The man, still wearing his neon mask, sits sprawled on this throne, an arm slung over the back of it, his other hand meditatively stroking a finger up and down the side of his neck. Thick, powerful muscles strain against the sleeves of his leather jacket and fill out the white t-shirt beneath it. He doesn’t look like a king, or the Pope. More like a savage conquering warlord sitting in the ruins of the post-apocalyptic city he’s just sacked.
Blonde doesn’t suit you.
His words echo in my head. My hand flies up, and I cringe when I realize that the wig has slipped almost halfway off my head.
“Why, exactly, were you trying to disguise yourself?”
I swallow the thick lump that forms in my throat, my eyes blinking rapidly.
“Asks the man wearing a mask.”
His head slowly tips to the other side, those neon X’s of his eyes piercing into me.
“You requested that I wear this, prinkípissa.”
I freeze.
Prinkípissa.
I’ve heard that word before. Someone’s called me that befo—
Oh God.
The man in the alley.
The huge, built, tall man in the alley that night wearing a neon mask who inspired this whole…
Something clenches in my stomach.
No. There’s no way.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
My voice sounds so small as I stand there in the middle of the cavernous gothic church, the dark lord sprawling on his antichrist throne, watching me through the dead, neon eyes of his mask.
When he doesn’t respond, I swallow and try again.
“The other day. In the alley. Those two men...” My hands clench together in front of me, one finger picking repeatedly at a cuticle. “Was that you? I…”
I’m about to keep going and blather something stupid like “I recognize your voice” or point out that the mask he’s wearing isn’t like the mask I asked him to wear. It’s literally the same neon mask from that night. I stop when something occurs to me.
I’m alone in an abandoned church with someone who might very well be a violent psychopath, and I’m about to remind him that I was witness to him committing a double murder.
“Go on,” he purrs, with almost a hint of humor in his deep, dark tone.
I shake my head. “My friends…” I shiver. “There are people who will be looking for me. They’ll notice I’m—”
“No, they won’t.”
He lifts a phone from the arm of the throne, and I recognize the case. It’s mine.
“You were feeling sick after that last tequila shot. You thought you might throw up, and just felt awful. So you took a cab home. You texted them again when you got home just now, letting them know you’re okay and that you’ll call them in the morning.”
His head tilts to the other side, and I swear that lurid, leering neon smile is curling up at the corners.
“Naomi, by the way, said to feel better, and that the, and I quote, hot but boring Latin guy is talking to Milena about his stock portfolio again,” he growls quietly before setting my phone back down. “So, no. They will not be looking for you after all those shots.”
His finger strokes up and down his neck again, between the mask and the collar of his leather jacket.
“You drink too much, Bianca.”
My blood turns to ice, my heart skipping as my face goes white.
“I—” I shake my head. “That’s not my—”
“Well, it’s not Rachel Dawson, now is it?”
My stomach drops. My breath starts coming in quick, shallow, staccato bursts.
“Real names are supposed to be hidden on the site,” I croak.
“Nothing is hidden from me.”
He suddenly uncurls his huge frame from his throne and stands. He walks slowly down the wide steps, picking his way carefully through the piles of old bricks, mossy wood, and other debris as he advances toward me down the main aisle between the broken-down pews.
Part of me wants to turn and run. But I’m frozen in place, my throat slowly closing up as he approaches. Besides, there’s no way I’d outrun him. He’d catch me, for sure.
And you’d like it, too.
