Her gaze immediately seeks out John.
"He's taking Rosie 'round for sweets."
Damn, Cora thinks since there's no buffer. She wishes in light of their argument the other day he wouldn't speak to her. That he'd simply avoid her. It would make things much easier. She wouldn't have to hear whatever rude comment is bound to be next. In order to avoid it, she looks around the crowded room.
Her gaze doesn't stray too far, because she's suddenly aware that the brother won't look at her. For a moment or two, he'll glance at her face, but never her body. She knows he's not entirely prude since he commented on the ugly orange dress, but she does wonder if the outfit makes him uncomfortable.
Guilt floods her veins, warm and cool at the same time. Cora hates when people are uncomfortable. She knows what a horrid feeling it is—like when your skin itches but there's no relief or your stomach is churning from bad food. No matter how rude the brother is, she doesn't want to be the source of his uneasiness.
"You clearly wanted something out of tonight given the outfit. Hopefully, you've bought batteries."
And just like that, the guilt disappears. Face flushed, Cora rises from her seat. She teeters precariously on the stilettos, but it also places her nearly at his eye level which she doesn't mind. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're a lonely woman. It's only natural—"
"Are you serious?" she interrupts and clenches her fists to keep from backhanding the git. Though, punching him is clearly not out of the question. "This is why the last one turned, isn't it? Because you're bloody insane and wouldn't leave her alone."
One brow quirks as if he's amused. "You don't really believe that. No…" he nearly hums. "Not after what you've heard."
Cora pauses to take a deep breath. This battle is utterly ridiculous and not how she wants to spend her already ruined night. Shaking her head, she turns for the door because damned be Mr Holmes' request! Hell, at this point she can probably make it to the club and drink this entire nightmare away.
"You expect everyone to turn a blind eye to this Cora façade?"
Does she fight this? Is it worth it? Probably not…
Crossing her arms, she turns to him. "That name was given to me by my parents. Sorry if it doesn't meet your standards."
Arse.
"You are aware you're a terrible liar, yes?"
Cora shouldn't allow his remarks to bother her. No one should be able to get under her skin. After all, there are multiple self-help books on the matter. What she needs to do is leave, but currently, all her willpower is expended in keeping her jaw clamped.
"You're quite good at keeping up this guise," he continues to prod. "I'm sure normal people believe your gimmick. But we both know what you really are."
"Are you that bored with your life you need to live vicariously through others?" she growls, because his attack is anything but fair. If she had to wager, she'd place all her money on the idea Mr Holmes lured her here for this. At the very least, he brought the brother in after she upset him on the car ride.
Regardless, despite the logical side of her brain, her feathers are quite ruffled. Thus, she can't seem to lock her jaw again. "Is this how you get off? Insulting others? You pretend to read them like some psychic at the fair, and everyone relishes in your genius, and throws cash in your face as you delight in their stupidity."
"Psychic at the fair. That's what you think," he says with a slow nod of his head. His gaze settles on hers with the same snake-staring-at-its-prey she's seen from Mr Holmes. "That all?"
Cora hears something in his tone that stops her from responding. She isn't certain what, but her stomach is suddenly churning and her skin crawls.
"Of course, it is. Why would you go on?" His gaze never once leaves hers. She sees the irritation in his eyes telling her she's no more than a pesky gnat. "Mycroft says you're observant, but that you don't enjoy the task. Wrong. You prefer to act as if you're no more observant than the typhlichthys subterraneus who's both blind and deaf."
"Says the man who's responsible for his best friend's wife's death!" she snaps, and her eyes widen. The words taste acidic—not to mention bitter and foul—and she wishes she hadn't said it. She looks at him, mortified beyond reason. Her hand covers her mouth.
The damage is done, though. His eyes glint dangerously as they rake over her in an instant. "You cannot walk in heels, yet you're still having a pass at it. You're attempting to maintain an image that is working poorly for you. You also believe the added height and projection of hips will attract someone of the opposite sex other than some meager, bumbling trust-fund boy. It won't. The angel outfit is not something you bought. No, you can't really afford such things, nor would you save for them. Your friend gave it to you. It was too big on her, and it's too small on you."
Cora stands there, stiff as a statue. She's crossed another line tonight, and this one she believes to be more menacing than the last. Especially as he steps closer.
"And no matter what you lead others to believe," he growls, "your name is not Cora."
She feels flayed—which is ironic in light of the fact he called her a Southern cavefish. While not everything he said is accurate, there's enough that makes her realise she doesn't see herself correctly. She also recognises her arrogance because she's too prideful to apologise.
Taking a shaky breath, she can only stare at the floor.
"Never try to insult me again," he warns.
