Masquerade

America 2010

Delilah tilts her head slightly, a feral smile spreading across her red, red lips. The child with light brown hair and bronzed skin cowers below her, fear radiating from her trembling frame. It’s become Delilah’s favorite scent. She approaches quietly, bending slightly at the waist. The little girl squeals, a quick sharp sound. It hurts Delilah’s delicate ears. Upset, she darts a hand out effortlessly and squeezes the girl’s windpipe shut permanently. With the limp child cradled in her arms, she feeds greedily and happily. Behind her the moon shines brightly, stars winking joyfully.

When finished she deposits the child back into her home, tucked beneath her covers where she lay still. She yawns softly and glances at the clock above the stove in the kitchen. Its quarter past four in the morning, dawn quickly approaching. She slips out the back door, gliding past the bleeding dog and onto the cold, fall frosted street. A couple houses down another shadowed figure streaks out of a quaint little home and were it not so close to dawn she would follow it. After all, it could be the man who murdered her. Irritated she makes her way back to the cemetery and tucks herself inside the mausoleum, curling up on the aged cement floor to wait for night to rule the world once again.

As the moon rises so does Delilah, with a newfound task awaiting her outside the heavy slab of a door. Brushing spider webs from herself she wanders outside. The same figure from the night before is waiting atop a headstone, his face tilted towards the crescent moon. She admires the still veins in his neck before approaching. It’s nobody she’s met before, for he is way too handsome to have come from the town she had. When she gets closer she notices something pushed into his unruly dark hair. Their eyes meet over wilted flowers.

“Who are you?” she demands, stepping closer.

He chuckles lightly and pulls the mask tight over his face. It’s black and gold, with large white feathers sprouting from the left eye. “How nice to meet you too Delilah. My name is Jameson Benedict, and I’ve been searching for you for a century now.”
For the first time in years she feels dumbfounded and afraid, vulnerable at most. This man she’s never met before knows her name; this man with the beautiful masquerade mask and soul penetrating blue eyes. Luckily for Delilah, she’s without a soul. Strength and calm reclaim their homes, vacating fear and vulnerability.

“Why?” she wonders, circling him now like a bird its prey.

“You fascinate me. Your killing patterns have been the talk of the underworld for quite some time now. You don’t get out much now, do you? I reckon you’d know if you did.” He replies in a lazy drawl, slipping off the stone.

“I get out plenty, but unlike you and apparently everyone else I don’t go out for fun. I feed, I kill, and I seek revenge.”

“Revenge is such an ugly thing.”

“You’re a pansy,” she snaps, her lips lifted in a snarl.

“Let us not get nasty now. I have a gift for you, sweet Delilah.”

Intrigued she watches as he bends behind his previously occupied stone. When he’s righted himself there’s a beautiful mask in his hands. It’s made of red feathers and the blackest sequins. When she slips it over her bright yellow-green eyes it fits perfectly. Her red lips smooth into a satisfied smile.

“Beautiful,” Jameson breathes, stepping closer.

Her hand caresses the feathers softly, fangs extended slightly. “Isn’t it?” she murmurs in reply.

“There’s a masquerade ball a few blocks away.”

“You act like I wouldn’t know that.”

“Silly Delilah, I know you didn’t know. Let’s go now, it’s about to hit full swing.”

Reluctantly she follows the mystery man – Jameson – out of the graveyard and up the street. They stop outside a dark shop, dresses and tuxedos hanging in the windows. He slips his hand in hers quietly, pulling her forward into the vacant shop with its beautiful garments. One particular white one captivates her attention. It’s the darkest shade of black with off the shoulder straps and a corset bodice. The skirts fall softly down to brush atop the ground. It contrasts beautifully against her cold white skin.

Jameson emerges from one of the dressing rooms clad in a perfectly tailored black suit and white tie. He smiles his white, sharp toothed grin at her and she slips her arm through his effortlessly. It would be perfect if she could capture their image within the mirrors hanging about the tiny shop. Sighing, they slip out the door and continue their way to the brightly lit building a few streets away. Music flows through the constantly opening door.

The inside is lit softly with golden Christmas lights, and a band plays music on a stage in the corner. The patrons are all clad in masks of different shapes and sizes, their colors varying from white to black and every color in-between. The dance floor is crowded with rowdy dancing causing Delilah to scrunch her pert little nose in distaste. Jameson clears his throat quietly, and a passing waiter gives them a wide berth. Scowling, Delilah slips into the heart of the party. She offers the men playful, lusty looks. The girls regard her with mixed emotions of envy and awe.

She can feel Jameson following her and annoyance washes throughout her. She spins quickly and swiftly on her heels and they study each other over the heads of passing party goers. “Quit following me.” She snaps.

“I want to see you in action.” He replies quietly, his eyebrow quirked. Those blue, blue eyes sparkle at her from beneath his mask.

“Not tonight. Tonight I’m going to enjoy myself.” She murmurs, eyeing him sharply.

