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He feels the tenacious grip of his companion around his wrist. It’s almost painful and quite clearly telegraphed that his companion would, in fact, be of the mind to break his bones again as a warning against foul play. Too bad for him, Bloody Mary isn’t the type to be a pushover. It simply wasn’t in his dictionary.
He slides his manicured fingers over his companion’s gloved hand, slipping underneath the cuff of his robe and digging those sharp nails into skin without remorse. “Tut tut, that’s no way to be holding a lady, Father. Did they teach you nothing at all in the art of espionage?” Bloody Mary’s lips curve upwards, eyes narrowing dangerously at the fierce glint that his blonde companion was throwing back at him behind the bear half-mask he wore.
“You’re a wanted criminal, Bloody Mary.” He responds in his gravelly, no-nonsense tone. “Don’t think for a second that I forgot.” Of course, Pretzel and his one track mind never changes.
“I must say, Father, if you’re backing out of this agreement here of all places, you’re dumber than I take you for. I guess the Church is so short on manpower they’d let their brute for brains handle delicate missions.” His gaze flickers to the doorman and the rest of the masked guests standing in queue, each one being checked for an invitation. He looks back at his partner for the night and his smile turns smug at the hesitantly defeated glare thrown back at him.
I win for now.
He withdraws his fingers, seeing the tips of his manicured nails have drawn blood. The man grimaces at the smell, considers brushing them off on his dress but thinks better of it. It radiates not even a sliver of warmth like that of his beloved Steak. But alas, the things he must do for opportunities at his prey.
A few moments more in queue and it was their turn. Bloody Mary moves with all the grace of an elegant confident woman in his pointed heels and a sheer gradient dress far more lavish and flashy than the one he wore to Brandy’s little ship party. Tonight, he changed his hair to one of deep midnight black, styled to show the pale curve of his neck. He could have gone in a standard suit and tie, but where was the fun in playing up the identity he stole from a mad Count two weeks dead?
The doorman flashes him a confused stare but clears his throat after a cursory look over the invitation handed to him. “Count Sigrid, I bid you a good evening.” The masked doorman greets, “And this is…?”
“My plus one, Ulric. He’s not very talkative.” ‘Sigrid’ replies smoothly, running a hand over Pretzel’s neatly pressed lapels. He takes quiet glee in the way Pretzel tenses at the touch. “Did my invitation not say I could? Unless your host decided to change the rules last minute. Perhaps rumors of my preferences have become too much that this is the method in which to avoid shame, hm?”
“N-no! It’s that… well,” The man coughs and clears his throat again. “Forgive me, your Lordship. Please, enjoy the night with your companion.” He steps aside and gestures towards the open doors.
Blood Mary smiles at him, all glinting teeth and speaks not another word to the doorman, tugging Pretzel none too gently with him past the threshold. Inside the ballroom, masked guests take to the floor whilst masked staff carry around trays with champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres in small gold plates. A mezzanine is dedicated for the orchestra playing a boring old tune he’s heard hundreds of times before.
He leads them off to the side to a spot where both of them can keep an eye on the crowd, searching for their respective targets of the night. He leans dramatically into Pretzel and inwardly chuckles at the way the man not so subtly shifts away from him. He knows— oh, he knows how those hands are just waiting for the right moment to strangle him until he can barely breathe. But there is nothing Pretzel could do when this mission takes priority over the capture of a murderer.
He hears the murmurs of other guests around him, catching words and phrases he knows pertain to him. It works just as well, ‘Count Sigrid’ was already known to be strange even before Bloody Mary came upon his residence, he was simply adding more fuel to the fire before this identity ultimately burned into ashes.
The orchestra plays another song, one a little more recent than the utter bore of the previous one but still, Bloody Mary is in no mood to appreciate the music. He takes a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and takes a long sip.
At least the quality is excellent, if nothing else. He thinks. And there, just as he’s about to take another sip, he spots a familiar crown of red with dark horns curved forward, moving towards the upper floors.
Got you.
He pretends to look around a little longer, counting to twenty in his mind. He takes another sip, then takes a step forward—
And is immediately halted by a hand wrapping around his forearm.
“Don’t run off.” Pretzel warns.
“Keep me in your sights then, Father.” He flashes him a smile and quickly wriggles out of his hold. Before Pretzel could grab him again, Bloody Mary pushes the flute of champagne into his outstretched hand then quickly disappears into the crowd, heart pounding in a way that only happens when he knows he’s being stalked by the one person who persists in this game of cat and mouse.