Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(36)
Finally, the hair and makeup ladies returned, smelling of coffee, and they solved the mystery of how we were supposed to get dressed without messing up their work.
We weren’t.
The handlers pulled us to our feet, and we could only stand there, immobilized, while the makeup artists stripped us down to bare skin, then stood back to assess the as yet unpainted portions of their canvases.
My face flamed. The indignity was a familiar one, but no less infuriating than it had ever been, and the knowledge that an audience of handlers stood behind me made my flesh crawl.
After they’d taken stock, the artists rubbed thick, glittering lotions and oils into our skin, then dressed us in skimpy costumes that didn’t have to go over our heads or slide over our sparkling limbs.
Zyanya’s costume was a cheetah-print bikini top with a micro skirt, slit up both sides, all the way to the waistband. Lenore got a skimpy, asymmetrical gold dress that wrapped over one shoulder and draped—barely—over her breasts before falling to midthigh. Her artist tied a matching sash at her waist, then helped her into a pair of gold gladiator sandals that laced up to the top of her calves.
The others were both in variations of generically sexy scraps of cloth draped over strategic parts of their flesh, and everyone but me was decked out in bright colors and extravagant fabrics.
But just like in the menagerie, I wore all black. I was also the only one in a masquerade mask, presumably to help disguise the fact that I had no telltale cryptid features to highlight.
Like Zyanya, I was given no shoes.
Once we were dressed and touched up, our handlers readjusted the settings on our collars and marched us through the topiary zoo into a large kitchen at the back of the main building, where a chef and his staff were putting the finishing touches on hundreds of bite-size appetizers.
The scent of food I would probably never taste made my mouth water.
Bottles of champagne stood chilling in a wall-sized glass refrigerator, along with bottles of white wine. Bottles of red were lined up on a countertop behind several rows of champagne flutes and stemmed wineglasses waiting to be filled.
A man in a formal server’s uniform, complete with a silver vest and bow tie, took us aside for an “engagement briefing.” The tag pinned to his vest read Event Coordinator.
“This bachelor party is as simple as it gets.” The coordinator avoided eye contact as he spoke. “The groom is Michael Hayes, who has some curiosities he’d like satisfied, but the client is James Lansing. His is the credit card on file, so he’s your boss for the night.”
The coordinator glanced at his clipboard. “Lenore...” His gaze finally landed on the siren, whom he clearly recognized. She’d already been “engaged” for two events since we’d been sold to the Spectacle, and rumor among the captives said that putting her onstage added several thousand dollars to the bill. “Lenore, you’re the entertainment.” He pulled a familiar remote from his pocket and pressed a button which pulled up a series of options on a screen I only got a glance at. “I’ve set your collar to allow minor influence in your voice. Make them feel good. Lower their inhibitions and help them enjoy themselves. Encourage them to spend. But if you try anything malicious, you’ll spend the night in the infirmary.”
Thoughts chased each other through my head in a dizzying funnel of possibility as I tried to take in everything I was seeing and hearing at once.
If they could truly limit Lenore to “minor” vocal influence, why would they need to warn her not to take things too far?
And if we were to be allowed in and out of the kitchen, would we have access to knives, meat mallets and other potential weapons? Would having weapons even matter, if we could be paralyzed with the press of a button?
Even if I could disable a guard and take his remote, at best I’d have seconds to figure out how to work it. And if I somehow managed to escape not just the room, but the building, then the grounds, I’d be abandoning everyone I cared about in the entire world. I’d have no other choice.
Would escape be worth an on-the-run existence that would only last for however long it took them to track my collar? Which I had no idea how to remove.
Would my friends be punished for my escape?
The coordinator glanced at his clipboard again, and the movement refocused my attention. “Mr. Lansing has requested the ‘hypnotist’ package, so about halfway through the evening, Lenore will pick a couple of volunteers from the party and bring them up onstage. The crowd will shout out things they want to see their friends do, and she will make it happen.” He turned directly to her for the next part. “Just whisper in their ears and do your thing. Most of the requests are stupid, and they’ve put down a huge security deposit, so it doesn’t really matter what they mess up. As for the rest of you...”
The coordinator turned to those of us who wouldn’t be singing, and I got the impression that the instructions were specifically aimed at Zyanya and me, because the others had presumably done this many times. “You’ll be carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. No one expects you to be good at it, and we have professional servers who’ll make sure everyone’s fed and liquored up. All you really have to do is balance your tray and look exotic. Stay in the center of things. Make sure all your freaky features are visible. They’re going to want to see claws and teeth. They’ll want to touch feathers and scales. Let them. There will be security all over the place, and if the customers try to get more than they’ve paid for, the handlers will take care of it.”