We arrive at the apartment not long after that. I park the Camaro in the underground lot and collect Lacey from the back seat, careful not to wake her as I lift her out. She loops her arms around my neck and I carry her to the elevator. On the fourth floor, the apartment door is open and Ganya is hefting crates of vodka in from the hallway.
“Thought you liked the girls conscious at the beginning of the night, Zee.”
I shoot him a dirty look and head on inside, ignoring the jibe. I go to the end of the corridor on the eastern side of the sprawling, six-bedroom apartment, and settle Lacey inside the last room, making sure the door locks properly—we’ve had problems with unwelcome visitors taking liberties before. It does lock so I leave her while she’s sleeping, then I make sure the rest of the place is ready. At the front door the masks are already set out on a table. The theme for this month is gold, and so most of them are either white or black, coated with gold glitter or whatever that shit is they put on Venetian masks. I pick the ugliest one I can find—a devil’s mask complete with horns and downturned mouth—and set it aside for myself. I’m pleased when I find that everything else has been organised and set in place, as well. The lighting is low, a burned, honey-yellow that casts as many shadows as it does highlights. Sliced fruit and other treats are laid out for the guests, and silk screen partitions cordon off discreet corners of the various rooms, where people can gain a little more privacy should they want it. Most of the people who come here don’t, but there you go.
Guests begin to arrive, dressed in tuxedos and shimmering evening dresses, hair coiled in sweeping, elegant styles, just begging to be messed up. Names aren’t exchanged. Masks are kept in place. I go and get ready, trying to keep my head clear. The fucking thing won’t stop racing, though. Will she come? Will she dare? And if so, what the hell is she gonna do when she sees all of this.
I must be sick in the head.
Not only have I not spoken to the cops, but I’m on my way to the address Zeth sent me, and I’ve worn the shortest, slinkiest dress I own. I don’t know why but his text felt like a dare. He didn’t think I would do it, which made my rebellious streak stick its middle finger up. It’s been a while since that happened. After the worst day at work, being interrogated about Carrie’s disappearance—you were the last to see her, Dr Romera. Are you positive she didn’t mention anything about leaving—a fight with this guy is the very last thing I need. I’m not stupid, though; it’s probably going to happen, so I’m primed for one, regardless.
I leave my car two streets over and make my way to the apartment building, wondering if I should have at least told Pippa where I was going. If I go missing and am never heard from again, at least that way she could report my last known location. But I can’t. One, because I don’t have my bloody cell phone anymore and I’m not a savant with numbers, and two, because she would probably carve me a new one for not listening to her.
I press the buzzer for 12c, wondering if Lacey is going to be here. I’ve brought my medical bag with me just in case she is, so I can inspect her wounds and change her dressings, plus a crap ton of antibiotics that she’s definitely going to need. There’s a crackle over the intercom, but no one speaks; the speaker blares as whoever is upstairs presses the entry key, and the door clicks open.
I climb four flights of stairs before I hear the rumble of music and laughter. Someone’s having a party. A lone guy, suited up with his hands folded in front of him, stands at the end of the hallway, already watching me approach. Doesn’t take long for me to realize the music is coming from the apartment I’m after, and the guy in the suit? He’s standing watch over the door. What the hell?
“Can I help you, madam?” he asks me. His voice is smooth and low, his skin the color of warmed honey. With his shaved head and imposing six-and-half-foot stature, he’s intimidating in the most gentile of ways. Like a stiletto blade—slender and beautifully made, but still as deadly as can be.
“I’m—Zeth told me to come.” I’m majorly pissed that he would tell me to come while he’s having some kind of blow out. It was probably his idea of damage control, make sure there are plenty of people around so I can’t cause a scene about…well, everything.
“May I have your name, Miss?”
“Sloane. Sloane Romera.”
The tall guy doesn’t check a list or speak into an earpiece, which wouldn’t really have surprised me; he just seems to already know my name. “Welcome, Ms Romera. My name is Michael. If you need anything this evening, please don’t hesitate to find me.” He steps to one side and opens the door behind him, blocking the room inside from view with his body. He gestures to a table behind the door with an open palm, smiling courteously. “Please, if you would kindly select a mask.”
Select a mask? My toes curl inside my shoes. The last time I had to wear a mask was back in the hotel when I’d met Zeth the first time. It hadn’t mattered in the end because of the dark, but still, the associations are enough to make liquid dread cycle through my veins.
“I don’t think so,” I tell Michael. He gives me an understanding nod, like he’s been through this before.
“I apologise Ms. Romera, but without a mask I’m afraid I can’t let you inside.”
Mother. Fucker. I want my phone back. I want to see if Carrie/whoever the hell she is, is alright. I want to find out what Zeth knows about my sister. My jaw sets as I look down on the table, which is considerable in size. There are six masks left, and four of them are plainly masculine. The two feminine ones are both black with golden swirls, but one of them has a shining, metallic black, purple, green feather plumed from the side of it. It’s pretty so I pluck it up and Michael does me the honor of affixing it into my hair. Seems like the guy has done this before. “Thank you for obliging us, Ms Romera,” he says, and then he moves back so I can see into the room. And my stomach bottoms out.