washroom and retrace my steps to where Elliott leans against the bar. Will stands next to him.

“You’re good at this,” Elliott is saying to him. “People talk to you. Circulate and listen. We need any rumor, no matter how ridiculous, about Araby’s father. Everything people are saying about our enemies.”

“I’ll keep my ears open.” As Will disappears into the shadows of an adjoining room, the way he walks takes me back to the days before I knew his name, when he was just the tattooed guy who worked in the Debauchery Club. The one whose voice made shivers run up and down my spine.

Elliott gestures to the barmaid, who shakes her head. “You can’t afford the price,” she says, taking in his muddy shoes and the poor condition of his clothing.

“You’re new here.” He throws several coins on the bar. Within moments she’s brought us a chilled bottle and two glasses.

“We won’t be drinking the water in the city,” he says. “So this will have to do.”

Elliott strikes up a conversation with her and several men sitting around us. I listen closely but don’t say anything. Voices rise and fall. The anger and fear are practically palpable. This place is dangerous, but I suppose it’s no more so than the city itself.

The people gathered at the tables are near our age, a few older, some younger. They are dirty and patched and ragged, and are constantly gesturing. They drink hard liquor. Mostly they are boys and young men, though there are a few girls who are as loud and vehement as anyone.

Everyone knows about Prospero’s ball. They hate him for it. They despise him for his indifference while people are dying. Malcontent, however, is a more immediate threat. People speak of him in hushed voices. They speculate about what he looks like, whether any of them have walked past him on the street. Whether he could be here in this room.

They don’t seem to know about the scar, where Prospero slit his throat while Elliott and April hid behind the curtains. They don’t know who he truly is. I can’t keep this to myself much longer.

Malcontent’s people have been seen in the streets, but not en masse, the way we saw them, their feet pounding in unison through the tunnels beneath the city, the night that we escaped. They show up in groups of two or three, telling people their weird beliefs about the plague being sent from God.

Hours pass, and the clientele changes from the creative types who still gravitate to the university grounds to workers with lined faces and suspicious eyes.

The serving girl disappears into a back room, and I notice that the other girls have left the establishment, along with most of the younger men. A fellow at the bar looks me up and down. He elbows the man beside him and says something. They both laugh.

I lean in to Elliott. “I think it’s time for me to leave.”

He surveys the room. “It’s not safe to travel after nightfall, but I’ll rent a room. You didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll stay here a bit longer and listen.”

I nod. Ever since our trip through the tunnels this afternoon, I’ve been thinking about the book of maps I stole for Elliott from the Debauchery Club. He wouldn’t have left that behind, so it must be in his pack. I need to find it and study it. This is as good an opportunity as I’m likely to get, if Elliott plans to leave me alone for a while.

He summons the bartender, and they speak quietly for a few moments. As we make our way across the crowded room to retrieve our packs, a bulky man snags my puffed sleeve and pulls me toward him.

Elliott reacts so fast that I can barely follow. He yanks the man from his barstool and holds him for a moment by the lapels of his coat, then throws him to the floor, hard. I expect the man to bolt to his feet, angry and ready to fight, but Elliott stands over him, hands clenched. The man stays where he is.

The bar is quiet for a moment, and then erupts into loud conversation, applause, vulgar suggestions. The ruckus draws Will. He eyes the man, who is slowly climbing back to his feet.

“That was impressive,” Will says.

“Quick reflexes.” Elliott gives Will a pointed look, directed at his slightly swollen lip. Was it just yesterday that Elliott hit him?

“You’ll keep her safe?” Will asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. “And I’ll be fine.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Will picks up his pack.

And then Elliott sweeps me up two flights of stairs to a sleeping chamber. This establishment is as much a makeshift inn as a makeshift tavern.

“Bar the door behind me,” Elliott says. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. The conversation was just beginning to get interesting.”

Once he’s gone, I hoist his bag onto one of the beds and search every part of it, even the tiny pockets sewn on the inside. I remove each of his weapons, laying the knives side by side on the coverlet. Ammunition. Gold coins that I let fall through my fingers. I ignore the silver coins and pennies and carefully unfold and refold a perfectly clean change of clothing, complete with a vest. In one of the smallest of the bag’s pockets, I feel something hard and cold and sharp. I know what it is even before pulling my hand out to look at it. The facets of the diamond ring Elliott gave me gleam and glitter in the candlelight. I drop it back into the pocket and then replace everything except the book of maps, which was the very last thing at the bottom of the case.

