Chapter 5 The Deadly Masquerade Ball

# Chapter 5: The Deadly Masquerade Ball

Three days passed in a haze of tension and uneasy truce. After our blood mingled, Damien kept his distance, communicating through servants and leaving me to wander the mansion's upper floors—not free, but no longer confined to a single room. Remy had vanished; the staff claimed he'd been released, but I had my doubts.

My collarbone wound refused to heal, seeping blood at odd intervals, especially when Damien was nearby. I felt his presence before I saw him, a prickle along my spine that grew stronger with proximity. The compulsion he'd spoken of was real—at night, my dreams filled with visions of my hands around his throat, his blood on my fingers, his life extinguishing under my touch.

I was standing at the library window, watching rain streak the glass, when the door opened. I knew it was him without turning.

"You've been avoiding me," I said.

"For your protection as much as mine." Damien's voice was controlled, distant. "The blood bond is still new. Too much contact could accelerate the process."

I turned to face him. He looked haggard, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as I had. The cut on his lip from our kiss was still visible.

"I've been researching your family library," I said, gesturing to the books spread across a table. "Looking for information about the curse."

"And?"

"Nothing I didn't already know from you. Vague references to a pact, warnings about marked ones." I crossed my arms. "But plenty about the Emerson Collection. Your ancestors were obsessed with finding it."

"As I told you, the Heart of Darkness is the physical manifestation of the curse. Whoever possesses it holds power over both our families' fates."

"And you think my tattoo is the key to finding it."

"I know it is." He approached, stopping a careful distance away. "But there's a more immediate concern. Dr. Frost is hosting an event tonight. A masquerade."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because we're expected to attend. Together."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"You don't have a choice." His tone softened slightly. "Frost suspects our blood has mingled. He's curious about the effects, and dangerous when curious. If we don't appear, he'll come looking."

"So I'm to play the obedient acquisition?" I scoffed.

"You're to play whatever role keeps you alive." He placed a box on the table between us. "Wear this. The car leaves at eight."

After he left, I opened the box to find an exquisite gown of deep crimson, cut low in the back to display my tattoo. Beside it lay a matching mask adorned with black feathers and rubies.

A note read simply: "Dance with the devil tonight. D."

---

Dr. Frost's estate rivaled Damien's in grandeur but possessed none of its dark elegance. Where Blackwood Manor brooded in gothic splendor, Frost's mansion gleamed with cold, clinical perfection—all white marble and surgical precision.

The ballroom buzzed with masked figures when we arrived, Damien's hand possessively at the small of my back. My dress drew appreciative glances, the crimson fabric clinging before cascading to the floor in a blood-red waterfall. Damien wore black, his mask a stark silver that covered half his face, making him look like a phantom from some dark fairy tale.

"Remember," he murmured as we descended the stairs, "trust no one. Touch nothing. Drink nothing."

"Paranoid, aren't we?"

"Frost doesn't invite guests; he invites subjects." His fingers tightened on my waist. "Everyone here is part of his latest experiment."

I scanned the room, noting the unusual thickness of the champagne flutes, the way servers wore gloves despite the warmth of the room. "What kind of experiment?"

Before Damien could answer, our host appeared. Dr. Frost wore white from head to toe, his mask resembling a plague doctor's beaked visage. The effect was unsettling—clinical yet archaic.

"Mr. Blackwood," he said, voice muffled behind his mask. "And the lovely Miss Emerson. How delightful you could join us."

"We wouldn't miss it," Damien replied smoothly. "Your gatherings are always... memorable."

Frost's laugh held no warmth. "Indeed. And how is your little blood bond progressing? Any homicidal urges yet, Miss Emerson?"

I stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"No?" He leaned closer, the beak of his mask inches from my face. "The mark on your collarbone suggests otherwise. Fresh blood on old wounds—classic sign of a forming bond."

