2. Do not enter : Caught red-handed

Thea Monroe

The pulse of the music vibrated through my bones, a frantic rhythm that matched the dizzying spin of the dance floor. Hours had blurred by in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, laughter, and clumsy dips and sways with Casey.

We’d devoured trays of miniature quiches and spring rolls, not even bothering to check for crumbs on our ancient dresses. It was that kind of night – carefree, indulgent, and utterly detached from the mundane.

Then, as if summoned by a mischievous imp, a gaggle of Casey’s friends materialized, arms linked like a human chain, and swept her away into the swirling throng. One minute she was there, her bright laughter echoing in my ear, the next she was gone, swallowed by the hedonistic tide of the party.

I navigated the dense crowd, calling her name, feeling increasingly like a lone swimmer in a surging ocean. The main hall opened into a labyrinth of corridors, each branching off into dimly lit rooms. The air thickened with a different kind of energy as I ventured deeper.

Rounding a corner, a crimson glow spilled from under a door, beckoning and warning at the same time. Red lights. Curiosity, that insidious cat, tugged me forward. I paused before the door, and the sound hit me first – a low thrumming, punctuated by sharp cracks and muffled cries. Whips. Moans.

The thick, cloying sweetness of sex hung heavy in the air, palpable even through the closed door.

“Well… all right,” I muttered, backing away as if burned. This wasn't my kind of party, not really. Or maybe it was, but I was definitely not equipped for this particular room. Shaking my head, I retreated, turning left, then right, blindly seeking refuge in the anonymity of the dancing mass.

The feverish energy of the dance floor was starting to grate. Sweat slicked my skin, exhaustion gnawed at my ankles, and unwelcome hands brushed past my waist with unsettling frequency. Each whistle and suggestive glance felt like a tiny pinprick.

I needed air, space, a moment to breathe.

Fortuitously, a wide archway appeared, leading to a quieter, darker space. A vast hall, lined with towering statues and somber paintings, stretched before me. It felt strangely deserted, a forgotten corner in this opulent mansion. No one seemed interested in ancient history while a bacchanalian frenzy raged elsewhere.

Relief washed over me as I stepped inside. The air was cooler here, still, and the cacophony of the party faded to a distant hum. Glass cabinets lined the walls, displaying dusty artifacts. It felt like stepping into a museum, a sanctuary of silence and shadows.

I wandered through the hall, running my fingers lightly over the cool, smooth stone of a statue base. My gaze landed on a wall covered in hieroglyphic writing, flanking a majestic statue of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the afterlife. Intrigued, I traced the unfamiliar symbols with my fingertip.

One line, etched deeper than the rest, caught my eye. ‘You don’t need to fear death, as it is only the beginning. The truth is harsh, but dying is just the start of something real.’

“Hmhm…” I hummed softly, pondering the cryptic inscription. What truth was so harsh that death was preferable? What ‘something real’ lay beyond the veil? The words resonated with a strange unease, a whisper of something profound and unsettling.

My musings were abruptly interrupted by the sound of voices, drawing closer. Panic, illogical and sudden, seized me. Why was I panicking? I had no reason to hide. Yet, a primal instinct urged me to disappear.

Without conscious thought, I slipped behind a cluster of statues, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Three men entered the hall, their voices echoing in the sudden stillness. Their attire was extravagant, theatrical – expensive Egyptian costumes, bordering on the absurd.

One wore a stylized kilt and sandals, his chest bare and oiled, gleaming in the dim light. Another was draped in a long, flowing robe embroidered with gold thread that shimmered like captured sunlight. And then there was the third.

He wore a black mask, crafted in the shape of a jackal’s head, the silver muzzle gleaming ominously. It concealed most of his face, leaving only a sharp jawline and the taut line of his neck visible. The other two men had removed their masks upon entering, revealing faces I didn't recognize, but this masked figure… goosebumps erupted on my arms.

It was him. The man from the mansion dance hall. The one who had stood apart, observing, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with an unnerving intensity. He had moved like a phantom, a silent observer, before melting back into the throng. I’d dismissed it as a fleeting impression, a trick of the light. Now, here he was, in the flesh and masked bone-chilling presence, only a few yards away.

He was undeniably tall, towering over his companions, easily six-foot-four. Muscular, but with a lean, sculpted physique, not the bulky kind. Jet-black hair, what little I could see escaping from under the mask, framed his hidden face.

He was dressed in a magnificent blue and gold robe, a flowing cape attached at the shoulders, fastened with golden clasps adorned with glittering gems. He even carried a gold scepter, an ornate prop that somehow felt less like a costume piece and more like a statement.

He lifted a slender, elegant cigar to his masked mouth with a hand laden with gold–heavy bracelets chiming softly, rings catching the dim light as he blew on the glowing tip. Then he spoke, and the air in the hall seemed to vibrate with the resonance of his voice.

