Chapter 16: The Masquerade of Masks and Mayhem
Lucien stood at the mirror, staring at his reflection with the kind of horror typically reserved for waking up in a crypt full of sentient spiders. His dark robes had been replaced with a sharply tailored black suit, charmed to shimmer faintly under moonlight. A silver half-mask covered the top half of his face, its edges shaped like curling bones. His hair, usually tousled and haunted-looking, had been neatly tied back by Vespera, who'd insisted he "try not to look like a midlife funeral."
"I feel ridiculous," he muttered.
From behind him, Maribel laughed.
"Good. That means it's working."
She stepped into view, and Lucien nearly forgot to breathe—if he still did that sort of thing.
Maribel wore a deep sapphire gown that shimmered like starlit ink, slit just high enough to drive him mad but still elegant enough to pass for noble. Her hair had been pinned up with tiny crystal skulls, and her mask was a delicate silver lace shaped like entwined vines and arcane runes.
"You look…" Lucien blinked, searching for the right word. "Illegal."
She smirked. "That's the point."
The Midnight Masquerade was an annual event hosted at the floating estate of Duchess Morvane, a notoriously vain vampire who delighted in excess, gossip, and absolutely no sunlight. Guests floated in on enchanted gondolas through violet fog, their masks glowing faintly with identification runes.
This year, the guest list included every influential mage, necromancer, vamp, specter, and alchemical investor in the land. Maribel and Lucien's mission? Steal a copy of the Book of Binding Laws from the Duchess's private vault—proof of the Council's manipulation of magical bond enforcement. If they got caught, they'd be turned into appetizers.
Maribel twirled her mask in one hand as the gondola approached the estate.
"Just act like we belong."
Lucien rolled his eyes. "I'm a thousand-year-old undead pariah. I always look like I don't belong."
"Pretend you're mysterious and rich."
"I am mysterious and rich."
"Then you'll be fine."
Inside the ballroom, floating candelabras cast soft golden light over guests in masks and glamours. A string quartet composed entirely of ghostly musicians played waltzes that sent ripples through the enchanted floor. The air smelled like spiced blood wine, rosewater, and a trace of ozone—because someone was already dueling in the garden.
"Stick to the plan," Maribel whispered. "You charm the Duchess. I slip into the vault."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "You want me to flirt with Morvane? The duchess who once tried to bottle me in crystal for a decorative table?"
"She likes a challenge."
Lucien grumbled but straightened his cuffs. "If I don't return in twenty minutes, avenge me."
Maribel drifted through the party like a shadow kissed by moonlight. No one noticed her as anything other than another socialite's daughter, another heiress to an arcane empire. Inside, her heart pounded.
The vault was behind a rotating bookshelf in the duchess's private study—guarded by a charm that only responded to specific vocal frequencies and "a sense of dramatic flair." Fortunately, Maribel had spent the last week practicing both.
She found the study, evaded the enchanted mirror that tried to seduce her, and faced the shelf.
"Open, you overpriced cupboard," she whispered.
Nothing happened.
She cleared her throat, struck a dramatic pose, and bellowed, "By the moaning moons of Mordekai, I command thee—REVEAL!"
The shelf groaned, sparkled, and slid aside.
"Dramatic flair," she muttered. "Ridiculous."
Meanwhile, Lucien found the Duchess seated atop a velvet throne-like bench, sipping wine and surrounded by sycophants.
"Lucien Vael," she purred. "Back from the dead. Again."
He bowed with sarcastic flourish. "You know me. Always ruining a good funeral."
She patted the seat beside her. "Still a sharp tongue. Sit. Amuse me."
Lucien sat, resisting the urge to summon a shadow imp to bite her ankles.
"I hear you've taken up with a young enchantress," Morvane said, eyes glittering.
"Jealous?" he replied.
She laughed. "Intrigued. How very… dangerous."
He gave a careful smile. "You know I love danger."
"Hmm," she said, trailing a nail down his sleeve. "You never did finish our game of truth or torment."
Lucien's reply was cut off by a sudden boom from the east wing.
His heart (or the space it used to occupy) dropped. "Excuse me."
"Charmed, as always," she called as he strode away.
In the vault, Maribel faced three problems:
The book was protected by a riddle-lock that reset every 60 seconds.
The floor had turned into a writhing pit of illusion snakes.
A glitter-demon had appeared, offering to help—for a price.
"I just need the book," she said.
"And I just need a soul to swallow!" the demon chirped. "It'll grow back!"
"Pass."
Lucien burst in, covered in confetti. "What did you do?"
"Exist. Apparently that's a crime now."
He waved a hand, dispelling the snakes and the demon with an annoyed growl. "Hurry."
Maribel grabbed the book. The entire vault screamed.
"We're leaving!" she shouted.
They sprinted back through the ballroom as alarms began to echo through the estate. The music stopped. Guests stared.
The Duchess rose slowly, her eyes glowing red. "You stole from me."
Maribel clutched Lucien's hand. "Plan?"
"Improvisation."
Lucien grabbed her waist, dipped her dramatically, and kissed her. Magic flared between them, and every candle in the ballroom blew out at once.
Gasps. Screams. And then—a perfectly timed chandelier collapse.
In the confusion, they ran.
Back at Ashvine Manor, breathless and laughing, Maribel tossed the book on the table.
"We're going to save everyone."
Lucien, still glowing faintly from the kiss, sat beside her. "You realize that kiss is probably a magical contract now."
"Figures."
"Bound forever."
"Better be."
They leaned in again—but were interrupted by a puff of smoke and Vespera dropping from the ceiling.
"Did you two idiots just get magically engaged in front of half the ruling class?"
Maribel blinked. "Wait… that was engagement magic?"
Lucien groaned. "Of course it was."
Vespera grinned. "I'm planning the wedding. The cake's going to scream."