Damien stepped between us. "We're here as requested, Doctor. Let's not spoil the evening with shop talk."

"As you wish." Frost gestured to a server. "Champagne for our guests."

The server approached with two flutes on a silver tray. I remembered Damien's warning—drink nothing—but refusing would raise suspicion.

Damien solved the dilemma by taking both glasses, handing one to me with a meaningful look. "A toast," he said, raising his glass. "To new discoveries."

I watched carefully as he pretended to sip, then mimicked the action, letting the liquid touch my closed lips without swallowing.

Music swelled, and couples moved to the center of the room. Damien set our untouched drinks aside and extended his hand. "Shall we dance?"

On the dance floor, he pulled me close, his mouth near my ear. "The glasses are coated with a contact poison," he murmured, turning me in a graceful spin. "It absorbs through the skin. Half the guests here will be dead or dying within hours."

Horror washed through me. "We have to warn them—"

"And reveal ourselves as immune?" His hand pressed against my back, guiding me through the steps of a waltz. "Frost is watching our every move. This is a test, Valentina. One we must appear to fail."

"What do you mean?"

"Later. For now, dance." His eyes met mine through our masks. "And listen carefully. In exactly seventeen minutes, the lights will flicker. When they do, I need you to stab me."

I nearly missed a step. "What?"

"The knife strapped to your thigh. I know it's there—I had it placed with your dress."

My hand instinctively moved to my thigh, where indeed a thin blade was secured by a garter. "How did you—"

"Because I know what you are." His voice was soft but intense. "The compulsion to kill me is growing stronger. I've seen you watching me, calculating. Tonight, you need to act on it—but not fatally. Just enough to draw blood."

"You're insane."

"I'm trying to save both our lives." He spun me out, then pulled me back against his chest, his lips brushing my ear. "Frost suspects our blood bond but needs confirmation. If we show signs of the curse's progression, he'll keep us alive for study. If not, we're disposable."

The music changed tempo, and Damien adjusted our steps accordingly. All around us, other couples danced, unaware of the poison slowly seeping into their systems. I spotted Dr. Frost watching from the sidelines, his beaked mask turning to follow our movements.

"Even if I wanted to stab you," I whispered, "why would I do it here, surrounded by witnesses?"

"Because the compulsion doesn't care about witnesses." His hand slid lower on my back, fingers tracing my tattoo through the thin fabric. "When the curse activates fully, you won't be able to resist. I'm simply... accelerating the timeline."

"And if I refuse?"

His eyes darkened behind his mask. "Then we both die tonight. Frost has been developing a toxin specifically for Blackwood immunity. He's been waiting years to test it."

As we turned, I caught sight of servers discreetly removing gloves, touching door handles, glass surfaces—spreading the contact poison throughout the ballroom.

"Why is he doing this?" I asked. "What does he gain from killing all these people?"

"Data. Frost believes he's close to unlocking the secret of the blood pact. These guests are just variables in his equation." Damien's grip tightened. "Ten minutes now."

The waltz grew more intense, couples whirling faster as the orchestra increased its tempo. Damien guided me effortlessly, our bodies moving in perfect synchrony despite the tension between us.

"The knife isn't what you think," he murmured. "Look at the handle when you draw it."

Before I could question him further, Dr. Frost appeared beside us, smoothly inserting himself into our dance. "May I cut in?"

Without waiting for an answer, he took my hand, pulling me away from Damien. His gloved fingers gripped mine tightly as he led me into a different dance pattern.

"You're quite the mystery, Miss Emerson," he said, the beak of his mask bobbing with each word. "A tattoo that's actually a map, a birthmark that marks you as executioner, and now a blood bond with your destined victim. Fascinating."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied, scanning the room for Damien. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching us intently.

"Don't you?" Frost's hand pressed against my back, fingers probing the outline of my tattoo. "Your father was equally evasive before the end. It took quite a cocktail of substances to loosen his tongue."

