Masquerade Read online

  “Uh-huh.” Perhaps if I hadn’t been so gobsmacked by the golden sea of decadence surrounding us, I would have flinched at the mention of reporters trying to sneak in, but I’m too busy trying to take everything in to pay his comment much mind.

  All around us are people dressed in beautiful robes, with so many strings of diamonds around their necks it’s surprising they can keep their heads up. Waiters carry flutes of champagne and canapes around, skillfully avoiding the mingling guests with fluid motions. Everyone’s wearing extravagant masks, and pealing laughter echoes through the large hall.

  The level of wealth on display here is staggering. No wonder they don’t want the press to see—if the public knew how they flaunt their riches at this so-called charity event, there’d be a riot.

  “It’s positively disgusting, isn’t it?” Judging by my companion’s teasing smile, he must have noticed my open-mouthed stare. “Makes you wonder how many street kids could be fed and sheltered if we all just stayed home and spent a fraction of the cost of this event on the charity we all claim we’re here to support.”

  “So why don’t you?” Is he trying to bate me to admit I don’t belong here? For the first time, I wonder if I would recognize the face behind his black mask.

  “Power,” he says easily. “I need it, and it’s here in spades. It’s the paradox of politics—we all hate each other, but to gain a foothold we have to play these pompous games of gilded pleasantries. Is that not why you’re here, darling? The draw of power?”

  I stare up at him, denial withering on my lips. I’m here for the same reason all those reporters are gathered at the door—to get a glimpse of the rich and powerful, and—hopefully—a taste as well. That my goal is to get my job back doesn’t negate the fact that I need this epicenter of power to get it, just as much as any politician needs it for his connections.

  “I suppose you could say that,” I admit, finally moving my gaze from his to scout across the crowd of people. “But if people knew…”

  “If people knew how we flaunted our wealth like peacocks in here, while so many starve out there?” he continues when I trail off, and despite the smoothness of his voice, I get the distinct impression there is an edge to it that wasn’t there before. “Well, my dear, that’s why we go to such great lengths to keep spying eyes out.”

  I nod without looking at him, not entirely sure I won’t crack under his scrutinizing gaze at that comment.

  Spying eyes, indeed. It dawns on me that whoever sent me that invitation must have known what could happen if a reporter got inside this ball. Who with enough power to get me on the guest list would want to risk the uproar from the masses that is bound to happen if the true nature of our society’s gap in wealth is finally displayed for all to see?

  “Peter.”

  I turn toward the sound of a male voice, to see a masked man in a tux slide up beside my companion and place a hand on his shoulder. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “I’ll be right there,” the alpha next to me rumbles. He turns to me and offers an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid duty calls.”

  Peter? Surely not…

  “Peter Leod?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself. There is no way my masked partner is the Liberal Party’s Crown Prince. The Crown Prince who nearly got dethroned thanks to me. Peter is a common enough name, I don’t even know why my first reaction to hearing it would be to think he might be that Peter…

  My internal denial dies in a fizz when the large alpha by my side gives me a decidedly wicked wink, bends his head and presses a butterfly soft kiss to the back of my hand.

  “I hope your first masquerade is an enjoyable experience.”

  And then he turns and walks away from me, his tall figure easily cutting through the throng of people until he disappears in the golden sea of decadence.

  Wow.

  I just had a casual chat with Peter Leod about inequality and the city’s power structure.

  And if he knew who I was, he’d likely pay good money to have me murdered.

  He might be a Liberal, but I have no delusions that the power elite on the left side of the middle isn’t as brutally ruthless as the current Lord Mayor.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen—if I may have your attention for a moment, please.”

  The booming voice from further in the hall draws my thoughts from Leod to the masked man who stands in front of the double doors I know led into Town Hall’s magnificent ball room. I’ve only ever been there as part of a press tour, of course, never an actual ball. Until tonight.

