Eternal Masquerade
1470 Words
The heat clung to them the moment they stepped off the plane in New Orleans, sticky and heavy like a whispered secret. Lila fanned herself dramatically, sunglasses sliding down her nose as she grinned at her best friend. “We made it, Bri! Spring break in the Big Easy. Let the madness begin.”
Brielle rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “I still think we should’ve gone to Destin. Beaches. Sand. Sunburns. The usual.”
“Oh, please,” Lila scoffed. “This place is oozing with mystery and magic. Ghosts. Vampires. Voodoo queens. You’re just scared you’ll fall in love with a vampire and leave your boring life behind.”
“Terrified,” Brielle said dryly, hauling her suitcase behind her.
They checked into a narrow, antique hotel just a block off Bourbon Street. The ceiling fans creaked, the carpets were faded, and the chandeliers looked like they hadn’t been dusted since the 1800s — which only made Lila squeal with delight.
“This place is perfect!” she said, throwing open the window. The sounds of the French Quarter drifted in: laughter, jazz, the clink of bottles.
“It smells like mildew and regret,” Brielle muttered, flopping onto one of the two twin beds.
Once their bags were unpacked and their walking shoes tied, they set off on the haunted tour Lila had been raving about since Christmas break.
They walked in a small group through the winding streets as twilight draped itself across the city. The guide — a man in a black hat with a slow, ominous voice — led them first to the tomb of Marie Laveau, where locals still left offerings. The atmosphere was reverent, thick with candle wax and whispered wishes. Then came the mansion of Madame Delphine LaLaurie, her atrocities whispered like curses in the dimming light.
And finally, they stopped before an old crumbling house at the end of a narrow alley. Its windows were boarded, the wood warped with time and weather, and a faint metallic scent clung to the place.
“This,” the guide said, “was rumored to be a den — a sanctuary — for those who walked by night. The immortals. The thirsty.”
Brielle shifted uneasily. Something about this house made her scalp prickle. She glanced at Lila, who was beaming, waving with giddy excitement at the empty windows.
“Lila,” Brielle whispered. “Stop.”
Lila grinned. “What? Maybe he’s in there. Watching.”
“Maybe he’s creepy.”
The tour ended, and the girls made their way back to the hotel, the night now thick and humming with promise. After quick showers, they changed into dresses: Lila in a red wrap dress with glittering hoops in her ears, and Brielle in black, understated, with her hair twisted up and a faint shimmer on her collarbones.
They stepped into the pulse of Bourbon Street, where jazz spilled from every open doorway and the air was alive with dancing, drinking, and desire.
“Live a little!” Lila cried, twirling into a crowd of strangers who cheered and spun her in rhythm with the music.
Brielle smiled after her before stepping toward a small bar tucked just off the street. She leaned across the counter, ordering a rum and coke.
As she reached for her wallet, a hand covered hers — cool and firm.
“Put it on my tab,” said a smooth, accented voice behind her.
The bartender, barely glancing up, nodded. “Yes, Mr. Allard.”
Brielle turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
He stood inches from her — tall, broad-shouldered, with dark tousled hair and skin pale as marble. His eyes were a piercing icy blue, bright against his black button-up shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to expose the edge of his collarbone.
She stared. He smiled — slow and knowing.
“Th-thank you,” she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathless.
His smile deepened. “My pleasure, mademoiselle.”
The accent dripped from his tongue like honey and old wine. French, or maybe something older.
Something about him pulled at her — a magnetism she didn’t understand. It wasn’t just that he was beautiful. He felt… dangerous.
She raised her glass, offering a small, grateful smile, and turned to leave.
But she could feel his eyes on her — the weight of his stare lingering like a hand on her back.
She didn’t know his name. She didn’t ask.
But she’d remember those eyes for the rest of her life.
The music had wrapped around her like smoke, thick and warm and endless. Brielle wasn’t sure how many drinks she’d had — two? Three? The rum burned sweetly in her blood, and her usual edges felt softer, less defined. The jazz band played on a low wooden stage, the saxophone crying out over the thump of drums and the shuffle of dancing feet.
Lila had long since disappeared into the crowd again, a whirl of red dress and laughter, and Brielle didn’t care. She was swaying to the beat now, eyes closed, the music moving through her like a current.
Her hips found the rhythm before her thoughts did — slow, sensual rolls that matched the sultry cadence of the band. The street blurred around her. For once, she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling. Free.
Then she felt him.
Hands — strong, sure — slid around her hips, steadying her as she moved. Her eyes flew open.
He was there.
Mr. Allard.
Closer this time.
He didn’t say a word. Just smiled as if he’d known exactly where she’d be. His dark hair glistened under the amber streetlights, and that shirt — the one open just enough — clung to the lines of his chest like a promise. His fingers never left her body as he stepped into her rhythm, swaying with her like they’d done it a hundred times.
Brielle’s heart beat a little too fast. Her breath caught.
He spun her gently, his hand trailing down her back, his touch both possessive and polite. When she landed against his chest, she stayed there.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice a velvet whisper against the side of her neck.
“Brielle,” she said softly, looking up into those glacial eyes.
He smiled, just one corner of his mouth lifting. “Enchanté, Brielle.”
“And you?” she asked, curious. Daring.
“Étienne,” he said after a pause. “Étienne Allard.”
“Étienne,” she repeated, tasting it like wine.
They danced.
Bodies pressed, limbs tangled, heat building between them with every step. He didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt like gravity.
She didn’t know how it happened — if he took her hand or she followed his — but suddenly the crowd fell away, the music becoming a distant throb as they wandered off Bourbon Street and into the velvet shadows of a narrow side alley.
Brielle barely noticed where they were.
She noticed the way his eyes darkened as he looked at her.
She noticed the way her back met the cool brick of the wall behind her.
She noticed the way he stepped in, one arm braced beside her head, the other lightly tracing her collarbone, as if memorizing her.
Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath.
Étienne leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve met, Brielle.”
“I… don’t usually do this,” she whispered, trembling beneath his gaze. “Any of this.”
“I know.”
She didn’t know how he knew. But it didn’t matter.
His mouth crashed against hers.
She gasped, lips parting for him, and his tongue swept into her mouth — confident, hungry. The kiss was like fire under her skin. She moaned into him, her fingers sliding up into his hair as their bodies pressed impossibly close.
It was as if her soul recognized him.
She didn’t want it to stop.
But just as suddenly as it had started, he pulled back, breath ragged, pupils dilated.
“I must go,” Étienne said, voice low and urgent.
“Wait, what?” she blinked, still drunk on him.
He leaned in once more, brushing a kiss to her cheek, almost reverent.
“I will see you again.”
Then, like mist slipping between fingers, he was gone — disappearing into the darkness of the alley, leaving Brielle breathless, flushed, and trembling.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, the taste of him still lingering, the echo of his kiss buried in her bones.
And for the first time in her life, Brielle hoped the legends were true.
Because Étienne Allard didn’t feel like a dream.
He felt like a warning.
- Writer
