Masquerade

When she emerges from her dressing room she’s clad in a long deep blue dress, with tiny hidden sparkles. Its corset at the top, with a circle left bare over her torso in the middle beneath her breasts. A single jewel hangs in that open circle, brushing against her bare, pale skin. The further down the torso, the looser it gets until the skirts poof dramatically around her, concealing the pretty pearl white shoes she had donned. Covering the skin around her eyes is a magnificent butterfly mask, tied around her swept up pale blonde hair. It’s colored with blues, purples and pinks with yellow splattered in.

“You look beautiful,” a familiar gravelly voice comments.

She looks up sharply to see Jameson regarding her behind a plain black mask, silver sparkles catching the light. He’s slipped into a tight, fitted tuxedo. Behind him the Devil grins happily, his eyes ablaze. She touches her hair self-consciously before nodding in agreement.

“Shall we go then?” the Devil asks politely.

Jameson and Delilah nod simultaneously, and she gathers her skirts before hurrying out behind the taller man. The walk to the party is short, and she can feel the unearthly heat brushing against her cold, bare skin. When they reach the door Jameson touches her elbow lightly, and she smiles happily at him. They may be at a permanent war, but for tonight they’re friends and conspirators.

Inside the room supernatural beings of all shapes and sizes are waltzing and talking. A band made entirely of demons spews out music from their instruments, and a long line leads from the buffet table. Just beyond the door, the Devil turns to regard them with a solemn look upon his face.

“The woman in the bright yellow dress and the man in the hideous red suit are your targets. You don’t have to kill them instantaneously, enjoy yourselves first. Just make sure they’re dead by the end of the party.” And with that he’s gone, wandered off into the mass of people.

Delilah and Jameson share a heavy look, knowing that to fit in they must dance. And they must dance with each other. Sighing, she holds her hand out and he takes it. They walk quickly to the dance floor and find an open space. He places his heavy hand upon her waist, and her, his back. Their free hands clasp tightly together, and they begin a rhythmic swirling and dipping. At one point he spins her out from him, and she brushes lightly against the woman in yellow before retreating into his grasp once more.

When a slower song is played they hold each other close, her head resting in the crook between his head and shoulder. He whispers softly to her, lyrics to a song she’s never heard before. It’s beautiful and haunting, and she shudders in his arms. From over his shoulder she sees the man in the red suit fleeing the ball room, a look of determination on his face. She alerts Jameson, excuses herself, and takes off after him as quickly as her beautiful dress allows.

Much to her chagrin, there’s a long dark hallway through the door the man exited. At least twenty doors decorate the hallway, and she frowns heavily. Footsteps land on the floor behind her, and she spins. A man in a plain tuxedo with a peacock mask grins at her. Red boils rise and fall on his exposed face, and she grimaces.

“Dear lady are you lost?” he inquires, his smile dropping.

“No, no a man went down here? He told me to follow him but I’ve seemed to have misplaced his directions.”

The man with the boils eyes her carefully, stroking a pathetic patch of hair across his upper lip. When Delilah is certain he isn’t going to answer her, she turns to go. It’s not until she’s halfway down the hall when he speaks again, his voice is loud and alarmed.

“Lady you cannot go down there! Are you lost?” he yells, hurrying forward.

She raises a brow silently amused at his short memory, before darting off down the hall and scurrying inside a room. She shuts the door quietly so as to not alert him to her whereabouts. Inside, the walls are crowded with paintings done centuries ago. There’s a fireplace against the far wall, and a dusty white chair sits in front of it. An oak side table sits beside the chair, some sort of book resting atop the surface.

After locking the door she sits softly in the chair, picking up the book. There’s dust coating the cover and she brushes it off before flipping it open. Inside there are words written in foreign languages she never learned, and a few in English. She can’t make sense of it, and she doesn’t have time. The handle jiggles violently and she stuffs the book under the chair cushion, hurrying over. When she opens the door, boil man stares at her with a bewildered look on his face.

“Young lady, are you lost?” he asks, stroking that mustache of his.

“I am,” she replies apologetically, rushing from the room.

Once inside the ballroom again, she searches frantically for Jameson. The yellow lady seems to be missing, and she hopes briefly that he went to discard her. A cold hand brushes hers, and she glances at the woman beside her. Never in her life has she met the woman, but the bright yellow fabric pierces her eyes. The woman shoots a knowing look her way before wandering down the hall that Delilah had just vacated.

Jameson stumbles from the bathroom, looking confused and disoriented. From across the room, over the patron’s heads, the Devil shoots them an unhappy look. She glances at the clock and panic arises. Its two hours to dusk. Two hours to hunt down two other vampires and kill them. If they aren’t killed, Jameson and Delilah will be killed in their place. She whispers the whereabouts of their targets to her companion, and this time with the help of his magic they sleep easily past the man with the boils.

