1. Laura

Chapter 1

Laura

I adjust my heavy ceramic mask and keep reminding myself that nobody here can see my face. That's keeping me calm, but just barely. The horns make the whole thing sag, and I really regret adding them, especially after my sister, Elena, told me they were a bad idea. But once I had she-demon-goat-devil in my head, it was really hard to turn back, and now here I am sporting foot-long ram's horns that curl inward and are covered in intricately carved patterns.

At least I feel like a badass.

The room's surprisingly packed. I figured some people would show up—Club Cage is renowned in Chicago as the most exclusive and exciting social club for the rich and powerful—but not this many. My brother Angelo reserved the entire second floor, which wasn't a big deal since he owns the place, and now it's jammed with beautiful women with peacock feathers sprouting from their faces and men with lion's manes and simple black Zorro-style silk with the eyes cut out.

My sculptures dominate the space. Anxiety runs down my spine every time someone pauses to stare. Hands creep up from the floor, some of them grasping, some relaxed, some missing fingers and others splattered in blood. Tongues lounge around them like distorted, massive worms. Modern tongues and hyper-realistic tongues and geometric tongues and more. I try not to listen to what the guests are saying, but I catch snippets of conversation anyway.

"…not sure I totally get it, but I gotta admit, they're gorgeous…"

"Freaky as hell. Totally freaky."

"I'd love to ride that finger. Oh my god, or that tongue? Like getting mouth-fucked by a giant."

"…talent, pure, raw talent, even if the sculptor must be a little disturbed."

"I'm buying this one. Where's my husband, he's got my checkbook. Darling? Darling!"

And on and on, to the point that I make myself drink a glass of champagne, even though I haven't had alcohol in public since I was a teenager.

I lurk at the edges of the room. Nobody bothers me because nobody knows I'm the artist. I made sure Angelo didn't tell anyone, which is the only reason I agreed to show up, that and the masks.

I'm slightly agoraphobic. Not full-on terrified of stepping out my door, but social situations make my spine turn to liquid fear, and this was the only way I could imagine ever showing up to my own art debut. I honestly didn't think Angelo was going to make it happen, but my brother pulled out all the stops, and from what I can tell this is actually pretty successful.

"How you holding up?"

I look over and a man wearing a simple black mask with a long bird-like nose stares back.

"Counting down the seconds until it's over."

Angelo laughs and posts up beside me, arms crossed over his chest. "Come on, it's not that bad. You're enjoying yourself."

"I'm miserable. This is what hell must be like."

"They like it, you know." He nods at the crowd. "Some people are freaked out by the tongues, but that's good, right? You want them a little uncomfortable."

I shrug and don't answer. I'm not really sure what I want out of my art—only that I've been obsessively making tongues, fingers, hands, mouths, noses, and ears for over ten years now, and I don't know how to stop. I've never really cared about how an audience would react.

A woman wearing a sleek navy-blue dress comes over and hangs onto Angelo's arm. Claudia's mask is lacy and delicate, a lot like her. Angelo bends down, lifts up his bird beak, and gives her a light kiss.

"We just sold another one," Claudia says, beaming. She works closely with Angelo at Cage and is practically a second owner at this point. They aren't married, and everyone keeps asking when they're going to tie the knot, but neither seems in a rush to get it done.

"Incredible. Hear that, Laura? You're going to be rich after this."

"I already was." I tilt my head and take a deep breath. "How many of them are gone?"

"Almost all of them." Claudia sounds bright and cheery like that's a good thing. "I think there's a finger and a tongue left. But maybe it's two fingers? I can go check if you?—"

I shake my head and start walking away. "That's okay. I'm getting some air."

"Are you okay?" Angelo takes a few steps and looks like he wants to follow me. I stop and face him, staring hard.

"I'm fine, and if you don't turn around and go back to your wife or girlfriend or whatever she is, I'm going to punch you in the throat."

Angelo barks a rough laugh. "Yeah, you sound like you're totally fine."

I wave him off and stalk away, feeling guilty, but I can just throw that emotion on the freaking fire. I'm a mess and I'm barely holding it together, and all I want to do is get some air right now.

There are too many people in this room. My family's all here—Davide and his wife, Stefania; Elena and her husband, Brody; Simon and his wife, Emily; even my parents made a brief appearance—but that doesn't take the edge off. If anything, they're making it worse by hovering and worrying and making little comments.

And worst of all, all of my work is gone.

I head up the stairs, adjusting my mask and my sleek, tight black dress as I go. I bypass the third floor, since it's basically a glorified sex club at this point, and push through the fire exit to the roof. The alarms don't go off—I had Angelo turn them off earlier. Sweet, fresh air floods my lungs as I walk toward the edge and stare out over the city of Chicago. Buildings claw at the black night sky and lights stretch to the edge of infinity. I feel lost and small, swallowed by an uncaring and enormous city packed with individuals living their own main character lives, and the smallness of my own existence is weirdly comforting. I'm aware that I'm a freak.

