Masquerade
Prologue
England 1798
Delilah gathers the skirts of her dress in both hands, her lithe feet carrying her across the wet grass quickly. Behind her masked men in their best tuxedos chase her. Menacing grins stretch their lips back, baring their sharp white teeth. Inside the brightly lit mansion people are hopelessly unaware. An owl hoots from a bare branch hanging above her head and she shrieks. Laughter erupts from the group of men. She estimates there’s three, maybe four of them. The black mask wrapped around her eyes, with its silver sparkles and diamond outline, makes it difficult for her to see out of her peripheral vision. She turns her head to glance back and a tree root catches her foot.
With her face buried in the grass she claws helplessly at the ground before her. The men descend with the grace of fierce lions, flipping her over. One man lights a match and holds it gleefully to her cheek, scorching her and melting the mask to her pale face. A rough hand smothers the scream erupting from her long swan-like throat. Another straddles her torso wielding a sharp knife. It’s cold and hot against her stomach, cutting through the white fabric of her dress effortlessly. The last two men hold her legs and arms, shouting directions and suggestions in a language she can’t decipher.
In minutes her nerves have gone numb, and she struggles between wakefulness and sleep. The mask is fully melted to her face by now, she’s sure. She doesn’t even want to know how her dress may look. In a brief lapse of alertness she feels a fleeting prick below her jaw and hears a shout from afar. Pressure exerts itself upon her windpipe until she’s gasping for breath, and then it’s gone and the men are fleeing. By now a different man is hurrying towards her, the one who shouted. There’s worry on his face and his words buzz without definition through her ears. He lifts her off the ground and she feels pain the nothing at all.
When Delilah wakes again she’s in a bedroom she doesn’t recognize. A nurse is glancing over her quickly but retreats before she can muster up words. The drapes are closed tightly around the only window and a candle burns slowly on the table beside her bed. It casts frightening shadows across the walls, reflected back in the vanity mirror. Something strikes her odd and she lifts a shaky pale finger to caress the skin around her eyes. The mask is gone.
Shadows beneath the door attract her attention and she glances at them sharply, her heart rate increases. Muffled words are exchanged before dead silence encompasses the house once again. The door swings slowly open, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. It hurts, her lashes brushing against the bumped skin where the mask fabric was burned so delicately into her. The warm air seems to get sucked right out of the room. A cold hand tilts her chin upward, and a whimper escapes her lips. He laughs deeply and she can feel it through his fingertips.
“I’m going to kill you now.” He murmurs, his lips brushing the lobe of her ear.
Delilah gathers the skirts of her dress in both hands, her lithe feet carrying her across the wet grass quickly. Behind her masked men in their best tuxedos chase her. Menacing grins stretch their lips back, baring their sharp white teeth. Inside the brightly lit mansion people are hopelessly unaware. An owl hoots from a bare branch hanging above her head and she shrieks. Laughter erupts from the group of men. She estimates there’s three, maybe four of them. The black mask wrapped around her eyes, with its silver sparkles and diamond outline, makes it difficult for her to see out of her peripheral vision. She turns her head to glance back and a tree root catches her foot.
With her face buried in the grass she claws helplessly at the ground before her. The men descend with the grace of fierce lions, flipping her over. One man lights a match and holds it gleefully to her cheek, scorching her and melting the mask to her pale face. A rough hand smothers the scream erupting from her long swan-like throat. Another straddles her torso wielding a sharp knife. It’s cold and hot against her stomach, cutting through the white fabric of her dress effortlessly. The last two men hold her legs and arms, shouting directions and suggestions in a language she can’t decipher.
In minutes her nerves have gone numb, and she struggles between wakefulness and sleep. The mask is fully melted to her face by now, she’s sure. She doesn’t even want to know how her dress may look. In a brief lapse of alertness she feels a fleeting prick below her jaw and hears a shout from afar. Pressure exerts itself upon her windpipe until she’s gasping for breath, and then it’s gone and the men are fleeing. By now a different man is hurrying towards her, the one who shouted. There’s worry on his face and his words buzz without definition through her ears. He lifts her off the ground and she feels pain the nothing at all.
When Delilah wakes again she’s in a bedroom she doesn’t recognize. A nurse is glancing over her quickly but retreats before she can muster up words. The drapes are closed tightly around the only window and a candle burns slowly on the table beside her bed. It casts frightening shadows across the walls, reflected back in the vanity mirror. Something strikes her odd and she lifts a shaky pale finger to caress the skin around her eyes. The mask is gone.
Shadows beneath the door attract her attention and she glances at them sharply, her heart rate increases. Muffled words are exchanged before dead silence encompasses the house once again. The door swings slowly open, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight. It hurts, her lashes brushing against the bumped skin where the mask fabric was burned so delicately into her. The warm air seems to get sucked right out of the room. A cold hand tilts her chin upward, and a whimper escapes her lips. He laughs deeply and she can feel it through his fingertips.
“I’m going to kill you now.” He murmurs, his lips brushing the lobe of her ear.