Past that point they split up, him checking the room on the right and her, the left. It’s a lengthy process, and one that leaves them empty handed. Until they come to the room at the very end, the same room Delilah had found the book in. Cautiously, Jameson turns the knob and pushes the door open. He waits a second before wandering in, and then Delilah follows.

The woman in the yellow dress stands in front of the fireplace, her hand running atop the mantel repeatedly. Seated in the chair, with a book in his hands, is the man in the red suit. They look at Jameson and Delilah simultaneously, and the door slams shut. So one is a wizard while the other a vampire. The man speaks first, his voice light and startling unmanly.

“We know the Devil sent you to kill us, but you must know something first,” he says, turning his attention back to the book.

“We were his assassins once, too.” The woman informs, her eyes still glued on Delilah.

“And now we’re the hunted.” This from the man.

Next to her, Jameson lets out an agitated groan. Delilah shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the pair before her. Realization breaks into her head, and her face falls. It makes sense; terrible, terrible sense. The older couple is a wizard and a vampire. Much like she’s a vampire and Jameson a wizard-vampire crossbreed. From the chair, the man nods slowly. He had read her mind.

“There has to be some way for us to get out of here.” Delilah says desperately, turning to Jameson. “Magic put us here, magic should be able to remove us.”

“It is able, sweet Delilah.” He murmurs, approaching the chair.

The man in the red suit eyes Jameson before handing the book over. The three of them wait patiently while he flips through the book, and then a grin stretches his lips. His eyes sparkle beneath his mask when he glances up, and Delilah can’t help but to smile as well. They form a tight circle, all their arms interlaced. Together the man and Jameson murmur a chant in a language that Delilah can only guess is Latin.

Slowly, the room around them fades away until they’re standing in the countryside once more. Delilah claps happily while the older woman glances about, a grin on her face. The man in the red suit smiles more humbly, clapping Jameson on the back while simultaneously taking the book.

“You did it!” Delilah cheers, throwing herself into his arms.

Jameson spins her, laughing. “I did, I really did it.” He whispers, placing her back on the ground.

When they pull their gazes from each other’s faces, they notice that the couple is gone. She can hardly care that they took the book, too happy to be back in the underworld versus the Devil’s world. Bird’s chirp happily from the branches of a nearby tree, and a wind blows the grass softly. Delilah runs forward, eager to get into a kinder city. One full of good samaritans, nicer gremlins and monsters.

Inside the city the patrons take interest in their dress, and Delilah realizes they’re still wearing their masquerade attire. One child, a boy with half an arm and a fang extended permanently watches them with wide eyes. She smiles softly at him, and he scurries into a dark alleyway. She rolls her eyes and continues on her merry way, Jameson lagging slowly behind her. Concerned, she eyes him with her sharpened sense of sight.

“What’s wrong with you?” she demands, gripping his shoulders.

“Doing that spell, even with the help of that other man, wore me out. It’s agonizing pain just to walk down this street.”

“Perhaps we should get you some blood then.” Delilah concludes.

Their walk is slower then, but he directs her to the man’s house he was speaking of before their trip down under. After a brief knock he answers and grimaces, stepping aside reluctantly to let them through. She discards Jameson on the sofa and hurries to the fridge, extracting a bag of blood to warm in the microwave.

She feeds it to him carefully, until he’s able to hold the bag himself. The host watches from the corner, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Delilah studies him carefully. He has black hair tied into a loose ponytail, and thick eyebrows casting shadows across his cheeks. A scar runs through his lip, and his deep eyes are the warmest color of chocolate. A growl scratches its way from his throat.

“You wore him out.” he accuses, stepping forward slightly.

Delilah bolts up from the couch, standing in a defensive posture. “I did no such thing! He didn’t have to do the spell, but it saved our lives. He had help anyways, though we never caught the man’s name.”

“That’s because he probably was nothing but evil.” The man snaps, heading into the kitchen.

“They needed saving as much as we did.” She mutters, unsure why she’s defending a couple she hardly knows.

From the couch Jameson lets out a cough, tossing the empty blood bag on the coffee table. Their eyes connect across the room, and she hardens her expression. She had a momentary lapse of weakness, but now that they’re continuing on their journey things are to go back to the way they were. He nods slowly from his seat, glancing away to hide his face. The black haired man emerges once more, holding blood bottles not unlike the ones the witch gave them before.

“Take these and go, I don’t want you in my home anymore. You bring nothing but evil with you, I can smell it.”

Jameson houses a wounded expression when he takes the bottle, but Delilah walks out the door with her head held high. He was just a pawn they had to use to continue on their journey. A worthless pawn with worthless words. She glances to the sky and watches as the sun lowers slowly. Jameson notices as well, and stuffs his free hand inside his trouser pocket.

“Are we sleeping in the dirt again tonight?” he asks, eyeing her dress.

“I’m sure we can find someone willing enough to house us.” She replies, her voice flat.

They walk around the town for awhile before stumbling upon a home with a single gremlin inhabitant. Between the two of them it’s an easy kill, and Jameson locks the door before they fall to dead in their separate rooms.