  “As you may be aware, this year’s ball is in support of Mattenburg’s Home for Destitute Children, so once the traditional auction starts I do encourage you to open your hearts—and your wallets. But, as much as I know you will be thinking of the poor orphans, let’s not forget that tonight is the one night a year we get to take a step back from our responsibilities as Mattenburg’s rightful rulers. Tonight, we drink, we dance… and we fuck. Welcome to the Masquerade!”

  Wait, what? Fuck?! I stare around the room, open-mouthed, to see if anyone else is as flabbergasted as I at that development, but no one seems to so much as bat an eyelid. When the double doors swing open behind the man who’s just welcomed us in rather disturbing fashion, he sidesteps—and everyone pours in like willing sheep to the slaughter.

  God, I hope I’m not going to regret this. Hesitantly, I follow the throng of people. When I pass the widely smiling host, I see the Mayor’s chain glinting around his neck. Lord Mayor Bremen, of course. He’s looking over the crowd as we pass him to get into the ballroom, smiling and nodding at a few guests he must recognize despite their masks.

  But the second I pass through the doors, my mind is thoroughly taken off the Lord Mayor.

  The last time I saw this ballroom, it was a beautiful piece of neo-Gothic architecture, with its domed ceiling, dark-tiled floor and sweeping balconies, but it was nowhere near the level of decadence I see before me now.

  Now, the floor seems to have been laid with intricate patterns of gold leaf, the crystal chandeliers high above setting the whole room aglow as they reflect in it. Beautifully set, round tables fill up the room, and they too—along with their chairs—seem like they’ve been covered in gold leaf patterns. Even the large flower arrangements centered on each one have been dusted in gold.

  On the Eastern side of the room is what appears to be a stage curtained in thousands of beads glowing in jewel shades, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re true gemstones.

  “May I please see your ticket, miss?”

  I jolt at the gentle touch to my arm and whip my head around to the speaker. It’s a black-and-white clad young man with a finely boned, attractive face, and for a moment I think my open-mouthed staring has given me away—that it’s obvious I don’t belong, despite the luxurious dress I was gifted along with my ticket.

  “I need to see your ticket number so I can seat you,” he explains after a beat of silence.

  “Oh! Yes, of course, sorry.” I fumble with my purse and pull out the golden paper with my name on it, offering it to the young man.

  He glances at the ticket and stretches out an arm toward the back of the room. “This way, miss.”

  * * *

  I don’t recognize the five people I’m sharing a table with during dinner, but from the excited chatter around me I can understand that that’s a major part of the excitement for most participants of this extravagant masquerade. I try to listen in on their conversation for any hint of reportable news, but the gossip du jour is focused on who might be hiding behind which mask, and which family may or may not have funded which political party.

  It’s not until the end of dessert the night’s main event finally unfolds.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  Every head in the hall snaps toward the stage at the booming voice echoing through the gilded room, and I recognize Bremen on his Mayor’s chain once more as he stands on the stage with the now open, jeweled curtains.

  “I t
rust you’ve all enjoyed your meals and are eager to continue on with the night’s festivities. We have secured some fabulous prizes for the highest bidders tonight. Do remember that the proceeds go to Mattenburg’s Home for Destitute Children, so don’t be stingy now. I promise you, this year’s wares are worth that extra bid.”

  A rush of excited murmuring travels through the crowd before hushed anticipation falls over the hall. I glance to my sides to see if my dinner companions can give me any clue as to why a mere charity auction has everyone this wound up, but I needn’t have bothered.

  On the stage, the spotlight on the Lord Mayor dims and the curtains fall forward with a trickling sound, hiding him from view. But seconds later, they’re withdrawn again, and I can make out vague figures in the darkness.

  The flash of spotlights reveals what’s on sale this evening.

  A row of young, naked men and women stand on the stage, eighteen of them. A chain attached to iron collars link them all together.

  My stomach roils as the implication of what’s about to happen sets in with a shock of horror, and it’s all I can do to swallow my disgusted cry so to not blow my cover.

