Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) (9 page)

I set the knife beside us on the bed.

He takes my wrist and places my palm against his chest. “You can turn the knife and stab between the ribs,” he says. And then he pulls my hand down to his stomach. “Or, if you want to kill him, aim here.”

How much harm I could bring myself to inflict? Do I want to know how best to do it?

He’s watching me closely. “Do you think you could kill someone?”

“If I had to,” I say.

“It gets easier over time.”

He releases my wrist, but I leave my hand resting right above the third button of his shirt. He’s no longer giving me matter-of-fact instruction on how to kill a man, but the way he’s looking at me is unsettling.

He closes his eyes and leans in to me. I slide my hand up to his shoulder and push him back.

He opens his eyes and frowns. “Why is it that we never kiss unless we’ve almost died?”

I shift sideways so that my shoulder is against his chest. He has a point. “It’s easier, after we’ve been in danger, for us to let go of our distrust of each other.”

After a moment, he puts his arm around me. “I don’t suppose I trust anyone,” he says finally. “Not fully.”

Hearing him admit it is sad. For him, and for us. But I don’t blame him.

I have never trusted Elliott. Not completely. And he never wanted me to. But our experiences have not been so different.

I hear a voice from the hallway, and then another, a conversation beginning. The establishment is waking up.

“Sun’s up,” I observe, grabbing the knife as I slide to the side of the bed. “Time to look for my father.”

“The clockmaker is sending out his scavengers to search.”

“It isn’t enough.” Being in the city makes me realize the difficulty of finding one man who does not wish to be found.

“I’m not going to spend the entire day walking the streets and calling your father’s name,” he says. “The only way we’ll stumble over your father is if he’s dead.”

“That isn’t funny.”

If Father is dead, he can’t answer to me for his lies and his crimes. He won’t be able to save April.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” Elliott’s strapping on his sword, readjusting his pack. “I’m being practical. We won’t find him by wandering around. Today I will mobilize my men, begin the takeover of the city. Once my soldiers are patrolling, they can look for your father, too.”

He’s only reaffirming my fear that the city is too big and has too many hiding places.

“I sent Will out on some errands last night. He’ll meet us at the tavern where we ate yesterday. I may need to put their steam carriage to use.” He opens the door to the room and gestures for me to exit.

The sun is shining outside. Mornings in the city are often foggy, but the sky is clear today.

It seems strange, walking with Elliott without Will on my other side.

“What sort of errands did you send him on?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. “He took messages to some of my men.”

“This morning? Or last night? Traveling at night is dangerous.”

“He knew that coming with us would be dangerous.”

“Try not to get him killed,” I say. Elliott makes a show of scanning the street ahead of us, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I wasn’t trying to get him killed,” he says finally. “His ideals are misguided, but I don’t wish for him to die.”

“What would it take for you to trust him?” I ask. Because we need to somehow trust one another.

“What would it take for
you
to trust him?” he counters.

I would have to forget how he betrayed me.

“At least in a few nights the children will be in the city. If he falls out of line— well, we know his weakness.”

“I would never threaten Henry or Elise.”

“Then I know your weakness, too.” I wait for him indicate that he’s not serious, but his attention has shifted to the city around us.

Smoke rises from the next city street. At first I think another building is burning, but instead it seems to be coming from a series of contained campfires.

A village of dismal burlap tents has sprung up across what must have once been a park, and it spills over to cover the cracked foundations of a warehouse. Clotheslines are stretched between some of the tents, and a few brave vegetables are growing in pots. A dog barks at us from inside the perimeter.

“Can’t they find buildings to live in?” I ask. The city has always had enough empty buildings that most people can find at least partial shelter.

“Perhaps they think the buildings are contaminated in some way,” Elliott says, and I remember how the corpse collectors used to paint black scythes on doors. What happens when all the doors have been marked? Perhaps people will just abandon the city, whisper that it’s haunted, and live in tents.

“At least they are trying,” Elliott continues, “instead of just squatting in their ruined buildings with the dead. I can work with people who have the initiative to make their lives better.”

I don’t know how it happened, but I’m holding Elliott’s hand. Not clinging to it or allowing him to pull me along—my hand just somehow found its way into his.

We pass the burned shell of an apartment building. A paper is nailed to the charred remains of a door. I stop to reach for it with my free hand. The ink is red and ran in a bloody trail down the parchment.

DOWN WITH SCIENCE. KILL THE SCIENTIST.

I drop the paper. The tip of my finger is stained red. I wipe it inside the sleeve of my dress, where a stain is less likely to show, but the ink has soaked into my skin.

“They want to kill my father.”

“Do you blame them?”

I don’t answer him.

“I find it ironic . . . when I asked your father for information about the masks, he scorned my help. Your mother may have told him things that I’d done as a boy, and he judged me, but at the same time, he was never truly the hero he pretended to be. Was he?”