“You both know very well that I don’t like these events,” his voice was deep, smooth as polished obsidian, yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. It was a voice that could soothe or shatter, a voice that coiled around you like a velvet rope, promising pleasure and pain in equal measure. “But if necessary, I will host them, and I will do whatever is required to bring justice to those responsible.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken weight. Justice. Responsible. For what? My throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. I remained frozen behind the cold stone of the statue, desperately trying to make myself smaller, quieter.

“But, Rayes,” the blond man in the robe spoke, his voice softer, less imposing, “that was five years ago. And no success. It will not bring her back, and you know it.”

Rayes. So that was his name. Rayes. It suited him, somehow; the dark, fiery brooding intensity of it made him more exotic.

Questions swirled in my mind, a dizzying vortex of possibilities. Bring her back? Who was ‘her’? His girlfriend? His wife? Maybe his sister or his mother? What had happened five years ago? And what kind of justice was he seeking? This wasn't just a costume party; it was something else entirely.

Something darker, deeper, and far more dangerous than I could have imagined when I’d first stepped into this rich people's party.

Eavesdropping felt wrong, intrusive, yet I was gripped, unable to tear myself away from the hushed, menacing conversation unfolding before me. This party, this hall, this masked man – it all reeked of secrets, and I, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, was now unwillingly entangled in a web of mystery.

"I will do everything in my power to get the person responsible in my grasp so I can make him pay. She deserved better for what they did to her," Rayes murmured, his voice laden with a profound sense of loss and anger. Dragging another smoke, he sighed and turned around, giving them the view of his back,” I will be frank with you. If my father steps down from the business, I will be the one who takes over as the only heir, so it can happen really soon. That way, the convict will jump right into my arms. I can’t be merciful anymore. I need to eliminate him so she can rest in peace.”

“Mate, I’m with you, but how can you be sure of your father stepping down? He is sick but still alive,” the one with the kilt said.

Anubis gritted his teeth and glanced at him over his shoulder,” He’s on his deathbed. He doesn’t have any options left but to pass it to me. With resources and power, I will get what I want, and I don’t care if that bastard dies. You know very well that he never cared about me except for the use of my blood so I can take over his legacy.”

The guys went silent, and then he sighed, ”Leave. I need time alone.”

They exchanged glances but didn’t protest,” As you wish. Just control your temper if you manage to stumble upon some of your guests; we don’t need a bloody mess in here like last time. We will be at the main dance hall if you need us. “

Leaving the room, silence reigned for a few moments. Rayes stared up at the ceiling and exhaled another cloud of smoke into the air. I could see him shaking his head slightly, but couldn’t see his expression beneath the jackal mask.

The spacious room, filled with history and its secrets, was enveloped in an oppressive silence, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of Rayes’ cigarette and hallway music from a distance.

He moved closer, his footsteps barely audible against the marble floor. Not giving him a chance to see me by accident, I tried to circle the statue to avoid him being discovered, but alas, time seemed to slow when fate had other plans.

My shoes failed me when my dress got caught on my strapless heels. The sound of shattering glass filled the room as the champagne slipped from my numb fingers, the drink splashing everywhere on the floor as the shards remained staring at me in a million pieces.

I could see the black boots stopping just a few feet away from where I was hiding. The air grew heavy, and my heartbeat grew louder in my ears. I felt like a rabbit, frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Rayes’ voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife, sending a shiver down my spine. "You're not supposed to be here, little dove," he murmured, his tone low and dangerous.

My mind went blank, and I struggled to find the right words to say. My heart hammered in my chest as I slowly lifted my gaze, meeting his royal, clothed, broad chest in his God-like attire and strong arms instead of his eyes. The jackal mask hid his identity, and I couldn't see the real color of his eyes. But I could feel his gaze on me, and I knew he was studying me intently.

"I'm sorry. I got lost and found this place. I didn't mean to hear anything," I blurted out quickly, before I could stop myself. I knew it was a weak excuse, and I was sure he could see right through it. Unable to move, I felt trapped between the stone pillar and Rayes’ looming presence.

A scent of smoke and something fruity permeated the air, sending my mind into a fuzzy whirl.

"You're not supposed to be here," he repeated, whispering, his voice wrapping around me like a fog, leaving me momentarily speechless. I was caught trespassing in a forbidden place, and I knew it.

I could feel the questions in his hidden gaze, the curiosity that mirrored my own. Also, there was a slight hint of annoyance because I’ve heard something important that’s not meant for strangers. I was an unwanted obstacle in his path. The tension between us was palpable, as if we both stood on the precipice of a great unknown.

In that moment, I realized the depth of my intrusion, the secrets I had unwittingly become a party to. My thoughts raced, searching for the right words to explain my presence, but I remained silent, unsure of how to proceed.

Great, Thea. Now you’re dead. He will probably suck my soul out of my body so he can drag it to hell with other miserable human beings. Once that happens, he will mummify my body and will bury me in a poor sarcophagus, in this very museum, for other people’s entertainment, telling them of my terrible history choices of how I trespassed his forbidden mysterious territory, full of dark secrets and stolen treasure. JUST GREAT.