  The masquerade’s main event is a slave auction!

  “Can we have the first item on the list step forward?”

  The tux-clad man calling out from the podium next to the stage isn’t the Lord Mayor himself, but his mask hides his identity.

  Another man, dressed in white, walks across the stage to the left-most naked man on display, and deftly detaches his chain from the young woman to his side. He gives it a tug, and the young man on the other end follows him to the center of the stage.

  “This fine young stag is twenty-two years old and in prime condition,” the presenter says, as if he’s describing a prize cow. The white-clad man with the chain in his hand makes him turn to display his smooth, muscular body. He’s no alpha, but he’s obviously a fit young man. A golden sheen reflects off his skin as he is made to pose for the audience, and when the white-clad man pulls his flaccid penis forward to show it off he only flinches once before resuming his stone-faced stare at some point above the crowd.

  “He may not have a knot for you ladies to enjoy, but I’m told he’s very skilled with his tongue. Shall we start the bids at $10,000?”

  As the bidding for the first young soul begins, I get up from my seat. I’m careful not to make much noise, but I needn’t have bothered being discrete. Every last one of my dinner companions are staring up at the stage with rapt attention, oblivious to what’s going on around them.

  I’m fortunate that I’m seated at the very back, because no one else notices me as I tiptoe to the nearby stairs leading up to the balconies overlooking the ballroom.

  My first instinct was to try and put a stop to this monstrosity, but I quickly realized I could do nothing for the poor people currently displayed on-stage like pieces of meat. I have no doubt the Chief of Police is seated somewhere in the crowd, eyes glued to naked flesh like every other piece of shit down there.

  The only thing I can do is document what’s happening here and let the world know just what kind of depraved monsters we let rule our city.

  The balcony I find offers a perfect view of the ballroom and stage. I press myself in behind a pillar and fish out my phone with shaking hands. Then, I press ‘record’ and aim it at the stage.

  Below me, the young man has been sold to a middled-aged woman in a green-and-black dress while I climbed the stair. He is led to her by the chain around his neck, and made to kneel in front of her.

  I feel sick as she grabs his offered chain and pulls her skirts open, displaying her bared crotch for the whole room to see. A hard yank on the chain, and the young man’s face presses in between her thighs. Cheers erupt from the tables around them.

  “Next up is this lovely young woman. She’s twenty-one, and she’s never taken a knot before, but I’m sure we’ll change that tonight, won’t we, gentlemen?”

  I grit my teeth as the presenter has a brunette girl display herself on stage. The bids are even more aggressive than earlier, and a couple of alpha growls rise above the guests.

  When she is finally sold to a huge alpha on the northern side of the room I have to steady myself on the balcony’s banister to find the strength to keep filming. No sooner has she been delivered to her new owner before he clears half the table with a swing of his arm, presses her over it and paws at her small sex like a barely-contained beast.

  His cock is out, and the sight of its hugeness has flashes of memories flickering in my brain. Of being pressed up against a tree in a dark, abandoned park. A stranger behind me, forcing his much too big cock up inside of me…

  When the alpha below mounts his female, her squeal rocks through me like a physical force. But it’s no longer anger at the depravity on display that makes me shake like a leaf in the wind.

  No, it’s something far worse than that.

  The alpha ruts on top of the young woman below, sparing her nothing as she keens and grasps at the tablecloth for purpose, her legs kicking on each side of his powerful hips. All around the other guests stare with lecherous glee, some openly touching themselves.

  And I wish with everything I am that I was back in the arms of the alpha who made me scream like the poor girl trapped on the table in their midst.

  I’m so enthralled with the imagery below that I don’t notice I’m no longer alone in my hiding spot before a large hand touches my bare shoulder.

  “Enjoying the show, darling?”

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  I spin around so quickly I nearly drop my phone.

  My unwanted companion easily catches it before it falls to the ground and deftly turns off the camera.