“He was to me,” I say quietly. “And I’m not going to stop thinking that until he looks me in the eye and tells me that when he made the virus”—this is the first time I’ve admitted aloud that I know he did it—“that it wasn’t an accident, that he wasn’t forced to—”

“Why does that matter? Thousands of people died either way.”

“I just need to know,” I say. “Wouldn’t you want . . . ?” I trail off. Elliott isn’t aware of the truth about his own father. I throw him a sidelong look and brace myself to tell him, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

“
Your
father is a hypocritical murderer whose only thought was the sake of discovery. Not the safety of the people.”

The words are ugly. And they could be true.

If I tell him about his own father now, it will seem as if I am simply retaliating.

We walk in silence for a long time. I try to get my bearings, to connect the maze of streets and buildings to the grids and squares that I memorized last night.

Looking up at a wrought-iron rail that surrounds a low balcony, I gasp. A dead man’s head, streaked with red, is in the window box, as if he was crawling out the window of his apartment and died before he made it.

We pass a series of scythes painted in the same garish red as the pamphlet calling for Father’s death. The same red as my fingertip. Malcontent’s sign.

Elliott scans the buildings that line our route very carefully. A pile of broken masks lies beside a charred brick wall. “Malcontent,” Elliott mutters. “If he has his way, only his faithful will survive.”

He stops and reaches into his pack. “Before we reach the tavern, I want to give you this.” If he gives back the diamond ring, I’m not sure what I will do. The first time he gave it to me, our relationship was fake. Now, I’m not sure what it is.

But instead of the ring, he pulls out a small handgun. A gun that can be concealed, like this one, is very rare and very expensive.

“Thank you.” I’m able to exclaim over the little gun more effusively than I ever could over the ring. The ivory handle matches the knife I keep in the top of my boot.

“It only holds two bullets. So shoot to kill and don’t miss.”

I nod, amazed that he bought me such a gift. That he’s thinking of my safety.

“You may be wondering where it was hidden, since it wasn’t in my pack last night.”

I look up. What gave away that I’d rummaged through his things? And is he truly laughing about it?

We really do deserve each other, Elliott and I.

“Keep it close,” he says. And we continue on.

Our footsteps echo against the paving stones. It seems this entire area has been emptied. I only see one corpse lying in a dilapidated doorway. But the marching of many feet resounds from nearby. The last time I heard that sound was from Malcontent’s men in the tunnels. Can Elliott and I hold off a whole troop of soldiers and live?

Elliott pulls me into a doorway and stands in front of me. The pounding feet draw closer. I grip my gun tightly, ready to fire.

A group of men turn the corner, and Elliott lets out a breath. He leaves our hiding place. “Don’t worry. These men are mine.”

I count twenty, in makeshift uniforms.

“Elliott, sir,” the one in the lead says. “We were heading to meet you at the tavern.”

“Let’s move.” Elliott motions the men forward, and I step out from the doorway. “I don’t want to linger in this area.”

“She’ll be going with us?” The soldier glances at me.

“Yes,” I say, holding his gaze.

Elliott smiles. “Araby isn’t afraid of less than reputable establishments.”

I don’t like the way he said my name, possessively, informally, as if his men should all know it. But I follow them down the street. As I turn the corner, I nearly run into the soldier in front of me, because everyone has abruptly halted.

Before us is a uniformed soldier, his gun drawn, the tip pressed to the head of a child.

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE BOY CAN’T BE OLDER THAN
E
LISE
. S
ORES
mar his forehead and left cheek. He’s obviously infected with the contagion. The soldier has his gun pressed so hard to the boy’s forehead—if he took it away, it would leave a mark.

Tears stream down the soldier’s face. He doesn’t look away from the child, even as Elliott speaks.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice is calm.

“Tell him,” the soldier growls. His hand is beginning to tremble.

The boy’s eyes move to Elliott. “The reverend commands us to walk through the upper city, speaking to everyone. Touching them if possible.”

“You’re spreading the contagion.”

“Yes.” The child collapses to the sidewalk.

“This is what we are up against.” Elliott casts his voice so that all of the men behind can hear him. “Malcontent wants the city, even if that means infecting each and every one of us. Those who live with it, like his soldiers, can remain. The rest will die.”

I kneel down beside the boy. “Leave the city. Don’t ever come back.”

“I can’t,” the boy says. “He’ll send the Hunter for me.”

“Araby, he can’t be allowed to continue,” Elliott says.

He is not rational on this topic. Elliott is terrified of the spread of disease. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to plan ahead for, and he is enraged by the way Malcontent is using it. I don’t blame him. Malcontent’s intentions are horrible. His use of this child is vile. But fear and anger are not a good combination.

The soldier, sensing approval in Elliott’s words, refocuses on the boy, prepared to shoot.

