I slid my foot forward, hooked the mask under my toes—and kicked it toward the huddled figure.

I didn’t have time to see if the mask got to him, because, with a growl of rage, Zedok hauled me back, walking me in reverse until my spine met with the front door. His masked face hovered close to mine—so close that I could see my own frightened expression multiplied within two rows of grinning silver teeth.

“You have bought yourself but moments,” he hissed. “Rest assured, though, we will have him. And then we will have you.”

“No, you won’t!” I took hold of his silver mask, and without knowing what I was doing, I tore it away.

His laughter filled the room again as the mask came free to reveal a face that was not there. Then his cloak and unraveling form dissipated into nothingness, his mask evaporating from my hand.

After that, silence—the deafening, screaming sort—resettled in the foyer, where I once again found myself alone with Erik.

He stood against the wall now, one hand gripping his chest as though in pain. The other held his mask over his face, like he feared I might try to take it again. Or that someone else—something else—would.

So. Here was his secret.

Why, though, had he told me not to look? Because he hadn’t wanted me to see? Or because seeing would have cursed me, too?

I gasped for my breaths, shaking where I stood.

“You’re hurt,” I said, pushing aside my need to piece things together when clearly the danger wasn’t over.

“My dear,” he managed, “you have no idea.”

The response—so distinctly Erik—made me go to him.

“Charlie,” I pleaded, terror squeezing my throat, making my words tight and pinched. “I . . . she was there and then . . . when I got here . . . Please. I need to get back—”

“He cannot reach her,” he answered, straightening from the wall and lowering his hand from his mask. “At least not . . . at the moment.”

“He got to me,” I protested. “And you.”

“Stephanie,” he said, his voice tense and breathy. “Do you trust me?”

The question, along with its quietness, sent a peal of warning bells ringing through me.

Instead of answering, I glanced over my shoulder, toward the dining room, where yet another dark figure now stood, this one wearing a long-beaked crow’s mask, his black garb that of a highwayman. My horror grew tenfold then at the sight of several more figures lining the stairway. A jester with a harlequin mask. A woman with a grasshopper’s mouthless face. Next to her, another beautifully gowned lady in a scorpion’s mask. All along the banister overlooking the chandelier—and us—gathered more figures, all of them materializing out of the shadows.

“Quickly,” muttered Erik. “My sword is behind you.”

And that was all he needed to say. Twisting, I lunged for it. No sooner did I lay hold of its hilt, though, than the figure in the bird mask bolted toward me. I had enough time, but only enough, to toss Erik his weapon before one gloved hand took hold of me.