The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. Bodies piled up like cords of wood, stiff and crimson of visage, faces startled by how sudden and gruesome death had been when it came for them. Cities became mass charnel houses, and bone orchards everywhere were inundated with cadavers. The skies grew dark with cyclones of ravens and crows, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence was drowned.
Rakehell and agent to the crown Honoré de March had been assigned by the failing King to travel deep into the countryside and locate Prince Prospero’s castellated retreat, his grand palazzo, his fabulous abbey. The King’s young seer, Miranda, had foreseen the Prince’s death at midnight two weeks hence, and de March had been ordered to save his life, come hell or high tide. So it was with grim determination that the pair headed North into the deep woods, traveling under the dark canopies until they reached the massive curtain wall that circled the abbey and guarded the Prince and his cohorts from the plague that raged across the county so.
Under cover of night they scaled the massive walls, and like moths falling from the night sky dropped to the ground undetected and melted into the festive throngs. At first de March was taken aback by the displays of gaucherie and decadence, by the lack of taste and decorum. Knights and ladies, courtiers and pages, all cavorted and danced, whirled and whorled under the night sky and within the halls, nude and partially dressed, slathered in grotesque costumes and sporting lascivious masks. Silks and velvet, minks and chains, spilt wine and spoiled food. The palazzo reeked with hedonistic abandon.
Miranda, barely twenty years old, flame haired and fiercely freckled, followed de March like a hesitant shadow, a candle flame in danger of being puffed out by the wind. She watched wide eyed as a circle of men and women cheered on a man as he mortified his flesh, wide eyed and lost. She stared with horror as a man turned kitchen instruments upon his partner, and averted her gaze when she saw a woman blank eyed being used by a line of petitioners.
de March shepherded her into a quiet space, a place where the music couldn’t reach them, as remote and secluded as they could get.
“Miranda,” he said, shaking her to get her attention. “Wake up, snap out of it.”
“They court death,” she said. “They court death, defy it.
“More fool them. Are you alright? Will you be able to retain your wits?
“I’ve seen much with my Second Sight, seen much on the roads and paths that have brought us here. But this, it is something else. Something worse than a corpse abandoned in a cross road, or a pile of bodies left to rot. This is solicitation. This is the will to life inverted.
“Well, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but come on now, focus. When is it coming? When does Death come for Prince Prospero?
“Tonight,” said Miranda, pulling out a sheaf of tarot cards. She knelt down, cast them into a cross, and then referenced the cards revealed against a couple of slender tomes. “Yes, tonight,” she said, certainty in her voice. “Everybody dies tonight. The jig is up. Less than an hour, perhaps.
“An hour? Crap,” said de March. “Fine, fine.
“Prince Prospero is going to die. You’re going to die. I’m going to die.
“Your small talk is awful,” said de March absently, and then turned from her. “Ready?
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Miranda, sinking to her side. “I shall await death here.
“Fine, fine,” said de March striding off. It would probably be easier without her at his side,
muttering her dark aspirations anyway. Back into the throng he plunged, at home in this riotous element, spinning between dancers, lifting his knees in plange et fort when the music called for it, taking glasses of wine when proffered to him and tossing them, glass and all, over his shoulder. He waved aside an offer to partake in sausage rolls, and bowed out of a game of bridge. Finally he came to the colored suites, the green and white and orange suites, lit from without by the candelabra placed outside the windows that looked in.
There—Prince Prospero. The Prince cut a fine figure. Broad shouldered, confident, his handsome face was ablaze with delight and life. How could Miranda call this man anything but alive? de March glanced about, sought out Death. Nowhere to be seen. A clock somewhere began to strike midnight, the tones so disjointed and jarring that the music stilled, revellers ceased their dancing, and all gazed at each other with apprehension and doubt.
A hand gripped his, cold and slight. Looking down, de March saw Miranda. Her face was pale, the bones in her skull prominent. de March gave a start—she looked dead already.
“The time has come for the unmasqueing,” she said, and pulled him down so that their lips met. She pressed her cool lips against his own in a chaste kiss, and then stepped back. Surprised, unsure of himself, de March watched as she wrapped her cloak about herself, and straightened, seeming to grow taller. de March staggered back. Miranda’s face was growing increasingly ghastly, twisted and warped, wholly unlike herself. Her features grew contorted, and blood seeped out from her skin, milked from her flesh so that it soaked her robes and brow.
The clock finished chiming midnight, and the crowds turned to each other, relieved, only to see Miranda standing amidst them, tall and gaunt and altogether horrible. They drew back, began to murmur to each other.
"Who dares?" Prince Prospero demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
People surged forward and then stopped just shy of Miranda. She was staring with her ghoul eyes at where the Prince stood. de March drew forth his flintlock, and tried to cock it. His fingers fumbled. His breath was stilled within his chest. Miranda began to surge forwards, the crowd falling back like parted waters. From the blue room she went to the purple -- through the purple to the green -- through the green to the orange -- through this again to the white -- and even thence to the violet. None stopped her, only de March faltered after her, gun raised, trying to pull the trigger.
Prince Prospero then drew a dagger, his face contorted with rage. Into the black and final room he plunged, intent on Miranda, dagger held up high. A premonition hit de March, and he knew that should that blade pierce Miranda’s cloaks, then would the Prince’s death be terrible indeed, lasting a month for each day he had spent in seclusion here in the palazzo. Gun raised, he changed his aim, and pulled the trigger.
Screams. Prince Prospero fell, shot through the back. Summoning their courage, a throng of revellers threw themselves into the black velvet room, and clawed at Miranda, only to draw back once more as her vestments collapsed untenanted to the ground. Already people were swaying, moaning, clawing at their necks as blood sprang fresh and bright from their faces.
de March stumbled away, fled the crowds. People were screaming, raw and terrified. Down hallways and passages he ran, till finally he came across the nook in which he had last seen Miranda examine her cards. And there she lay, curled into a question mark, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. de March collapsed beside her, sat back against the wall. Pain was in his joints, his skin was on fire. There wasn’t much time left to him. His mission had been a failure, destined to be such from its incipience. Reaching down,he pulled Miranda’s slight form towards him, pulled her into his arms. Her eyes remained closed.
Not much time left now. The screams were horrendous. He would not cry out, no matter the pain. Lifting Miranda, he gazed at her fine boned face, at her pale, bloodless lips. She had kissed him, before the last. He didn’t know what it meant, but leaning his head, he kissed her of his own will, returned her kiss. Her eyes opened and they were scarlet, livid and solid red. Her lips smiled against his, and she bit down on his tongue.
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