“Put your gun down,” I say. “Please.”

He looks to Elliott. Elliott’s eyebrows go up. And they don’t go down, even when I add the “please.” He doesn’t like me commanding his soldiers any better than he likes me telling him what to do. But I can’t let them hurt this child. The way the man’s arm is shaking, I’m terrified that the gun will go off.

“Please, Elliott.” My voice rings out in the alley. “Think of April—”

“If we let him go, he’ll return tomorrow. Who knows how many people he’s already infected?” Elliott grabs me and crushes my face into his immaculate white shirt.

The gun fires.

I shove Elliott as hard as I can.

But the soldier shot wide. The gun falls to the ground with a clatter beside the boy, who looks up at us, eyes wide. Tears stream down the soldier’s face. But I’m afraid if the soldier couldn’t do it, Elliott will kill the boy himself.

“Take him back to the swamp,” I insist, standing between Elliott and the boy.

“We have to send a message to Malcontent that we won’t let his people attack us.”

“If everyone had masks, there wouldn’t be a reason to fear them.” I don’t move, even as Elliott steps toward us. “We should be saving people, not killing them.”

The soldiers shift, and the boy seems so small and lost, crouched beside the gun that was meant to kill him.

“Take him out of the city,” Elliott says finally. “We won’t stoop to Malcontent’s level, using children. But if any of you hear word of him, I want to know immediately.”

Across the street, someone opens their shutters and peers out. What do they make of so many men standing over a shaking child?

“If Malcontent’s followers are willing to leave the city, escort them to the periphery. Otherwise, shoot to kill. Burn the bodies. And if any of our men do not have functional masks, send them to me.”

A soldier prods the boy with the barrel of his gun.

“Come along,” he says. Two of the soldiers fall in line behind them. The rest follow us.

As we approach the tavern from the opposite side, I look for Will, searching the shadows where the cloaked man was hiding yesterday. All I see are more of Elliott’s soldiers. They seem to be everywhere, standing in doorways, talking, smoking. Elliott nods to them, lifting one hand in a half wave before we enter the common room of the inn.

Inside it’s dark, and I stand beside Elliott, blinking while my eyes adjust. Every table is filled, and men line the walls. Some of them are in uniform, others in ragged street clothes, but they all come to attention when they spot us.

Elliott surveys the room, and then gives a little half bow. The men at the tables raise their mugs and cheer. The room may be dim, but it can’t hide the startling whiteness of Elliott’s teeth as he grins.

At the back of the room there’s a table on a platform, so it sits a little higher than the rest. We make our way toward it. I’m surprised to see Will sitting there, and even more so when he slides a stack of papers down to me and hands another to Elliott.

Elliott places the pamphlets on the table and pulls out a chair for me. Once I sit, he stays behind me, both hands gripping the back of the chair, and clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he calls. “Today we begin the takeover of this city.” All eyes are fixed upon him, and his hands are trembling hard enough that I can feel it through my chair.

“But we must work strategically,” he continues, his voice steadily growing stronger. “First we will take up residency in the Debauchery District. You can find me in the Debauchery Club when I’m not on the streets fighting by your side. Starting tomorrow we’ll move families into the empty buildings. We will find workers for the distillery to make our water safe to drink. We will work together to kill the coward who calls himself Malcontent, who hides in the shadows and plans to kill us all.”

The men raise their tankards and cheer. Some are stomping their feet, some clapping, and the room reverberates with their enthusiasm. One after the other they rise to their feet, saluting Elliott.

Did Elliott have this plan all along, or did the sea of tents we encountered this morning give him the idea?

Will also stands, but the way he’s clapping, I’m quite sure that no sound comes from the meeting of his hands. He isn’t mocking Elliott, not openly, but I can tell he’s questioning Elliott’s intentions.

I reach for the stacks of papers that he gave to us when we arrived. One stack outlines Elliott’s plan. A plan that he shared with Will, obviously, but not with me.

Not only does everyone who wishes to have Elliott’s protection move to the Debauchery District—Elliott has promised to find them clean water and food. How can he and the men in this room guarantee that?

The other stack, the one that Will gave me, is twice as tall. It is my message to Father, printed in bold letters.

IF YOU REMEMBER FINN, FIND ME.
With Elliott’s symbol printed beneath.

When I look up, Will has disappeared. His spot at the table has been taken by three men, pushing forward, ready to follow Elliott to the ends of the earth.

The innkeeper, also beaming, brings us plates filled with food and some sort of distilled beverage. Men circulate through the room. Some of them slap Elliott on the back. Others want to shake my hand, which is awkward, since for once I’m trying to eat.

Elliott is not eating, but he takes his seat beside me and rests his hand on my thigh. Possessively.

A group of older men enters the inn from the street and approaches our table.