I’m determined not to be dependent on Elliott’s knowledge of the city. If we can’t find my father, I’ll have to go to Malcontent for the cure. I won’t go blindly.

Memorization is a skill that my father taught both me and Finn, making us recite nursery rhymes, poems, lists of scientific words, and finally graphs and illustrations. Finn was always better at it, but at least when I close my eyes, I can picture bits and pieces of the maps that I’m studying.

Once I’ve put the largest thoroughfares to memory, I focus on the tunnels. It isn’t safe for a girl to move through the city. Even before the Red Death I was attacked and nearly lost Henry’s mask. The danger has only increased now that Malcontent and his men haunt the streets. They also haunt the tunnels, but the risks may be less than on the streets.

Too soon, Elliott taps at the door, and I slip the maps back into his pack before unbarring it to let him in.

He’s carrying a bottle of wine. He sets it on the table between the beds, and then stares at it as if he’s never seen it before. His hair is messier than usual, and he’s smiling to himself.

“People are talking about me,” he says. “They didn’t realize that I was among them, but they know that I’ve returned.” He pulls back his coverlet and practically falls into bed.

As I lie down in my own, I realize that I won’t be able to sleep in this dress. The fabric is rough, and it bunches up under me and scratches my arms.

Elliott is facing the other way, so I step out of the dress and hang it across a chair before sliding beneath the coverlet.

Without that discomfort, I fall asleep immediately and don’t even dream.

When I wake to sunlight streaming through the window, Elliott is sitting in the chair beside my bed, sharpening one of his knives. Leaning back against my dress. I stop myself from bolting upright just in time.

“Good morning,” he says. He looks at me curiously. “Are you naked under that blanket?”

“I’m wearing undergarments,” I say through gritted teeth.

He raises his eyebrows, as if he doesn’t believe me. I’m not going to prove it to him, if that’s what he’s expecting. I clutch the blanket around myself and glare at him. “Please hand me my dress.”

“Oh, dear,” he says, standing and lifting it with exaggerated care. “I thought it was a floor-length, flowered seat cover.”

“It’s better as a seat cover than a dress, but it’s all I have now.” I don’t look at him when he hands me the dress. “Turn around while I put this on.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Elliott,” I say in a low voice. When he doesn’t move, I try a lighter tone. “You bought it for me. I suggest, if you don’t want to look at it, purchase another dress.”

“I will,” he says. “I suppose for now you’ll have to wear it.”

He makes an exaggerated show of turning away, and I pull the dress over my head. The collar flaps into place. I try to adjust the sleeves, wondering how the dress can be too big, but the sleeves too small.

When I tell Elliott he can look, he shifts back into his original position, tossing the knife on his bed, and begins cleaning his sword.

“Will you give me another lesson?” I ask, nodding toward the weapon.

He cocks his head to the side. “I don’t think so.” He retrieves the knife and hands it to me. “That is what I’m going to teach you to fight with. I should have from the beginning. Knives are easier; you have the element of surprise.”

I pass the knife from hand to hand. Unlike the ivory-handled one that he gave me when we fled the university, after the last time I saw my father, this one has a handle of polished wood. The blade is wider.

“I’ve used a knife,” I say.

“Yes, but not well. Come here, and I’ll teach you a few tricks.”

Who taught him all these tricks? His father? His uncle? A weapons master?

He takes my hand in his and shows me how to grip the wooden handle. Then he guides me in making controlled motions.

“Be sure your movements mean something. Don’t just wave it around.”

“It doesn’t seem that hard,” I say.

He laughs. “The hard thing is actually sticking the blade in someone.” He slides back onto the unmade bed and pulls me with him. His back is against the headboard, and I’m practically on his lap, facing him. “Pushing a knife into someone’s flesh is difficult. At first. If you have to do it, don’t think. Just stab. You probably won’t get a second chance, so make it count. Put the knife down, and I’ll show you the places where you can do serious damage.”