Page 4 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

“You can never outfox the fox,” he murmured, before doing a double take. He touched the mask’s reflection, frowning.

For the briefest of seconds, he thought he’d seen…

I looked like Henrikk.

It was the angle of the jaw and hollows beneath his cheekbones, which although not as sharp as Henrikk's, were emphasised by the cut of the mask.

And the eyes.

They shared the same eyes, or at least, they used to—before Henrikk’s had mysteriously turned pale grey, blending with the milky whites of his eyes. Their new appearance gave him a piercing look that was attractive, but Asher had forgotten how they used to look.

Shaking his head to dispel the old memories, he gathered his weapons and prepared to go downstairs: a sheathed, long sword secured to the left side of his belt; several throwing stars and a small knife on the right; a hunting bow tossed over his back; a near-empty quiver, with only a handful of arrows for appearance's sake.

And the ultimate weapon, the one that could fit into the palm of his hand. The one that Henrikk had hidden in the depths of the room, like a secret he wanted Asher to discover.

He tucked the tiny weapon deep into the jacket’s lower right-hand pocket. His palms were sweaty, but his fingers were sure as he carefully buttoned it into place.

The end was coming, but not in the way Henrikk expected.

Asher let out a long exhale to steady his nerves. He would force Henrikk to confront death far more quickly than either of them were prepared for.

Chapter 2

MASQUERADE BALL

Asher

Locating the king at his own ball should have been easy, but an hour had passed, and Asher had not seen Henrikk anywhere.

His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword, ensuring it was still attached to his belt.

A thin cape helped hide his weapons from view, although the bow and quiver were difficult to disguise. He’d slung them low on his back, but the effect with the cape gave him a hunchback appearance.

Better than people seeing I’m armed.

He’d found the cape in a nobleman’s suite, which he’d broken into after the occupants had left. He suspected the garment had belonged to a wife or mistress because the floral design on the hem was a little too feminine for his tastes.

But it was functional, and the cape even had a thin hood that he’d drawn up underneath the mask’s edges to conceal his hair.

The Throne Room was overflowing with guests, so much so that there was hardly any room for dancing, and the foyer and nearby hallways were also packed full of people. The boisterous crowd made it difficult to move about, but it served Asher’s purpose of remaining undetected.

It was as if Henrikk had invited every single vampire in the kingdom, and had apparently extended those invitations to their pets; several wolf shifters were being led about on collars and leashes by their vampire Masters. Some were in wolf form, their dark fur, amber eyes, and strong jaws formidable even in their subdued states—one look at their sharp teeth was a stark reminder of why Henrikk was so petrified of a wolf uprising. Other shifters were in human form, scantily clad and collared as they were made to crawl about on all fours. Some were gagged. All had downcast eyes. At least one of the shifters wore an anal plug, the jewel flashing brightly—Asher quickly averted his eyes.

“They aren’t permitted off-leash, thank goodness,” he overheard an elderly vampiress explaining to a group of younger noble ladies. “And if you ask for my opinion, it was high time we stopped promoting this nonsense about equality. Wolves are—and always have been—the inferior race.” Her wrinkled neck swayed in time to the heads bobbing in agreement. “I, for one, am relieved. Everything is finally as it should be. And see here—” she pointed at a female wolf nearby. The twenty-something-year-old woman was almost naked save for the translucent lace corset hugging her body and the thick leather collar around her neck. She was hunched over and kneeling at the feet of a seated vampire nobleman, dutifully licking his shoes as he smirked.

“See?” the elderly woman said, nodding as if that proved her point. “They like being subservient. It is the natural order of things.”

Asher’s lip curled down in disgust, trying to decide who he disliked more: the vampire taking advantage of the helpless wolf he’d enslaved, or the elderly woman whose shrill voice echoed condescending remarks into every corner of the room.

Asher moved on before the urge to say something overcame his common sense.

He had to find Henrikk. The vulgar display made his blood boil. Apparently, Henrikk had allowed bigotry to fester in his court—in Wintermaw Keep, no less, which until recently had been the ancestral home of the royal wolf family and their subjects. A place where vampire ambassadors and nobles had historically been welcomed even during wartime in the interest of peace.

And now…this.

It was a disgrace.

Asher weaved through the crowd, joining the flow of excited guests entering the ballroom.