“I like your ideas,” one says. He stands awkwardly, holding one of Will’s papers. I lean forward to get a better look at him, and our eyes lock. He stops speaking, his lip curling. He recognizes me. And I recognize him. He was one of Father’s guards.

Elliott takes his hand from my leg, and I think for a moment that he’s repudiating me in the face of this man’s distaste, but instead he pulls my chair closer to his and drapes one arm over my shoulders.

“You were saying?” he asks. The man continues his praise for Elliott’s plans, still trying not to look at me. Other men begin to whisper.

Not only do these men hate Father, they hate me. Even though they’ve never met me, they eye me with disgust. The mood in the room has shifted from friendly camaraderie to something dark and menacing.

“Scientist’s daughter,” I hear someone hiss.

The scientist. It used to be the name of their hero. Now it is a curse. Their disillusionment with my father mirrors my own. And yet I don’t deserve their hostility.

“Elliott?” These are his men. I cannot allow myself to get angry, not yet. He touches my jaw with his thumb, caressing my face.

A soldier with an eye patch pipes up. “How many of us have lost our children, our wives? It would serve the scientist right—”

It’s too much. Some of these men, these fighters who have come at Elliott’s call, would hurt me to punish my father. I stand, ready to condemn their hypocrisy.

“I am the scientist’s daughter.” But my voice comes out low, and I doubt anyone who isn’t at this particular table can hear. I take a deep breath and continue. “I’m also a sister. I lost my brother to the plague, and my mother to the prince.” My voice breaks.

The room is silent. Elliott puts down his tankard.

“Yes,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing beside me. “And she’s here
with me
. I want her father found, and I want him
alive
.”

The soldiers look at one another and slowly nod. Elliott sweeps his gaze over the rest of the room and then sits down. He gestures to my chair, but sitting feels weak. Though the aggression has dissipated, I don’t want to stay here. This room is crowded now, claustrophobic. I search for Will, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“I’m going outside,” I say to Elliott. “To get some air.”

He prepares to stand to go with me, but I don’t want him. I need a few moments alone. I never cared much for my celebrity status as the scientist’s daughter. But I’d grown accustomed to it. I knew that he was no longer a hero, not even in my own mind. But seeing the hatred, the violence here, is shocking. I clench my hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

As I walk out of the inn I try to meet as many soldiers’ eyes as I can. I don’t want them to think that I’m running away.

The inn is close to the river, and I can hear running water. I force myself to picture it flowing over creek stones rather than the rib cages of the dead. Some of Elliott’s men are outside, standing in small groups. They seem very relaxed, and though several of them glance at me, sneering a little, they don’t say anything. Why are they standing around drinking? They should be acting. Elliott should be doing something. Anything.

I scan the street and spot Will on the front steps of a building across the street. He sees me at the same time and leaps up. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s dressed like he used to be at the club: fitted pants and a black shirt.

“Elliott let you come out here alone?” He’s a bit short of breath as he approaches.

“He didn’t
let
me. I told him I was leaving.”

He leads me back across the street to the vague shelter of a partially intact brick wall, scuffing his boot in the dirt.

“I shouldn’t have left you in there.”

“I’m not your responsibility either,” I snap.

He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes bore into me.

“I’m here to help you. I can’t make up for what I did, but since we’re both here now, I’m going to aid you in any way I can.” He looks tired. His eyes are framed with beautiful thick lashes, but there are dark circles beneath them.

“Just don’t get in my way, trying to protect me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. If you wanted to be coddled, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Walk with me,” I say, because I need to move. Getting away from the tavern, the hostile glances, makes me feel lighter, less weighted by guilt and worry. I smile, and Will smiles back at me. We pause in late-afternoon sunshine for several long moments.

“Come,” I say, and take off with renewed energy.

The buildings on this street merge into one another, rectangular windows, square, white stone ledges. A small face gazes down from a window. How often did Henry and Elise watch passersby from the window of Will’s apartment? I miss the children. The days I spent there with them.

As we move from one alley to the next, oily smoke obscures the sunlight. The wood frame of an apartment building is smoldering. I run my foot over the gritty paving stones, and the movement reveals a carving in one of them. A flower. This city was once beautiful.

“Let’s hang some of these flyers,” Will says. “Elliott wants me to hang his, anyway.”

“Is it hopeless?” I ask, looking up at him. Yesterday, walking through the city, I was overwhelmed by the odds of finding Father, particularly with the mob also hunting him.

Will shakes his hair out of his face. “There’s always hope,” he says quietly.

He digs in a bag he’s carrying for a light hammer and some nails before taking one of the flyers from my hand. As he affixes it to the charred door of an apartment building, the cuff of his shirt slips back, revealing a tendril of dark tattoo around his left wrist.

It’s thinner than the rest of the tattoos, and I never noticed it before. He reaches out for another flyer. But my hand is empty. I touch the tattoo for a moment before pulling my hand back.