I tilt my chin up, fake a smile and an expression that I hope says I own the place, and do my best to prance gracefully and elegantly and arrogantly down the aisle created by a hundred of the most famous people on the fucking planet.
Through the doors, into a shadowy nacelle and toward a red glow, my heels echoing on stone walls.
Heart in my throat, I squeeze Saxon's hand as hard as I can, letting him lead me into the red glow.
From the frying pan into the lion's den.
Jean-Paul
Saxon
I've seen a lot. Good and bad, rich and poor, wild and weird, I've seen a lot of shit in my life.
I'm not prepared for the level of decadence and extravagance that meets us on the other side of the stone tunnel.
Torches—literal, actual torches—line stone walls that arch a hundred feet overhead into a cathedral-like vault ceiling. The torches burn crimson through some fancy chemical process, shedding an eerie glow on the massive room.
A table runs the length of the room, dozens of huge silver candelabras with lit candles adding to the lighting, each candle dripping wax. Each place is elaborately set with fine china, heavy, ancient-looking silverware, crystal goblets, and linen napkins twisted into swan shapes on each plate.
The table is laden and groaning with plates of food in a cornucopia straight out of a medieval scene: entire turkeys, whole roasted pigs, platters of apples, berries of all kinds, citrus fruits, bananas, pomegranates—every fruit you can think of. Bowls of yogurt chilling on trays of ice. Wheels of cheese. Roast beef, prime rib, whole chickens. Roasted ears of corn, bowls of tossed salad and silver tureens of dressing, bowls of vegetables.
Servers pour pitchers of wine and ale—pitchers which they refill from actual casks on a far wall.
The real piece de resistance, however, is the glass cages lining the perimeter, beneath the crimson-flame torches. Each glass cage is ten feet tall and six feet wide and filled with water. Within each cage is a couple, male and female, nude, with cables running to facemasks that provide oxygen. Their hair streams upward in a constant current.
The couples in each cage dance and twist and writhe, mimicking sex. Or, perhaps, actually engage in sex—it's hard to tell, but it’s certainly eye-catching and provocative.
Jean-Paul is seated at the far end of the table, on a gold-gilt throne lined with crimson cushions, the throne itself on a dais. The woman in the body paint lounges at his feet, her fingers idly petting the tigers that lay panting and bored on either side of her.
Jean-Paul could be thirty, he could be fifty—his face is unlined, his hair thick and black, his figure powerful. His eyes speak volumes, though, even from this far away.
They go to me. He gives nothing away, facially, but his eyes remain on me for a long, long time, before going to Terra.
We stand in the opening where the tunnel gives way to the room, waiting. I can feel Terra's confusion, so I squeeze her hand and wait.
Jean-Paul leans down and murmurs in the woman's ear—she nods, once, and rises, her motions lithe, graceful, and seductive. The tigers follow her.
She comes up to us. Gazes up at me, her eyes rendered purple by contacts, and then at Terra. She gestures, stepping aside. The tigers seem to recognize this gesture and precede us back in the direction of Jean-Paul and his throne at the head of the table, where a pair of seats wait, empty, nearest him.
I know a cue when I see one, and pull Terra into a slow, stately walk behind the tigers, following them to the seats. I pull out the chair farther away from Jean-Paul for Terra, but before she can sit, Jean-Paul's voice washes over us.
"A delicacy so rare as your companion should have the seat of honor, do you not agree?" His voice is low, quiet, smooth, sharp as razors, and curls perfectly with an elegant French accent.
"Of course, sir," I murmur, guiding her to the seat closest to him. "Darling," I say, sliding the chair in as she seats herself.
When I'm seated, Jean-Paul spends a moment regarding me silently; all the while, couples filter in and are shown their seats by servers. So far, we're the only couple to be shown our seats by Tiger Lady.
