Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Read Free Page B

around him and lost myself. The memory makes me blush.
    But he drugged me, though I told him not to. Can I trust him?
    He’s ruthless.
    But I like that about him. Perhaps my goal should be to become more like Elliott. A fighter. A revolutionary. Both of our fathers are murderers. Maybe we deserve each other. Maybe he can’t trust me either.
    “Araby?” Elliott is holding out a jar of salve, while fumbling to unfasten the last button on his shirt. “Since you’re here . . .” His shirt falls to the floor.
    Even in the dimness of the cabin, I can tell that some of his wounds are bad. Elliott’s back is crisscrossed with fresh bruises and burns over the scars that have already healed. There’s a long scrape where some part of the steamship must have hit him when it exploded. He’s lucky to be alive. We all are.
    When I dip my fingers into the ointment, they tingle immediately. Elliott gasps as I touch him, and then relaxes. I let my fingertips linger on his skin. The mocking smile has disappeared when he turns toward me. His eyes are wide, and the look in them might seem guileless if I didn’t know better. In the semidarkness his hair is a dark burnished gold.
    I go completely still, focused on our nearness.
    My heart speeds up.
    Flustered, I dip my fingers back into the salve and tear my eyes away from his face, searching for burns that need soothing. My fingers catch on a gash, and we both jump a little bit.
    “You have so many scars,” I say softly.
    His muscles tense. I know what I’ve done. Once before he made me feel the scars from Prospero’s torture. But I’ve never seen the extent of them. He was just a boy when he endured this. No wonder he hates Prospero so viciously.
    “Your fists are clenched,” I say, in something close to a whisper. I take one of his hands and gently pry the fingers apart, forcing him to relax, threading his fingers through my own. “I’m sorry.”
    He closes his eyes, and when he opens them he’s back with me. Not just with me, but focused on me. His attention sends chills through me.
    The air in the cabin is unnaturally still. In this moment, Elliott and I are the only people in the world.
    He shifts forward, all lithe grace and strength, like a big cat. Something dangerous. But I don’t feel like prey. Not exactly.
    We stare at each other. I can’t trust him, but for all his ulterior motives, he’s never abandoned me. His free hand is at my waist, snaking around me, pulling me close, then even closer.
    The door creaks open.
    “Sorry to interrupt,” Will says. He stays in the doorway, and his shadow is elongated by the candles in the room behind him. Will is tall, but never insubstantial, like the shadow that falls across me and Elliott. Across the bed. When Will steps into the cabin, his dark hair falls forward, but it can’t hide that his cheeks are flushed, as if he is embarrassed—or upset.
    I pull away from Elliott, my own face heating up. Of all the people to see me here, with Elliott, Will is by far the worst.
    “For whatever reason, I’ve been put in charge of medical duty,” Will says.
    “No,” I say, looking up into his eyes. His very dark eyes. “No more sleeping medicine.”
    Whatever Elliott gave me is finally wearing off, and I’m beginning to feel more like myself, more aware. The burning pain of my wound is growing, too, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to be alert.
    Will’s voice is soft. “Lie on your stomach, sweetheart. I want to get a good look at the stitches.”
    The throwaway endearment takes me back to the Debauchery Club. A simpler time when I didn’t know dark secrets and wasn’t trying to help save the world. But it doesn’t wipe away his betrayal. He touches my good shoulder to try to help me, and I brush him off.
    Elliott sits up, scooting down to the foot of the bed. He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk from Will.
    I lie down gingerly, trying to pretend that nothing hurts. I won’t give either of them a reason to