Chapter 1

“ I magine a sex club and a haunted house had a baby.”

I roll my eyes at my best friend’s words while readjusting the seat belt across my chest. The damn thing feels like a snake constricting tighter around my ribcage with every corner.

My gaze lands on Rita’s immaculately painted baby pink and gold nails. They’re the kind you get from spending an hour relaxing in a comfy chair at a salon while a trained professional practices some kind of witchcraft to create perfect nail art. Not like my patchy home manicure, which has already chipped, and I don’t want anyone to look too closely in case they see the wonky edges adorning my left hand.

Of course, Rita’s immaculately put together. As always.

“What you’re saying is that I’m going to spend tonight both scared and horny?”

Snapping those social media-worthy fingers, she points at me. “Exactly. The perfect concoction for the most insane orgasm of your life.”

“Jesus,” I mutter as my fingers wrap around the belt crossing over my chest.

This isn’t me. How I’m in this car by choice and actually agreeing to this insanity is beyond me.

Rita is the closest thing I’ve got to a best friend in Port Macabre. With her curls piled high, large gold hoops, and a black sequined jumpsuit, my girl looks like a starlet as she drums on the steering wheel. Humming along with an effortless matching pitch to the music thumping through the car speakers.

I keep quiet and stare at the darkening sky outside.

We wind around another corner to the background of some nineties grunge classic, descending further into mist-clad rolling hills in the middle of fucking nowhere.

This is the part on the outskirts of the city reserved for wealthy elites. Not those of us earning minimum wage in our mid-twenties, who cringe at the thought of checking our bank accounts and live off the sniff of an oily rag.

In fact, at this point, I’d sell the oily rag. If only I could get my hands on one to sell.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again?” I let go of the belt and start fidgeting with the hem of my too-short skirt.

She blows out a bubble of pink gum and pops it, making a loud snap with a chomp of her perfectly matched shade of lipstick.

“Because, my little deviant, when the universe gives you a golden ticket to the most exclusive event of the year, you don’t just jump at the opportunity.” She gives me a wicked grin. That amber gaze sparkles at me in the twilight. “You drop to your knees and say, thank you, Daddy.”

I scoff and give her shoulder a gentle shove. “At least we know your kinks are going to be well catered for. I bet this place is going to be crawling with silver foxes.”

“Oh, you can bet your ass there will be plenty on the hunt tonight. Ones with massive… credit card limits.” Her squeal of laughter can surely be heard on the moon.

Rita and a group of her other friends had purchased their tickets for this event almost a year ago, whereas I stumbled upon one by pure dumb luck. Winning a contest I don’t even remember entering, but apparently, my perennially overdrawn bank card swiped at the right time and place, and before I knew it, the cashier was shoving an envelope into my hands and congratulating me on my winnings.

Trying to sell the damn thing proved futile. Even though I could really use the money, there were all sorts of non-transferable clauses written in fine print. Besides, once Rita got wind of me having a ticket in my possession, she waged an insurmountable campaign to have me join them for the night.

I don’t even have a car, so what could I have said other than thank you for the ride to get here—wherever here is? It wasn’t like there were any other options to transport myself all the way into the heart of rich-fucking-wanker territory.

As we slow to a crawl and Rita pulls into an immaculately groomed driveway, my eyes scan our surroundings. Tall wrought iron gates rise up in front of us, blocking our way, with long black stone facings spanning either side of the drive. It gives a certain kind of fuck off energy. We’re so far from the actual house on this property that all I can see up ahead in the growing shadows are ancient-looking trees with gnarled branches and drifting curtains of mist.

Even the gravel crunching beneath our tires looks expensive.

I realize this is the kind of place where gardens are measured in hectares or acreages. Out here, they have things like forested woodlands and herds of deer roaming around. The people of this world spend their weekends attending pheasant shooting parties during the day, followed by gin on the rocks before getting dressed in tuxedos for dinner.

It’s fucking laughable wealth.

The kind that you’ve been born into and don’t know anything except what it’s like to be tenth in line to some kind of meaningless, but no less powerful, title.

Not a lifestyle where bills glare at you from where they’ve been stuffed in a hiding spot on the kitchen bench. A vague attempt to disguise the giant ‘past due’ stamped in passive-aggressive red text.

Rita leans out her driver's window holding up our tickets to the intercom camera. A sudden clunking sound signals the moment the gates start to swing open, and she wriggles in her seat like an excited lamb.

“They’ll all be here, you know, but because of the masks, they can keep their identity hidden.”

What she means is the men and women here tonight have free reign to play at being Gods.

I snort. “ They ? You make them sound as if people in this place are important.”

“Just saying, I wouldn’t mind being initiated… Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”

“You don’t honestly believe that bullshit do you?” I yank my cute cropped bustier down over the soft curve of my belly. Suddenly, painfully aware of how easily it rides up sitting like this.

