Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin

bedchamber. “It would be safer.”
    “No,” I say. Because Will is listening. Because I touched Elliott when he was struggling with his mask, and then again when I felt his scars. Because of the way he was looking at me when he was pouring the drink.
    I hate the mock intimacy in Elliott’s voice, and that Will is hearing it and might think it’s real.
    “The streets are no longer safe,” Elliott says.
    “My mother worries,” I say. “I can’t stay here.”
    I heard the way he spoke to my mother, like she was someone who needed to be protected. So I’m not surprised when he says, “In that case…” He turns to Will, who is making no effort to hide that he is listening to our conversation.
    “Have there been any disturbances tonight?”
    “It’s been quiet throughout the district,” Will says. He’s looking at the syringe. I had forgotten about it lying there on the table.
    Elliott follows his gaze and pockets the syringe. “We don’t want to upset Mrs. Worth. Or the venerable Dr. Worth.” His tone is slightly obnoxious, but he is doing what I want, so I don’t say anything.
    We follow Will down the corridor and two flights of stairs. A few people linger in the club, in corners, in the rooms and alcoves.
    “Your sister’s steam carriage will be here when you are ready to examine it,” he tells Elliott. “Be safe.”
    “She’s always safe with me.” I look back and forth between the two of them. Exhausted, mute. Elliott, never at a loss for words, says, “Come along, my love.” I flush.
    Will is paler than usual; his tattoos stand out on his skin. He belongs here so totally that I almost can’t believe that he belongs in other places just as completely. He mouths something, but I’ve never learned how to read lips.
    Elliott takes my arm, and we walk outside and into the darkness.
    “There used to be gas streetlights in some parts of town.” He lights two lanterns and hangs them on hooks at the front of his steam carriage so that our visibility is slightly better than nothing. The full moon doesn’t illuminate as much as you might expect. The buildings lining the street absorb the moonlight.
    As we leave the Debauchery District, the darkness is briefly illuminated by torches. Robed figures slither in and out of my line of vision. Elliott’s eyes follow them through the gloom. I breathe in, hard, and point, though they are moving quickly and have disappeared.
    “Malcontent’s men.” He drives slowly, uneasily.
    The full moon casts oblong shadows. And then, for a moment, everything goes dark. Something blocks the moon. I’m reminded of Henry’s toy airship, but when I look up, the sky holds only clouds.
    Elliott pulls a lever, and the steam carriage jumps forward. “If you ever need a place to hide, there are entrances to the catacombs throughout the city. They look like sewer covers, but they are marked with the open eye.”
    “The catacombs are mapped out in your book,” I say.
    He nods quickly. “Many of the passages have deteriorated along with the city, but at least now I know where they were.”
    “You are looking for places to hide your soldiers,” I guess. “Or ways to move them through the city.”
    “I need a way to organize. My father knew that the architects and masons who constructed the city built secret rooms and tunnels just for the challenge of it.”
    “The soldier in the Towers had a pin on his lapel, with an eye. Like on the note you sent me. And on the book.”
    “It was the symbol of my father’s secret society. I’ve adopted it. Prospero murdered all the members, so their secret places are mostly still unknown, and now I have what might be the only complete set of maps, thanks to you.”
    I scan the buildings that line both sides of the street, wondering how many men are loyal to him, wishing that we could hide in the catacombs now. If someone attacks us, it will be my fault for demanding he take me home.
    “Next time I will insist we wait until morning