Page 91 of The Devil

Sev shakes his head and in his usual manner, simply holds his glass, not even pretending to drink.

We stand just inside the great hall and take in the three-stories high ceiling. Candles burn from the dozen wrought-iron chandeliers, and I realize the entire hall is lit only by candlelight casting everything and everyone in a gold, almost ominous glow.

Men and women drift along the dance floor and past us and as I take in the costumes and masks, I see the hierarchy before me and although I doubt I’d recognize members of The Society of Scotland, they know who’s who, or at the very least, who is where in the pecking order.

Then, just as the quartet begins to play the next tune and partners get into position for the dance, I catch a glimpse of someone across the room.

No.

Not someone.

Something.

A bony hand wraps itself around the back of my neck, fingers like ice. Like death itself. They curl all the way around to my throat and tighten.

“Jet?” I hear. The voice is my brother’s, but it sounds like it’s at the other end of the world.

Or I’m at the other end of the world.

In another place.

Another time.

The mask vanishes in the crowd, that sensation of death gripping me gone and I can breathe again.

But it’s momentary, that reprieve. The mask reappears and this time, the wearer turns his head to look directly at me.

The scene before me is suddenly distorted, flashing in and out as if someone is turning the lights on. Off. On. Off. On. Off.

Cold sweat breaks out all over me.

And then it’s gone. He’s gone. The mask replaced by someone else. Something else. Plague doctor with his beaked nose. The Phantom of the Opera. All manner of masked couples to get lost in.

But I know what I saw. I know.

“Jet?” A hand is on my shoulder, shaking me.

I turn to look at the man beside me.

It’s my brother. My brother. That’s all. It’s Sev.

“Jet, what the fuck?” Sev gives me a hard shake.

Behind him that masked man appears once again. The same man. Or maybe a different one. Maybe multiple ones. No, just one. Or is it? No. No, there’s a second man. A third. All in the same mask, that fucking mask that’s burned into my memory. And they’re all looking at me.

I can never, never banish it and no matter how many years pass, no matter the fact that my grandfather is dead. He can’t hurt me. None of those men can. No matter that I could and would rip apart any man that dared tried with my bare hands, I’m right back there. I’ll never escape it. I know that, don’t I? Haven’t I always known that? Even when I stuck that knife in my grandfather’s neck and felt his blood soak my hands, I knew he would always, always hold that power over me.

“Jet!”

I blink, set my hand on the arm that is shaking me.

“Hey. It’s me. It’s Sev,” my brother says, pushing his mask to the top of his head.

My eyes, focus on his face, slow to sharpen. My breathing is shallow, a droplet of sweat sliding down my forehead into my eye.

“Jet. What the fuck is happening?”

“I saw it. Jesus. Fuck. I saw it.” I whip my mask off and when a waiter passes with a tray within grabbing distance, I snatch a whiskey and swallow the full contents of the tumbler. The familiar burn should ground me, but a fog blurs the edges of my vision. “I need some air,” I tell my brother.