"Absolutely." He grins at me. "They don't give a shit about me, that's for damn sure. It's all about you and your dress. You're the talk of the party, babe. Look around."
I do, carefully, and realize he's right. Eyes slide to me, fingers point, whispers are exchanged.
"Saxon, I'm not ready for this. I can't go from making dresses in my sublevel shithole to designer to the stars, literally overnight."
"Well, you are. So suck it up, buttercup. If you can pull that dress off in a day, imagine what you can do with unlimited resources, unlimited time, and commissions that start at six figures."
My stomach flips. "But, I…"
Whatever I was going to say—which I'm not really sure of—is cut off by a loud gong.
The DJ stops, with a literal record scratch. The crowd parts like The Red Sea in the Charlton Heston movie The Ten Commandments.
A woman wearing elaborate body paint and not a stitch else catwalks down the aisle created by the partygoers; a pair of white tigers prowl at her sides, unfettered, mouths open, snarls occasionally rumbling from their throats. She stops at the fountain. Poses, one hand on each tiger's back. Her eyes scan the crowd, sweeping from face to face, in utter silence.
You can hear a pin drop. No one even coughs.
Finally, her gaze lands on the doors opposite the main entrance, beneath the balcony. These doors are twelve feet high, and look like they came from an ancient gothic cathedral, thick dark wood bound by black iron, with huge knob-like buttons running in vertical lines; massive lion heads clutch gigantic iron rings in their jaws.
The body-painted tiger lady gestures at the door, an elaborate flourish of both hands…
The doors creak open seemingly of their own accord. Lit by hidden spotlights, a man stands in the opening, wearing a form-fitting black suit, a plain maroon V-neck underneath the blazer. His hair is black and slicked back. His eyes are dark and deep-set, his features square and ruggedly handsome.
He exudes power and wealth just standing there.
"Guests, friends, and ghosts from lives past." His voice booms, amplified. "I bid you welcome. Please, enter my home, and join me for dinner."
There's an explosion of light and smoke, and when the smoke clears and eyes adjust, he's gone.
I can't help a laugh. "Holy fuck, is he melodramatic. Jesus." I glance up at Saxon. 'Ghosts from lives past’…is that you?"
Saxon nods, sipping. "His way of letting me know he knows I’m here."
"So we wait for him to summon us, or something?"
Something along those lines, yes."
"Any tips on dinner?" I ask. "What's that like?"
"Fuck if I know. Never been inside."
I gape at him. "I thought you…"
"I was outdoor security, once, a few years after I got my first coin."
"You act like you know exactly what you're doing."
He grins down at me. "It's all bullshit and bravado, babe. Bullshit and bravado." He winks at me. "I've attended other Cabal parties, so I know how they work. They're all modeled after these."
"The Cabal sounds like a very complicated organization."
"It is. It's almost a secret society, really." He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. "We shouldn't discuss my former employers out loud here, though. Bad form."
Without any signal that I can see, he seems to know it's our turn to go—this whole time, since our host vanished in a literal puff of smoke, couples have been filing in some mysterious order down the aisle, couple by couple.
Everyone is watching. Staring, that is—at me. I've never in my life felt so self-conscious as I do in this moment. I feel every jiggle of my chest, every bounce of my oversized ass cheeks. My not-flat, no-visible-abs belly. The cellulite on my thighs, visible when the panels of my dress shift.
"You're perfect. I love you. Smile." His voice comes to me in a whisper, his lips barely moving.
