Siren Queen(46)
In a black cotton dress, I felt woefully unready, but I exchanged my heels for ballet flats. I didn’t know what I would be able to do for Greta, but at least I would be able to do it without stumbling.
When it turned full dark, we made our way into the studio lot, dodging the fires that were built up higher than I had ever seen them. People counted their friends twice that night, making sure that all were accounted for. Greta and I only had to squeeze each other’s hands to count, and we were all we needed.
The horns of the hunt were absent that night, as were the drums. Instead we went where the crowds thinned out, towards the darkest part of the lot, until we heard the rumble of engines. Once or twice, the darkness was torn by a short scream of laughter, and somehow, the laughter was stranger than fear might have been on another night.
Mrs. Wiley had told us Oberlin Wolfe’s ride always ended at Lot 19, which was long and narrow, located as close to the back of the studio lot as it was possible to get without running off it entirely. Otherwise, the ride could run anywhere.
Greta picked up a number of nearby crates, piling them close to the road to give us some cover. I couldn’t even push one, and simply sat at the top, staring hard into the night as she built.
“They’re coming,” I said, hopping down, and she nodded. She was sweating a little, her hair pushed back to reveal her wide forehead.
We took our place behind the crates as the rumble grew louder.
A pair of matched black Bugattis passed, narrow enough to ride two abreast on the road. I recognized Josephine Beaufort in one, her features silver and flickering and flowers in her black hair. She looked neither to the left or the right, and the black cars passed like ghosts in the night.
Peeking above the crate, Greta and I waited impatiently as a fleet of shining cars rumbled past. Some of them were faces we recognized; Irene Leonard rode in a smart Alfa Romeo, while Stanley Rye, serious for once, took a long pull from a flask before tucking it back into his signature loud paisley jacket. They were all this season’s best and brightest, and then I saw Emmaline there, back from Gstaad perhaps just for Halloween night.
She looked terribly young for all that she was two years older than I was, her hair down and flowing. I saw her in stern profile, carved from shell, and as the rich brown Mercedes she rode in processed towards Lot 19 I couldn’t tell if she was afraid or not.
There was a pause where nothing rolled by, and next to me, Greta tensed. Her body shifted next to mine, sleek and healthy, if unwieldy. Pregnancy made humans careful, but it seemed to make her kind reckless, possessed of a strength that went far beyond bending forged iron.
She saw better in the dark than I did. She hissed gently, and then I heard the purr of Oberlin Wolfe’s Duesenberg Tourister. The car slipped down the road as if it came on tiger’s paws, like a menace disguised in fog. It gleamed a dull pearl even in the dim light, and the top was down, letting Brandt Hiller perch on the back of the seat, feet braced against the dashboard, shirt open, and head tipped back to stare at the sky.
For almost a year, he had been the king-consort, offered the best of everything. On Halloween, the last night of his reign, he looked half-dead. The purple love bites on his chest were livid under the scanty light, and his eyes were dark and hopeless.
I caught this all in a moment, and then with a flash of blue and a barely audible growl, Greta had leaped up on top of the crate and jumped forward, down onto the car’s narrow trunk. I hadn’t expected her burst of energy or the leashed fury of her motion. I stumbled out from behind the crates just in time to see her throw her arms around Brandt Hiller’s chest and then throw herself backwards, dragging him off the seat and onto the pavement. She twisted just in time to prevent his weight from crushing her against the ground, uttering a triumphant shout that carried through the night.
The cry went up from the cars ahead of us, doors slamming as people ran back to see what was the matter, Oberlin Wolfe hit the brakes and stood on the back of the Tourister, heedless of the marks his heels left on the pristine finish.
“Fucking goat girl,” he snarled, face distorted with rage, and I shrank back against the shadows. Later, perhaps, I could try to rationalize it as staying hidden because there was nothing else I could do. Right then, I knew that it was cowardice.
“Mine,” Greta snapped, levering herself up to her knees. Her arms were thrown around Brandt, who looked around like a drowning man suddenly and unexpectedly rescued.
“You think you want him?” growled Wolfe. “Let’s find out.”
A roaring erupted from thin air, and suddenly Greta’s arms were linked around a golden lion. It was bigger than life, twice as big as the sad toothless creatures I had seen at the circus years ago. Her arms could barely meet around its maned neck, and it paced and shook her viciously, sending her feet up into the air as she hung on. I saw an enormous paw rise up to claw at her body, and she screamed, Greta screamed as the claws raked over her arm and her side. She hung on like grim death, and I saw her whispering into the beast’s ear, quickly, urgently.
Oberlin Wolfe made a pass with his hands, and the lion disappeared, Greta’s arms slipping closed as she cursed. I couldn’t see what had happened for a moment but then Greta reached forward and grasped the tail of the dusty brown rattlesnake that was trying to slither away through the scraps of clothing Brandt Hiller had been wearing. It twisted faster than I could see, mouth open and hissing, but Greta only shut her eyes, turning her face away. It struck at her breasts trying to get at her throat, and pinpricks of blooming red appeared on her chest. I was frozen where I stood, and all around me, the riders stood as well, unable to take their eyes from the spectacle, the man on the car, the woman holding on to the beast below him.