Nocte Yin

Chapter Nine

She would not stay long, she decided.

The fact that all the guests were wearing masks did not sit well with Nocte’s paranoid nature.

Gathering her skirt, and with as much grace as she could muster, Nocte “glided” down the stairs and broke off to a seat far, far away from the rest of the revellers. She intentionally slid into the shadows, if only to hide from her sister — especially her sister. If Occult saw her, she would insist upon Nocte socializing. Or worse: talk to Princess Vanessa.

Speaking of the Yhaemel heir, Princess Vanessa was certainly outshining every girl in the room tonight, including Nocte. Dressed in a seductive black dress that showed way too much skin, Princess Vanessa looked hot. Nocte honestly wanted to throw up. They were both thirteen, and the princess dressed like her mother. The worst part of it was that Princess Vanessa had all the assets that didn’t make her look like a thirteen-year-old tramp. She made Nocte think about her underdeveloped breasts. That bitch.

The band struck another tune and Nocte got up to get a drink. The air, although chilly outside, felt hot and clammy in the hall. Too many damn people taking her damn oxygen. She strode purposefully to the refreshments table, imaging how wonderful the cool apple cider would taste, only to stop short by the couple making out in front of the cider bowl. They were obstructing her from the beautiful cider! Grossly peeved, Nocte remorselessly shoved them aside and grabbed a glass goblet.

“The fuck, girl!” the boy spat furiously.

Nocte took a nonchalant sip from her glass.

“I’m talking to you,” he snipped, getting ready to knock some sense into her.

“What’s wrong with you?” the girl sniffed pretentiously.

“Something the matter?” a posh voice clipped.

The couple froze and, literally, time seemed to slow as Witley and her clique of friends sauntered up to the table in matching strides and matching heights. Nocte could have sworn some feminist music was playing in the background while a stage wind swept Witley and her friends’ hair back in a dramatic, model-like fashion. In the dim glow of the candle lights and the spider-webbed chandeliers, the five girls resembled very beautiful, very vengeful goddesses ready to make war, only with perfect manicures, flawless skin and four-inch heels.

“No,” the girl was quick to reply, and then promptly dragged her boyfriend away. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Second-rate loser,” one of Witley’s friends muttered, watching the couple leave. She had a stunning ebony complexion and beautiful dark, wavy hair.

“Tell me about it,” a blonde said, cell phone in hand.

Their brunette friend skilfully turned the topic, agile and airily, to Nocte. “Miss Yin, how is your aura today?”

Nocte felt her ire simmer down from the cider and decided to take another gulp before answering, “Good, and you?”

The brunette gave a serene smile and replied, “Mine’s fine today, but it was fantastic yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about those two idiots,” a redhead said, referring to the unpleasant couple from earlier. “They won’t bother you again.”

Nocte gave a muted nod.

“I’m sorry, Nocte,” Witley cut in smoothly. “Let me introduce my friends to you: Ivy, Christine, Kara and Janelle.”

Ivy was the ebony war goddess, Christine was the blonde beauty, Kara the spiritual brunette and Janelle the sensible redhead. Nocte tried to remember the names, even their faces, but all she could focus on was the mask on Witley’s face. It was the green one she’d chosen, the one with the embroidered leaf… Perhaps Nocte did inherit something from her mother — her fashion sense.