Masque of the Red Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

ensemble she’s finally crossed the line into indecency.
    Maybe it doesn’t matter. She’s made herself so artificial; it’s okay to wear next to nothing because we aren’t real people any longer.
    The ice has melted in my abandoned glass on the side table. I pick it up, and when she doesn’t acknowledge me, I drink the contents quickly and walk away, up the stairs to a floor with rowdy card games. But I’m not in the mood to be around happiness. To escape, I duck into a quiet room. When my eyes adjust, I see two people at a table, playing chess by candlelight. They aren’t sealed in a humid basement, but my chest constricts anyway.
    “Would you like to play?” someone asks. He has blond hair that gleams in the candlelit room.
    “No, no, I’m not good at strategy....” Then I recognize him.

CHAPTER
    FOUR
    C OLD AIR MOVES ACROSS MY FACE. I T FEELS more lived in than the air I’m used to. I’m lying in a bed that’s not my own, shivering.
    Cold means outside. But why would a bed be outside? I snuggle deeper into the blankets. The person beside me shifts. I freeze. Someone is beside me. I’m caught, tangled in blankets, in a strange bed, and I can’t open my eyes.
    I put my hand up to my face. My eyes are glued shut. This has happened before, a bad mix of makeup and eyelash glue. April gave me some cleanser that removes it, but I know I’m not at home, because Akkadian Tower penthouses are never uncomfortably cold.
    My mask is askew.
    And someone is beside me, pressed against me. Closer than another human being has been since Finn and I were young. Being this near anyone floods me with loss. I pull away, and then flinch as my bedmate throws an arm over me. The pain of ripping my eyelids open is fierce but momentary.
    Nothing in this room is familiar. It’s an attic-style dormer with low ceilings and sharp angles. I ease away and realize, with shock, who I am lying next to.
    He’s even prettier with the muted early afternoon light illuminating his high cheekbones. I stare at his closed eyes. I know that they are dark, but a deep blue? Brown? I will him to open them so that I can see. It’s so odd to see him without the club, the lights on the floor, the testing.
    His hair is mussed. I move my hand slightly, wondering if I dare to touch him, to run my fingers through his hair and see how far up his tattoos swirl.
    My reverie is interrupted by a high-pitched giggle.
    The only thing in this room is the bed where we are nestled together and a low couch that looks like it’s had better days. On the couch there are two children.
    They aren’t wearing masks.
    But we’re inside, so maybe the air is safe? I fidget with my mask. I’ve been taught better than to trust a strange filter.
    The girl giggles again, nervously.
    “Are you real?” she asks.
    “Yes.” I blink at her. “Why do you ask?”
    “He’s never brought home a girl,” the boy says. “Never, and you don’t look real. Hair doesn’t come in that color.”
    I put my hand up and try to smooth my hair. April dyed strands of it purple. The color blends beautifully with my dark hair, but I’ve asked her not to dye it again. Purple is the color of the illness, the bruises that appear before the oozing starts.
    The children slip over to the edge of the bed and peer down at me.
    “You look like you’ve been crying.” The girl reaches to touch the smeared makeup around my eyes, and I recoil. I’m not used to having someone without a mask so close to me.
    I sit up, relieved that I am still fully clothed.
    “Don’t wake him,” the little boy says. “He works hard. He stays up all night.”
    “Yes, I know,” I say, because I often see him, working, in the early morning hours.
    I wonder if my parents are worried about me.
    “Who are you?” I ask.
    “I’m Henry,” the little boy says, “and this is Elise.”
    “And how do you know…” I falter, looking down at his sleeping form. “How do you know him?”
    The girl notices something in