Page 94 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Devils. All of them.

“Brie, it’s almost midnight. The mask—”

“I thought you said your brother was fraternal?” I ask, sidestepping Luke to approach the portrait. I stop before it, gazing up at the familiar face.

“He is.”

Luke’s voice sounds dejected. I turn to face him and immediately, I wish I hadn’t. His mask might as well be gone. His expression betrays every ounce of guilt as he swallows, searching for words—lies—that aren’t there. I guess the well has run dry.

“I’ll tell you everything, just not here,” he finally promises.

“That’s funny.” I don’t laugh as the final piece of the puzzle snaps into place. “I thought we already told each other everything. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine, right? That’s what we promised yesterday.”

I know it must be nearly midnight, that the devil will enter at any moment, creating our perfect opportunity to slip away. But suddenly, I’m not sure which devil I should be running from—the one that’s coming or the one standing right in front of me.

Thirty

Luke stares at me and I stare at Luke. The flesh-and-blood one, not the one in the portrait.

But it is him in the portrait. The pink, puckered scar across the painting’s throat matches the white one he sports now, proving it. But that’s where the similarities end.

Because the Luke in the portrait is cold. His eyes are black with no sign of the warm, earthy irises I’ve grown plenty familiar with over the past couple of days. The crown on his head is tilted just so, adding to his uncaring, merciless air. Everything about him is more defined: his jaw sharper, gaze harsher. Even the taunting slant to his mouth alludes to a pompous smirk I’ve yet to see.

But no—I have seen it. In the photo of him and his brother pinned to his lampshade. I thought his smile was mischievous, but now I clock it for what it really was—devilish. It’s the same grin he wore this morning while staring up at me from between my thighs.

“Brie, we have to go. I promise I’ll tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but we have to go now.”

I know he’s right. I can hear it in the way the music is faster than ever. The lights grow dimmer as the crow of the crowd rises to decibels that make it nearly impossible to hear him. He reaches for me and I step away, bumping backs with the dancers. They nearly mow me down, but I catch my balance, moving farther onto the floor to avoid another pleading attempt.

“It was you,” I say, the burning press of tears in my eyes. I gesture at the damning portrait, and, more aptly, the giant WANTED written in dripping white letters across his chest. “You’re the reason the hounds have been after us from the start. You weren’t just banished. You were their boss.”

For once, I can relate to those mutt assholes. Because right now, I want to kill him, too.

“I’m sorry,” he grates out, shame making his words raw. But is it even real? Was anything with him real? Or just a trick of the devil? “You have every right to be furious—”

“I’m not furious,” I interrupt, realizing it’s the truth. I wish it wasn’t. “I’m hurt.”

It cracks him open. He reaches for me again, but I move, running into the fray of revelers. I know he’s right—that we can’t abandon everything when we’re so close. But suddenly, I’m not even sure there is a veil.

The dress digs into my side, too tight, suffocating me like the airbag did after exploding in my face. I can’t breathe. Air. I need air. If I can just get outside, away from the music and dancing and him, get a few seconds to think and regroup, I’ll know what to do. I just need air.

The entrance doors are in sight when I stop short. Blocking them is a hell hound with golden ears. As if sensing my stare, he turns to look directly at me, the girl frozen in a room of cheering, gyrating bodies. His head tilts up and his chest expands. He’s inhaling. Sniffing.

A malicious grin peeks from under his mask as he starts toward me.

I shift course, running as fast as my dumb heels will allow for the stairs. I’ve lost Luke, for better or worse, and don’t recognize a single person I shove past in my haste. The performance continues overhead, the women spinning through the air in their tight red outfits looking like blood splatters slowly lowering toward me. A shit note of foreshadowing, no doubt.

I make it to the base of the stairs as a deep gong slices through the din.

Not a gong—a bell.

It’s midnight.

And I still wear the mask.

The toll is quickly followed by a second, a third. I sprint up the stairs as fast as my heels and dress allow. At the first landing where the stairs split in three, I glance back.

My stomach plummets at the pair of golden ears already at the bottom. My anonymity is crushed, and I have zero intention of spending the rest of my life looking like a jaguar.