  I stare up at him in utter horror, my mouth opening and closing of its own accord as I try to come up with a plausible excuse for why I’m lurking in the shadows, videotaping the secret sex slave auction the entire city’s elite would undoubtedly do anything to avoid the public ever discovering.

  He’s an alpha, I recognize, partly from his size and partly from the way my already awakened ovaries feel his pheromone’s magnetic pull like a physical force. He’s masked like everyone else, and dressed in a black tux—like every other alpha here—but there’s something… familiar about him.

  “I…”

  “And just how did you manage to get yourself an invitation, hmm?” he asks in a hushed voice that does nothing to rob him of his natural authority.

  “I… don’t know,” I croak.

  His lips twitch. “Somehow I doubt that. You’re a reporter, I take it?”

  I want to shake my head no, but something in that commanding gaze of his makes me nod before I even realize what I’m doing.

  “Brave little girl,” he says, and this time there’s just the barest hint of a purr in his voice. Almost as if he approves of my courage. “Risking your life for a story.”

  “It’s a little more than just a story,” I hiss, some of my previous anger finally resurfacing, now that fear has somewhat quelled my inexplicable desire. “You rape people. You sell them!”

  He smirks—he actually smirks, as if anything about this fucked up situation is amusing in any way, shape or form—and places his large hand back on my shoulder. An unspoken demand for obedience. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  * * *

  The masked alpha leads me away from the ballroom, through hallways and up a flight of stairs until we stop in front of a dark, wooden door on the second floor.

  I gape as I read the name on the little brass plate next to it.

  P. Leod, Lib.

  This must be his office.

  “Peter Leod?” I stutter in utter bewilderment, for the second time this night.

  He gives me an easy smile as he unlocks the door and gestures for me to go in. “Lucky for you, yes.”

  “How can you let something like this happen right in front of you?” I ask, even as I obey his unspoken command. “You’re supposed
to be all about equality and fairness, but you’re just peachy letting those poor men and women get publicly raped for you and your buddies’ amusement? I knew you politicians were all scumbags, but this—”

  Leod interrupts my rant by offering me a tumbler filled with amber liquor he’d poured from the bottle located on his desk. I take it more on instinct than any desire for alcohol.

  “No one’s getting raped,” he says, his voice as calm and authoritative as when he is in front of the cameras, rallying the adoring masses for his party. “It’s a show. The young ladies and gentlemen on stage are paid for their participation, and briefed beforehand. They’re made to sign a nondisclosure agreement, of course, but they’re there by choice.”

  “Choice? You mean to tell me anyone would want to stand naked in front of a bunch of masked pricks, and then have to… in front of all those strangers? Somehow, I find that very hard to believe, Mr. Leod.” I don’t know why I’m challenging the powerful alpha—if I were any sort of smart, I’d nod and smile, and hope he bought my faked acceptance with all I’ve got. All I know is that my gut is still clenching with shame at how arousing I found the rough mating, and if I don’t protest against the abomination of a show, I’m going to lose my dinner right here on Leod’s polished floors.

  The big alpha sighs lightly and, after pouring himself a tumbler of the amber liquor, sits down in one of the two sleek, gray armchairs that take up most of the space in his office not occupied by the large desk. With his drink-free hand he removes his mask and gestures for me to sit. “Well, I presume most accept because of the money more than a specific desire to get fucked like a whore by a fat one-percenter in a ridiculous costume. But yes—it’s consensual. If you’d like, I’ll take you down to their changing rooms after the show’s over, and you can see for yourself.”

  I bite my lip as I sit down in the chair in front of Mattenburg’s most popular politician. I might have known who he was while he was still wearing his mask, but there is something about being face-to-face with him that has my nervous system on high alert. A flash of memory of his gray eyes boring into mine across the conference room seconds before all hell broke loose just a few weeks ago makes me gulp down a hearty mouthful of what turns out to be smooth whiskey. Yeah, there is no way I am removing my mask, on the off chance of him actually remembering the face of the girl who’s done serious damage to his reputation right before the election.