After a few deep breaths, Mrs. Driscoll began walking again. They were about ten steps from the corner. “There is no reason to be nervous,” she said, patting Amber’s hand. “This is a perfectly lovely—”
A large figure jumped out from the alley, dressed all in black, holding a walking stick with a gleaming silver handle, and blocked the path in front of them.
Mrs. Driscoll shrieked.
Amber clutched Mrs. Driscoll’s hand. She heard a low, breathy growl that gradually increased in volume until the unearthly sound resolved into words.
“Amber Barrow-Smith,” the figure intoned in the deepest, most gravelly voice she had ever heard, a tortured, slow sound dredged up from the bowels of the earth. He—it? —raised the walking stick to chest height, its hand holding the stick halfway up like it was a weapon.
She gulped. In the light from the streetlamps, she could just make out a tricorn hat, a black cape lined with blood-red silk, and the walking stick topped with a gleaming silver skull. The figure’s face was a pale blur, except where there should be eyes, she saw only blackness.
She trembled.
“Amber, you have made a poor choice,” the creature continued. Its voice was so low it seemed to come from the depths of the grave, barely audible over the pounding of her heart. She felt the rumble more than she heard each slow syllable. “I do not like it when my minions are disobedient, so I have come to warn you.”
Mrs. Driscoll shuddered and dug her fingers into Amber’s arm, but Amber stood tall and drew her shoulders back, chin up. “What poor choice?”
“Sir Peyton.” Derision infused the breathy growl.
“What about him?”
Its slow voice seemed to come from a long way away, from the bottom of the ocean. “Before you pledge yourself to him, ask him about … Janet.”
Amber finally looked past the silver skull and up toward the creature’s face, trying to read its expression. “J- Janet?”
Mrs. Driscoll whimpered.
“Who—who are you?” Amber’s tiny store of courage was rapidly eroding.
The creature tipped its head back, opened its mouth, and emitted a demonic laugh that seemed to come straight from the bowels of hell. Amber shook. Lamplight glinted on its sharp teeth. “You do not recognize me, my dear?”
Amber gulped. She and Mrs. Driscoll clutched each other.
“I…” It took one step toward Amber. “Am.” Another step. “The Bogeyman.” He lunged forward, one outstretched hand reaching for Amber, and there was a blinding flash of light.
Mrs. Driscoll screamed and fainted. Amber tried to catch her but only managed to slow her companion’s descent to the ground. By the time she looked up again, the creature was gone.
Chapter 5
Ashley entered the masquerade with Aunt Eunice, a flutter of excitement in her belly. Musicians played, dancers glided across the dance floor, and everywhere revelers mingled. There were devils and angels, Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, court jesters and royalty in scarlet robes, everyone wearing at least a half-mask. And of course there were those in a simple hooded domino like Ashley. Madame Chantel had offered to create a more elaborate costume, but Ashley felt guilty about how much money Uncle Edward had already spent on her wardrobe. She’d chosen a domino in a rich sapphire blue silk, a color she would never otherwise be able to wear unless she was married or prepared to fully declare herself a spinster.
She pushed the hood back, as the room was warm with so many people, careful to make sure her half-mask was still firmly tied in place. Like other revelers, she removed her gloves and tucked them in her reticule.
Over the buzz of conversation and the music, they heard a commotion down the hall.
“A demon, I tell you!” came an anguished feminine cry in a voice that seemed familiar.
Ashley exchanged glances with her aunt, and they pushed their way through the swirling crowd toward the source. Inside a small salon, two Greek goddesses sat on a sofa, one trying to console the other, as others stood by, discussing the scene the goddesses were making. Ashley recognized the voice of the calm one.
“Amber?”
Amber Barrow-Smith stood up. “Miss Hamlin?” She sounded near tears. Ashley opened her arms and Amber fell against her and wrapped her arms around her waist in a suffocating hug, her breath coming in harsh pants.
Ashley rubbed her hand up and down the girl’s back and made soothing noises. “Whatever has happened?”
“It was a demon!” Ashley recognized the voice of Amber’s companion, who sat on the sofa. “We were accosted by a demon, and no one will believe me!” Mrs. Driscoll held the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned against the sofa cushions.
The crowd shifted and their hostess Lady Waldon entered, accompanied by a maid carrying a silver vinaigrette.