This was a stupid idea. Coming here feels like diving headfirst into the open ocean. I've been alone for so long, and I let Angelo play up my pride and my vanity. He got me to throw this crazy art show, and now I'm freaking out, just like I knew I would. I take deep, shuddering breaths, cursing myself, hating myself. Why can't I be normal for ten minutes? Why can't I handle one single night around a bunch of strangers? Everyone's wearing a mask, just like I requested, and the people down there seem to honestly like my art.

So why does this feel terrible?

It's weakness, and I hate weakness.

But that's me: weak, all the way through.

"Sorry, I didn't know anyone was out here."

I jump and turn around. I don't recognize the man standing over near the fire escape door and I don't know his voice. He's tall, well over six feet, and wearing a sleek black suit. His arms are muscular, and I stare at his forearms in particular, at the way he's leaning against the doorframe and holding it open, at his fingers and his nails. They're good nails: short and manicured, but not stubby. A nice color too.

But it's his mask I'm drawn toward. Most of the people in that room wore simple face coverings and stuck to predictable themes. Lace and cats for women, lions and tigers and simple wraps for the men. And while this guy's mask is black too, it's a sleek enameled black like mine, with two tall ears and a sharp snout with gold highlights and intricate designs swirling from top to bottom.

"You're a jackal," I say out loud, surprising myself.

His head tilts. "And you're a goat."

"Ram," I correct. "But close enough."

"I like it. Very beautiful." He doesn't come closer, which I like. I cross my arms and hold my ground, but my heart's racing. His voice is low and resonant, a good voice, a sensual rumble. "Where did you find it?"

"Made it myself," I admit, even though I don't know why, but nobody else asked me that question and I'm proud of my work. Even though I try not to be, I can't help it.

"Really? That's impressive."

"What about you?"

"I had this one made for me by a friend." He looks sideways, out at the night. "Do you mind if I join you? I needed to get a little space from that party down there."

I pause and consider telling him to go away. I came out here to be alone and recharge a little bit. But I like the way he talks, and his mask makes a strange shiver run down my spine, and I figure this is what I'm supposed to be doing anyway. Socializing, pretending to be a regular woman, that sort of thing.

"Alright, sure."

He laughs gently and lets the door close as he comes over. He leaves a few feet of space between us. "It's nice up here."

"The buildings make me feel like an ant and I like that."

The Jackal tilts his face toward me, and I can't tell if he's smiling or looking at me like I'm crazy, and a red flush runs into my cheeks. I can't remember the last time I cared what another person thought about me and it's a really off-putting sensation.

"When I was younger, I used to climb to the top of this warehouse with some friends." He looks away, back out at the city, and I follow his gaze. Cars drive slowly down the streets, their hazy red taillights disappearing around bends. "We'd play this game where you'd lie on your back and shuffle out over the edge of the building and everyone else would hold your legs down to make sure you didn't fall. You'd look out over the city, upside-down and suspended over nothing, twenty stories up in the air. Whoever went the furthest would win."

I stare at him and try to imagine it. "That must've been incredible."

He nods slowly. "It was, but it was also stupid."

"Did you ever win?"

"Every time. I went out until my friends had to beg me to come back over. They'd haul me up even when I told them not to."

"You must've really trusted them."

He shrugs, tilting his jackal-face from side to side. "I wouldn't say that. I just liked the view, and I'm a competitive person."

"Would you do it now?" I ask him, the idea strangely appealing. "If I went to the edge, would you hold me down?"

He turns and stares at me. His eyes are gray, a strange light blue, almost like a slate. It's disconcerting, the contrast between that color and the deep black and gold of his jackal face.

"You don't know me. Are you sure you want to take that risk?"

No. Yes. Absolutely fucking not. But more than anything in the world. My heart's skipping beats at the idea of looking out over the city backward, hanging over nothing.

"Yes. I am." I walk away from him, over to the edge, and get down on my knees. I feel a moment of dizziness rush over my head as I look down. Cage is a tall building, even though it's only three floors, with enormous ceilings. Falling from this height onto the concrete parking lot below would definitely kill me.

I hear Jackal coming up behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and I nearly scream. I haven't been touched by a stranger in a very, very long time, but for some reason his fingers send an excited shiver down my spine. Maybe it's how vulnerable I am, or maybe it's the masks, but either way I don't recoil from him the way I might've under any other circumstances.

It's strange and intoxicating, being able to be touched for the first time since I was a teenager.

"On your back, little demon," he whispers.

And, god, I obey him. I turn around, wriggling my hips, and lie down so I'm staring up at the stars. I feel the edge of the building at the top of my head, my ram horns jutting out into the space behind me. His knees rest on my ankles and his hands touch my legs, and I'm aware that my tight bodycon dress is pulled up to my hips, but I don't care.