My outfit falls somewhere between slutty and appropriate for entering a billion-dollar mansion. Because I really had no idea what to wear to a fright night slash orgy. So I settled on a leather-look skirt that hits the middle of my thighs and makes my ass look incredible. My cropped bustier style top is a deep crimson satin that hugs my boobs, but is more about looking good than support. I probably should have considered whether there might be any running involved at this thing.

A haunted house event inside a sprawling mansion supposedly owned by one of the oldest secret societies in the world. That’s right bitch, give me five minutes and access to the internet, and I can find out nearly anything.

Except, I’m suddenly wondering if you even call it a mansion. Or is it an estate? Or maybe a castle? Who knows what the fuck the obnoxiously wealthy label these kinds of palatial residences.

These are the kind of out-of-touch elites who say they’re heading to their country cottage for the weekend, and it’s actually a twenty-room manor house on prime oceanfront real estate—complete with butlers and walk-in closets bigger than my entire apartment.

Either way, who fucking cares. The reason we’re here tonight is to get spooked, indulge in some depravity if we find the right sexual match, and then after all the debauchery, us regular folk will make our way back to Port. Rita and I have already agreed our plans involve drowning ourselves in mojitos and occupying a spot on a sweaty dance floor until the early hours of tomorrow. If all goes well before we get to the bottomless cocktails and thumping bass, I might even find a man at this event who knows the way to a woman’s clit. I mean, one can forever hold out hope for a miracle.

Only problem is, my fantasies run a little differently from others. They revolve around more than one pair of rough hands playing with my body. In fact, the best orgasms I’ve ever given myself include dreams where I’m blissfully filled in every hole with perfect cocks.

I don’t want a solitary knight in shining armor to politely sweep me off my feet. I want the dangerous, tattooed man in the shadows, and I want his friends, too.

At the same time.

A girl can dream, right?

Our headlights sweep around a wide bend, and while Rita might know what to expect, I don’t. My jaw collides with the floor.

This place is like someone crossed a Victorian horror with a gothic kid’s wet dream. It’s masculine and bold where it rises up out of the ground, escalating into turreted spires and assorted upper levels.

Lanterns flicker with open flames lining the parking area out front, and a valet service awaits us.

“Holy shit, this place always goes all out.” Rita breathes as she shifts the car in park. Quickly tilting the rearview mirror to check her lipstick. “You ready, babe?”

“Sure.” No. I really don’t think I am. My heart is in my mouth, and I wipe my clammy palms on the car seat.

My door is abruptly yanked open, and I nearly leap out of my skin. There’s an old-fashioned plague mask to greet me instead of a person’s face. It’s fucking creepy. The full mask with a long swooping beak-like nose conceals the valet’s identity, and I’m presuming a masculine figure hides beneath this disguise, seeing how they fill out a three-piece suit. Without a word, they extend a leather-gloved hand for me, and I place my shaky fingers in their grasp as I exit the car. On the other side, I see a similarly dressed figure, also in a plague mask, take Rita’s keys from her.

The air outside feels damp and crisp, the sky now forming a deep shade of purplish black, and there’s a breeze chilling my legs as I stand on the caramel color gravel.

An eerie silence hangs about the place, despite how many people are milling around outside in small groups. Some are taking selfies together, while others are more interested in observing the rest of the gathering crowd.

Already discerning who their prey might be once inside.

“Rita.” A group of impeccably dressed girls call out when they spot us and rush our way. Pretty soon, we’re both smothered in air kisses and compliments about our outfits. I haven’t met these particular friends before, but with each one I’m introduced to, they appear to be an endless procession of immaculate bone structure and airbrushed makeup. These are the kind of girls who get plucked off the street at random and asked if they’ve ever considered modeling as a career.

Next to them, I feel like a bridge troll. What the actual fuck?

I silently curse my friend for forgetting to inform me we were going to be meeting up with Port Macabre’s very own glamor squad. Holy shit, they are so hot I can’t stop staring.

Maybe I’ll just find a dark corner to hide in for the rest of the night. There’s no way a single person in this place will notice me when they’ll all be dazzled by this buffet of perfectly styled lashes and flawless skin.

Before I can get totally caught in my spiral of self-doubt, all around us, glowing flames in the lanterns flare, pulsing intensely with a whooshing sound that makes the crowd gasp. Then, all of them dim low in perfectly timed unison. It plunges us into near darkness and the giant doors to the mansion swing inwards.

Silently.

Ominously.

Murmurs ripple around everyone gathered as the nervous anticipation begins to climb.

You have been selected. The words accompanying my unexpected ticket echo in my mind’s eye. Selected for what exactly remains to be seen. For the pleasure of the members of this supposed secret society, I guess.

My stomach feels like it just dropped into my heeled ankle boots.

“What type of wristband are you going to choose tonight?” One of the girls, I think her name was Cora, flutters her false eyelashes and hooks her arm around mine. She smells like expensive perfume and crisp linen sheets.