From the look on his face she can tell he isn’t happy but she doesn’t care. She’s never met this man before and owes nothing to him, not even a bloodbath big or small. A solitary man with soft brown hair crosses her path and she snags his arm. He gives her a startled look but obliges eagerly when she asks to dance. Much to her chagrin they dance like the others crowding the tiny ballroom dance floor.

When the clock strikes one she scurries from the building much like Cinderella. Her jaw is tight, tongue dry and teeth ripping her gums and bottom lip apart. She said she wasn’t going to kill anyone at the party, but all the moving bodies and flowing blood made it difficult. Jameson emerges shortly after, his skin glowing as much as pale skin can.

“I’m glad you satisfied yourself. Was it the birthday girl you took? Or maybe you killed someone less significant, a waiter?” Delilah asks, hurrying down the sidewalk.

“I took birthday girl’s best friend. She was annoying, that one. Asked me one question too many and kept chattering about her petty jealousy of the birthday girl.” Jameson responds angrily.

“Well I didn’t take anyone at the party,” she replies. “Exactly like I said I wouldn’t. So I’m going to go feed now and then I’m going to go to bed. You’re absolutely not welcome to follow me.”

A loud guffaw erupts from the man’s throat and she stops, startled. “You can’t…this isn’t 1798, just because you tell me I’m not welcome to follow you does not mean I’ll stop.”

“Whatever,” she mutters.

They flee to an apartment a few blocks away, Delilah aiming for a single person living alone. The first window reveals just that and she slips inside while Jameson waits patiently in the hallway. The woman is watching television, a scary movie about zombies and werewolves. Her hair is cropped short enough that the strike and kill is quick, simple and relatively cleaner than last nights. All the while she’s drinking she studies the movie playing across the television. It’s some sort of horror romance, and amusement tickles its way through her when a Hollywood vampire swaggers across the screen. He’s cliché tall, dark and handsome with pale and skin and mechanical fangs that click out when he’s lustful or hungry.

When she emerges, Jameson eyes the blood dripping from her chin. He licks his lips hungrily and steps closer, fangs extending slightly but Delilah brushes on past, rubbing the crimson liquid off with her finger. She sucks it greedily until there’s not a drop left. She can’t help but remember the movie and think of how similar Jameson is to the clichéd vampire. A tingling in her skin alerts her to the changing hour and lets her know that it’s closer to dawn. Beside her Jameson shifts uncomfortably, a grimace furrowing his brow. She raises a brow but refuses to ask.

By the time they get back to the cemetery yet another hour has passed, leaving dawn a mere two hours away. Jameson has pushed his mask back into his hair, the same way it was when they met earlier that night. Delilah reluctantly removes her own, absently stroking it. Outside the mausoleum door they watch each other quietly.

“I want you to show me this underworld you speak of tomorrow.”

Jameson’s eyes widen in shock before a pleased grin lifts his cheeks. “No problem.”

“Is it much different there? Than it is here, I mean.” She inquires, the curious vulnerable child in her shining through.

He seems to mull her question over for a good couple of minutes, staring off into the distance. She’s about to ask him again when he replies. “It’s the same but not the same. It may seem like this world is full of thieves, murderers and liars, but there’s good people sprinkled in with them. In the underworld, it’s all bad people. They’re full of angst and seeking revenge, much like you are. It’s a wonder there’s still so many humans alive, because at last count the blood thirsty underlings outrank mortals.”

“So you’re saying there are more people like me down there? People who understand, people who are looking to avenge their deaths?”

“Yes, there is. But they’re stuck there for the rest of eternity. It’s actually surprising that you’ve never been to the underworld, that you’ve managed to escape imprisonment.” Jameson replies, his mind seeming to be stuck on the thought.

Delilah grows uneasy. “Will they hold me there if I go?”

“They can’t, my sweet Delilah. You’re a visitor and unless you do wrong within the underworld, you’ll be free to come and go as you please. However, if you sleep the night there you’ll become a permanent residence of the underworld. Meaning, wherever you are in the world, when dawn strikes you have to be asleep within the world limits else you’ll burn, even if you’re covered from the sun.”

“That’s not fair! I’ve lived here for years. This is my hunting spot, my area. I’ve claimed it with my murders and my scent.” She whimpers.

“Don’t worry; we’ll make sure you get out. You’ll still reside within these world limits. You can still claim this city as your own.” Jameson assures, touching her arm softly.

“Promise me, Jameson. I refuse to go there until you promise me that they cannot capture me. I don’t want to live in their world; I want to live in my world. This may not be the country I was born and bred in, but it’s the world I was born and bred in.”

“Delilah I promise you with my undead life that they cannot keep you in the underworld without your consent.”

“Okay, sleep tight Jameson. Don’t let the tomb bugs bite.”

They chuckle simultaneously before Jameson disappears into the dark, leaving Delilah to admire her mask. She smiles softly and slips into her tomb. It’s the first day in awhile where she sleeps soundly, not a nightmare or sound interrupting her slumber. The prospect of adventuring inside a new world the next night is like a security blanket wrapped tightly around her perpetually cold frame.