My blood ran cold. "You did kill him."

"Kill is such a strong word. I facilitated his transition to a more useful state." The doctor's voice remained clinically detached. "Dead men tell no tales, but dying men? They tell everything."

Anger flared within me, hot and sudden. "What do you want from me?"

"The same thing everyone wants—the Heart of Darkness. The source of the Blackwood-Emerson curse." His mask came closer. "Help me find it, and I'll free you from your fate. No more compulsion. No more destined murder."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because unlike Damien, I have no reason to lie. The curse doesn't affect me." His grip tightened painfully. "Five minutes, Miss Emerson. Decide whose side you're on before the lights flicker."

He released me abruptly, disappearing into the crowd of dancers. I stood frozen, mind racing. Across the room, Damien's eyes met mine, urgent and questioning.

Guests were beginning to show symptoms—subtle at first, a cough here, a stumble there. Soon the ballroom would descend into chaos as the poison took full effect.

I made my way to Damien, feeling the weight of the knife against my thigh. "What did Frost say?" he demanded.

"That he killed my father. That he wants the Heart of Darkness." My voice shook slightly. "He offered to free me from the curse."

"He can't. No one can except—" Damien stopped, glancing at the ornate clock on the wall. "Two minutes. We need to position ourselves near that exit."

As he guided me through the crowd, I felt a strange buzzing under my skin, a heightened awareness of his proximity. The compulsion was growing stronger, my fingers itching to reach for the knife.

"Whatever happens next," Damien said quietly, "remember that not everything is as it seems."

The lights flickered once, twice. Around us, several guests collapsed, the poison reaching critical levels in their systems. Screams began to ripple through the ballroom.

"Now," Damien hissed.

In one fluid motion, I reached under my dress and drew the knife. As instructed, I glanced at the handle—and nearly dropped it in shock. It wasn't a blade at all, but a syringe disguised as one, filled with clear liquid.

Damien pulled me against him, his chest pressed to mine. "Do it," he whispered. "Make it look real."

Understanding dawned. This wasn't about bloodshed—it was about antidote. As the ballroom erupted into panic around us, I drove the fake blade into Damien's chest, directly over his heart. His grunt of pain wasn't entirely feigned; the needle was real enough, piercing his skin to deliver its contents.

He staggered back dramatically, clutching the "knife" still protruding from his chest, his eyes never leaving mine. For the benefit of any watching eyes, I stepped forward, twisting the syringe deeper before withdrawing it.

"I knew you couldn't resist," he gasped, loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

The lights failed completely then, plunging the ballroom into darkness. In the chaos, Damien gripped my arm, pulling me toward the exit. "Run," he ordered.

We fled through darkened corridors, alarms blaring behind us. Outside, rain poured from the night sky, drenching us as we raced toward Damien's waiting car.

"What was in that syringe?" I demanded as we sped away from Frost's estate.

"Insurance," Damien replied grimly. "A compound that temporarily masks our blood bond from Frost's sensors. He'll think the connection is broken."

"And the guests? All those people—"

"Will be fine. Remy infiltrated the serving staff. The real poison was replaced with a mild sedative." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Frost's experiment will yield false data."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Remy is working with you? But he said—"

"That I killed your father? A necessary deception." Damien's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "We needed you to believe it, to fuel your hatred. The compulsion grows stronger with emotion."

My head spun with revelations. "So my father wasn't murdered?"

Damien's expression darkened. "Oh, he was murdered. Just not by me or Frost." He turned onto a road I didn't recognize. "We're not going back to the manor. It's not safe anymore."

"Where then?"

"To the one place Frost won't look for us." Damien's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "The place where this all began, four hundred years ago. It's time you learned the full truth about our families—and what your tattoo really means."

As we drove through the storm, away from the chaos of the masquerade, the knife-syringe lay between us—a reminder that in this deadly game, nothing was as it seemed, not even the weapons we wielded against each other.