“Wristband. Oh, yeah, that.”

Crap. I’d totally forgotten about that part of the entry requirements.

“Last year, I was a little shy and went low, but it was a bit tame for my liking. Do you think you’ll be keen to pick high with the rest of us tonight, Posey? You don’t have to, of course...” She’s sweet and adds that bit at the end to make me feel better, as if she can tell I’m incredibly out of my depth here.

“Honestly, you can just call me Poe, or P.” I fiddle with the chain of my necklace using my free hand. “I still don’t really know. Thought I’d just decide on the spur of the moment.”

From what Rita explained to me in the car, we’ll be presented with a range of clear bands. According to the rules, you choose only one from the selection, then have to slip it over your wrist, and it must be worn the entire night. The markings on them can only be seen under a black-light torch, so none of the regular guests will know what your band indicates.

The only ones who have access to the black lights will be the masked hosts. Those who belong to this place and are rumored to be among the most powerful and influential of the secret society’s members.

If you pick low, you’re indicating that your kinks and sexual preferences lie in the tamer end of the waters of what will be on offer here this evening. If you select a band from the higher range, well, then that matches you with others who might indulge in more wild sexual tastes. Should one of the masked men or women catch you while inside the haunted house, they can supposedly look at your band and decide if they want you.

A complete stranger.

Anonymous.

Being chosen from amongst a crowd.

Something about that makes my heartbeat pulse in my clit, even though there is no way on earth that should be turning me on.

“It’s time.” Rita snuggles up beside me with an excited whisper.

As we fall in line, waiting our turn to enter through the enormous black doors, I catch sight for the briefest second of more masked, suited men standing in the shadows. They watch on as sentries just inside the entranceway. From all the way back here, it's impossible to see anything other than a glimpse of a tailored suit jacket or the flash of a silver watch as it catches the light from a flame lighting the top step.

The chatter around me is mostly nervous energy. Hushed small talk and giggling between the girls as we draw closer to the darkened entrance looming ahead. I zone out because I’m mostly just focused on remembering to damn well breathe.

Can these beautiful, stylish women tell that I’m completely and utterly inexperienced when it comes to anything of this nature? Going to a sex club, let alone one as imposing and slightly terrifying as this seems like I’ve just set foot on Mars without oxygen. I feel like I should silently back away, ditch them, and go wait out the evening in Rita’s car.

I don’t belong in this world.

Except, my best friend must sense I’m two seconds from cutting and making a run for it because she grips me so hard I’m liable to be bruised like a peach come tomorrow.

There’s a palpable tension filling the air as we begin to climb the short flight of stone steps, and others are admitted one by one from immediately in front of our group. The number of heads separating us from being swallowed up by the jaws of this building whittle down with terrifying speed.

My pulse races faster as the scent of something spiced and rich fills the air. My overactive imagination starts picturing it as the kind of incense used in ancient rites befitting a secret society. One with hooded cloaks and lots of chanting.

Maybe the kind that accompanies a ritual sacrifice.

Because isn’t that what we’re all doing here, really? Gladly offering our flesh up as some kind of willing sacrifice to pleasure?

“Ticket.” A feminine rasp startles me from just over my left shoulder. There’s a woman studying me who is dressed in fitted velvet couture with a skeleton mask concealing her identity. A waterfall of glossy black curls tumble over one shoulder, and diamonds encrust her throat, forming a collar.

I can’t make out any details of her face, other than her hazel-colored eyes. From her collared neck down, flawless dark skin is revealed where her dress skims her collarbone in a plunging V at the front.

“Oh, right, sorry.” My tongue feels about three sizes too big for my mouth as I fumble in the pocket of my skirt for the ticket. Rita told me not to bring a bag, but we would be allowed to keep our phone on us during the night.

Judging by the sheer size of this place, I’m suddenly very relieved to be able to text my friend if I find myself lost in one of the endless array of rooms. There must be at least a hundred, judging by the vast number of darkened windows peering down at us.

A shudder travels up my spine wondering just how many more of these masked individuals—these supposed secret society members—are watching us right now, hidden behind those dark panes of glass.

On the other side of me, Rita’s ticket is being handled by a man who looks muscled but lean. He fills out his perfectly tailored suit like a second skin, and his skeleton mask is identical to the woman’s. Allowing us to see only a glimpse of their eyes.

Although in this light, it makes it hard to see anything at all and I’m sure that is completely intentional.

“You dropped something.” The woman’s voice is husky and captivating, and sure enough, when I follow her gaze to the floor, I see a small black card with gold embossing on the front. I hadn’t even noticed whatever escaped my pocket, and I immediately crouch down, doing my best not to flash everyone in the line behind me. Reaching out, I snatch up whatever it is because something in this woman’s demeanor could compel me to obey anything she said without a second thought.

But my tight throat already knows before I pick it up. My unsteady grip turns it over slowly.

The second one this week.

Another tarot card left for me to find.

Death.