"Why are you here while others are dancing and enjoying themselves? This hall is forbidden for guests," he said, his tone still calm and controlled. I could hear the sternness beneath his words, urging me to leave.

Caught off guard, I let out a nervous laugh. "I didn't know that no one was allowed here. There weren't any signs saying that, so I just came in," I replied, hoping he would believe me.

“No signs?” his voice sardonically resonated, low and smooth, sending shivers down my spine despite the dire situation,” It’s right there on the wall in bold letters - do not enter without without permission - This is an restricted area for unwanted people who wander where they don’t belong,” he says in a mocking tone, pointing to a wall that I somehow missed upon entering. The words glare at me, a stark reminder of my mistake.

“I'm sorry," I murmured, looking down at my feet. "I had no idea. I just…wandered in, I swear. The music was faint from here, I thought maybe it was another lounge,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My gaze flickered down to the shards of glass scattered around my feet again, then up to his chest, then quickly away, unable to meet the piercing stare of the mask.

His chest rumbled with a sound that might have been a chuckle, or maybe a growl, I couldn't tell. “A lounge. In the restricted wing of my estate?” he drawled, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, but with an underlying current of… something. Amusement?

Definitely. But also, as the prompt so accurately put it, something sharper. Steel. Like the kind of steel used to forge superhero swords or, you know, incredibly intimidating paperweights for his probably mahogany desk.

‘Estate?’ My mind raced. This wasn't just some random party, then. This man, this masked figure, was someone important. Powerful. And I was trespassing on his territory.

“I… I didn’t know,” was the pathetic answer I managed. I hated how weak I sounded, how easily I crumbled under his presence. But there was something about him, an aura of raw power that emanated from him, making my knees feel like jelly.

He stepped closer, the mask looming over me, and that intoxicating scent of smoke and fruity fragrance intensified, swirling around me like a heady drug. It was insane, completely inappropriate given the circumstances, but my senses were on fire.

“Tell me, little dove,” he whispered again, the words brushing past my ear when he pinned me to the pillar against my back, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms and making the fine hairs on my neck prickle. “What were you really doing here?”

His gaze dropped again to my exposed thighs, where the champagne had splashed and the shattered glass glittered like dangerous jewels clinging to my skin. I felt a blush creep up my neck, knowing how exposed I was, how vulnerable. My strapless dress, which had seemed so glamorous just moments ago, now felt like a flimsy shield against his scrutiny.

Oh, and did I mention the champagne had also rendered my borrowed dress somewhat… see-through in certain areas? Fantastic. Just fantastic.

He was definitely going to realize. Realize that amidst my champagne-fueled stumble into his restricted lair, I had, in fact, overheard snippets of his… revenge planning. Obviously. Because why wouldn’t I? It was just my luck. I was probably going to be imprisoned in his estate's dungeons. Or worse, forced to attend more of these terrifying, masked gatherings.

Lifting his head, he leaned closer, inspecting me like I was some rare, slightly damaged specimen under a microscope. His hand, gloved in black leather, hovered near my hip, agonizingly close but not quite touching. It was almost… hesitant? Could it be? Was this terrifying, powerful, vengeance-plotting Anubis… unsure? Dare I hope he was slightly less homicidal than I’d initially assumed?

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice a soft, low murmur that somehow made its way through the intimidating mask.

I blinked, genuinely taken aback by the question. Of all the things he could have asked – “Who are you?”, “How dare you trespass?” “Do you have any idea about what I do to people who listen to private conversations without permission?”, “Do you know how much dry cleaning costs?” – he went with a simple, almost… polite inquiry.

“Why?” I blurted out, my brain still struggling to catch up with the sudden shift in tone. And then, in a moment of sheer, unadulterated idiocy, I continued, “I won’t tell anyone. Pretend I didn’t hear anything.”

Face. Palm. Meet. For the love of all that is holy and sensible, why did I just say that? Like a blithering, self-incriminating idiot, I had just cheerfully admitted to eavesdropping on his probably nefarious, definitely not-cheese-related conversations. Smooth, self. Real smooth.

Now, as I stand here, pinned to a pillar by a masked jackal man who smells like a bonfire in an orchard and probably owns dungeons, I’m left with two burning questions.

Firstly, did he actually chuckle earlier, or was that a low-key growl? And secondly, and perhaps more importantly, what in the name of all that is sensible am I going to do now? Because suddenly, the prospect of dungeons is starting to look like the less terrifying option compared to the unknown machinations swirling behind that intimidating Anubis mask.

And honestly, at this point, a strong cup of tea and a very, very long lie-down sounds like a far superior evening plan. That is…if I escape alive, preferably. But somehow, I have a sneaking suspicion my night is just getting started. And probably not in a good way. Wish me luck. I think I'm going to need it. And maybe a change of address. And possibly witness protection. Just in case.

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