Cora should acknowledge that she heard him, but her thoughts are a blur. The world spins which makes any movement dangerous in heels. Sounds grow silent. She has no one to blame but herself.
She created this mess.
Fighting back tears, hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Cora's gaze darts around. Blinking, she swears she sees a man in a canine mask near one of the doors. Her arms drop to the side as the room darkens, only to be lit by flashing lights. Smoke filters in, low and slow before rising towards the ceiling. The speakers reverberate with the sound of a squeaky door and howls as the song changes.
The crowd chuckles. Cora hears murmurs of Sir Edwin creating something exciting for once. Looking over towards the punch bowl, she sees Mr Holmes shaking his head in annoyance. With the look he gives Lady Smallwood, he seems to think nothing is wrong.
A chill runs the length of her spine.
"You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it."
Cora stiffens and turns, taking slow teetering steps. Her heel catches air, and she trips. A soft gasp escapes her lips as the brother helps her steady herself. His gaze flicks to hers before scanning the room.
He must sense it, too, she surmises.
"And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike. You know it's thriller, thriller night. You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller tonight."
Her face blanches as a memory flickers, lost somewhere in the back of her mind. Cora grabs the brother's arm. "Get down!"
She hits the floor. Hard. It'll definitely leave a bruise. However, it's nothing compared to the explosion that rocks the room.
When Cora comes to, the world around is hazy and dark. She tries to move. To escape, but a ceiling beam pins her down. It refuses to budge when she pushes against it. Her feet kick out, heels lost in the disaster. The ringing in her ears drowns out all sound, but she can feel the bass from Thriller.
Oh God…
Cora freezes.
Golden eyes ringed in black gaze down. Large teeth are carved into a twisted grin while intricate burgundy swirls break up a white bone skull. Her breath catches as she stares at the ornate canine mask glaring at her.
Her lip quivers as the mask moves closer. Kneels over her. His jacket shifts, revealing the butt of a gun.
A tear slips down her cheek. I'm so dead.
Gloved hands graze her skin. She recoils. Turns from him. Shudders.
Then, the beam is gone.
Looking up, the masked man gestures to follow.
Crawling to her feet, she coughs roughly. After a moment, she stumbles after him. Making her way over debris, she heads away from the fire at the opposite end of the room. The ringing fades out as she hears, "And the dead start to walk in their masquerade."
The canine man in a dark three-piece suit continues to guide her through the wreckage. Just debris, she thinks, ignoring the idea of causalities.
As they come to the doors, Cora stops and looks towards the punch table on her right. People are beginning to rise from the smoke. Their shouts are downed by the music. Their fear, however, rings loud and clear as they rush to the exits.
People pass her, left and right. Pushing—shoving—as they make their escape.
Her heart slams into her rib cage. None of the faces is the one she seeks. The canine man grabs her hand forcing her to look at him.
"Mr Holmes?!" she shouts, sniffing and rubbing at her eye. The man tugs her towards the exit. She shakes her head. "I have to find Mycroft!"
'Darkness calls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand…'
Tugging out of his grasp, she sprints to the punch bowl. It doesn't take her long to find Mr Holmes lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding. Kneeling next to him, she shakes him to no avail. Grabbing his arm, she stands and pulls.
Halting, a presence is felt on her right. She glances over as the canine man moves into view.
"Please…" she whimpers. The fingers of one hand grasp the cuff of his jacket. The dam breaks and tears rush down her cheeks. Her voice hitches as she begs, "Please! I need to help him."
"Must stand and face the hounds of hell, and rot inside a corpse's shell…"
The canine hesitates. Golden eyes are torn with some sort of silent uncertainty. His gaze is fixed on her, though. The world around them silent. Eyes scrunch with a definitive answer. He then lifts Mr Holmes.
Chaos gains momentum around them. Elegant dresses are torn and shredded as women run screaming and sobbing. Men shove their way to the door, stepping over debris and bodies. Fire brigades and emergency services rush in.
Not that it matters. Cora simply follows the canine mask as he exits the crumbling building. Glittering jewels couldn't save these people. Their money didn't protect them. Not even their status kept them safe.
Here and now, we are equals, she thinks and prays Mr Holmes will not be counted amongst the dead.
Outside, the canine mask sets Mr Holmes on the ground. Cora kneels next to her employer, dirty feathers ruffling in the chilled breeze. He's bloodied from head to foot, and she can't tell the extent of the damage. Two fingers press against his throat.
It's faint, but his heart is still beating.
Looking up, the canine mask is gone. Taking his place, an EMT.
In the distance, Cora can hear:
"…are closing in to seal your doom. And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver. For no mere mortal can resist. The evil of the thriller…"
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