He laughs. "That's not what I'm worried about. You couldn't embarrass me if you tried. He's just touchy about his reputation, and I don't want anything unpleasant to happen."
"Unpleasant…funny way of pronouncing ‘murder’."
"Because what I really meant was ‘cut your eyelids off followed by a nice acid bath.’"
"Oh." I grimace. "That's a whole other level of unpleasant."
I take a moment to look around: like a true castle, the main entrance leads into an open-air courtyard. Opposite the main entrance is a balcony some fifty feet off the ground—on the balcony is a DJ wearing a motorcycle helmet decorated with neon glowing paint splatters, dancing as he/she/they spin and scratch an elaborate electronic beat; the sound comes from professional concert-grade speaker stacks suspended from cherry-pickers parked in the corners of the courtyard.
And yes, the courtyard is big enough that two huge cherry pickers look small. The courtyard is packed with people, all in their finest black-tie garb, sipping drinks, bopping heads, and rubbing elbows. Central to the courtyard is another fountain, this one of a man I've never seen before carved out of marble, his booted foot planted on a representation of the globe, with several naked women in throes of either ecstasy or agony arrayed at his feet. The water spews from the open mouths and eyes of the prostrate, writhing women. The whole effect is shocking, macabre, and thought-provoking, in a ridiculously grandiose and hubristic sort of way.
I nudge Saxon and point at the fountain. "Is that…?"
"Yes." He chuckles. "It was commissioned and executed without prior approval by a well-intentioned personal assistant, or at least, so I’ve heard. Our fair host wanted an attention-grabbing fountain for the courtyard and assigned the PA to handle it. He gave woefully vague instructions, and this was the result."
"Oh." I bite my lip and try to stifle somewhat hysterical laughter. "And what was his reaction?"
"He laughed and laughed and laughed…and shot the PA in the face. And then laughed some more. He left it because it amuses him to let his guests believe it represents his opinion of himself."
"Doesn't it?"
"Well, no. He doesn't suffer from a lack of self-assurance regarding his status in the world, let's just say that. But that?" He laughs again. "No. He's not that arrogant."
Servers in tuxedos, faces obscured by the masks that only cover their eyes and nose, circulate through the crowd, carrying trays laden with bottles of wine, whiskey, and liquor. When a guest indicates that they want a drink, they're given the entire bottle.
Now, I don't know much about fancy alcohol, but I feel like even if you're handing out middle-shelf bottles, that's gonna add up fast. And I suspect the bottles are most likely not mid-shelf.
A server passes by and Saxon lifts his chin at her—she lowers the tray in his direction, and he takes a bottle of whiskey. Another tuxedo-and-mask-clad server follows behind the first, her tray laden with empty wine glasses, tumblers, and flutes, and a silver bucket full of ice with matching tongs, as well as twenty-ounce bottles of various sodas.
Saxon takes two tumblers from the tray, clinks a few large squares of ice into each, and pours the tumblers full, returning the bottle to the bottle-bearer.
He hands me one, and I take a tentative sip. "My lord. This tastes expensive."
Another dry chuckle. "It's a fifty-year-old whiskey. I'm committing the gravest of offenses by putting it over ice."
"Seems like a somewhat inefficient system," I note.
A shrug. "Maybe. But you'll remember it. Anyone can put on a full, open bar. What other party will you ever attend where you see that? The champagne? Thousands of dollars per bottle. The wine? Same. You wanna keep the bottle? Keep the bottle. Everything is calculated to impress."
"So, now what?"
"Now we mingle. Enjoy the party. Stay sober."
"I thought we wanted to—"
He squeezes my hand, and I take the cue to shut up. "There's a procedure. He's watching. He's listening. He knows I'm here and I know he knows, and he knows I know. He wants to see what I’m going to do and who I talk to. He wants to get a handle on you. Who you are to me. Are you arm candy? Am I here to cause trouble? I've been gone a long time, and I show up out of the blue, with my coin, at his party? What do I want?" He smiles at me. "So, we be ourselves. We enjoy the party. Talk to people. We stay cool, we don't make a scene."
"I thought we wanted to make a splash?"
"We do. We just don't want to appear like we're trying to make one."
I sigh. "This shit is complicated. I'm not exactly a subtle or sophisticated kinda gal, babe."
He turns to face me, his eyes merry, glittering with excitement. "You're fucking perfect. You're the hottest babe in the joint."
I blush. "I saw Scar…Black Widow over by the fountain. Nice try, but I'm not hotter than her."
"That's just, like, your opinion, man."