I wriggle backward. My head goes over first and Jackal shifts his weight and his hands until they're on my hips, pushing me down. I pause for a moment as vertigo hits me.

"You can stop," he says gently. There's no malice or judgment. "You don't have to keep going."

I don't listen. I shimmy forward, my head spinning at the mind-bending view. The buildings, the stars, the sky, and the feeling of gravity trying to pull me down. My core activates and I hold myself up as I go further, my shoulders over, the middle of my back. The edge scrapes my spine, but I don't care.

I see the entire universe above me. The tops of the buildings are at the bottom of my view, but the stars, god, all the stars, even though there are so few in the city sky at night, they still feel infinite. Skyscrapers are nothing, entire blocks are nothing, the highway system and the arteries of this entire country are nothing compared to the gaps between those stars, and I feel like nothing, like a piece of dust floating in an empty room, like an atom at the tip of a microscopic hair.

Jackal's weight is on my middle. His hands grip my hips and the snout of his mask presses against my belly. My bare thighs are wrapped around him, and my core is pressed into his chest, and I'm pulsing with excitement, both erotic and existential. I feel more alive than I've ever felt before, my life in the hands of this total stranger, the weight of the galaxy pressing down on my brain, making me go haywire.

I start to move out further, but Jackal stops me. "No more."

"You went further," I say, gasping. My mask starts to slip and I have to hold it in place. Hair falls free, dangling over the drop. "Don't lie to me."

"I had at least five people making sure I didn't fall. I'd be very unhappy if you dropped to your death, little demon."

"Then make sure I don't." I start to shimmy again, but he holds me tight.

"No more." His voice isn't afraid, but there's a firm note in his tone. Like this isn't a command anymore. "Stay right there for as long as you want. I'll hold you. But no more."

I sit up, abs working hard, and I look at him, suspended in the air. He's staring at me, face unreadable behind the mask, gray eyes shining in the city light behind us. I'm tempted to tell him off, to make him let me go. I could drop fast and hard and for a few seconds, I'd be happy.

Instead, I reach out and touch one of his ceramic ears. "Pull me back."

He doesn't hesitate. His strong arms drag me toward him until we're back on the roof together, our bodies tangled, his arms around me and I'm lying on top of him, hands on his chest.

His heart is surprisingly steady. We stay like that for a few seconds and my core's burning with desire as his hands remain on my hips, way too close to my ass. Nobody's touched me like this, not for a very, very long time, and I don't know what to do. I like it, but it scares me, and I want more, but I'm terrified. If we weren't wearing masks, I'd press my mouth to his and kiss him hard enough to make his lips bleed, but if we weren't wearing masks I would've run away a long time ago.

"That was interesting, watching you like that, but I like this position better, little demon." His voice is soft and there's no mocking in it.

I let myself stay for another few heartbeats before I push him back and move to the side. He sits up as I get to my feet and pull my dress down, doing my best to make myself look remotely presentable.

"I get why you played that game." I take a few steps away from him toward the fire door.

He rises to his feet. "It feels good, doesn't it? When you're hanging over the edge, upside-down, completely aware of the drop but too stunned by the view to care. You almost want to fall, don't you?"

How the hell does he know that's exactly what I'm thinking? I pause, one hand on the knob, and stare at him as my heart hammers in my chest. I want to ask who he is, and I want to run away and never see him again, but something just happened between us. He had my life in his hands, and he didn't let me down. No, more than that, he had my body in his hands, and I didn't want him to stop touching me.

I didn't know I could be touched without losing my mind.

"Next time, let me go further."

He tilts his head. "You think there will be a next time?"

"If you can figure out who I am, I'll see you again."

His big arms cross over his strong chest. "Give me your first name."

"That'll make it too easy."

"Give me something then."

I hesitate, racking my brain. This is dumb, but—"I'm the artist," I tell him, which should be safe, since only a minuscule handful of people know that's my art down there. "It was fun, Jackal."

I swear, he's grinning at me, and I hope that he's frustrated. This was stupid—beyond stupid—and I'm starting to crash back to reality.

"It was very fun, little demon."

I shove the door open and hurry back downstairs.

I'm trembling as I descend. I shouldn't have done that. Letting some total stranger hold me while I dangled over a steep drop was absolutely crazy. But the way his fingers brushed my skin, his hands gripped my hips, and his eyes, and, god?—

I have to pause to catch my breath.

Get it together, Laura.

The party's still going hard. I find my sister, Elena, and let her know that I'm ready to go. She seems disappointed, but she drapes her arm across my shoulders and steers me toward the exit without making a fuss. "I'm proud of you," she says. "Coming out like this. I know it expands your boundaries, but this is good." She pushes her cat mask up and grins at me. "Maybe next time, we'll skip the costumes."

"Doubt it," I tell her.