Page 29 of A Malicious Menagerie
15
The Gala
The dress is a blue-gray silk sheath with a low cowl neck and no back to speak of. When it arrives on the day of the gala, I try calling Nathan immediately, and his phone goes straight to voicemail. And I know—Iknow—that this man is basically super-glued to his phone and has never taken a single minute off in his whole sorry life. Which means that he is purposely avoiding me so he doesn’t have to hear me complain about having to wear a ball gown that probably costs more than my yearly salary.
So, my options are to refuse to go… or to put on the damn dress. And the idea of Mathis’s cool expression when he hears that I refused his gift and ignored his summons dries up any ideas of mutiny.
I’m tucking away my lipstick and some cash when the Cadillac pulls up in front of the house. Grabbing one of the only coats I own—my denim jacket with the Sherpa collar—I tug it around my body like a shield before shuffling out the door and down the steps. I’m worried I might bite the dust in my heels before I even make it to the car.
By the time I make it to the sidewalk, Nathan is standing by the open back door with a slight frown on his normally placid face. He’s looking unnaturally handsome in a black tux, and his effortless good looks just fan the flames of my irritation. “I should have gotten you a coat, too.”
Even though he—or, more accurately, his boss—bought nearly this entire outfit, I still manage a spark of indignation at the dig at my jacket. “Thanksfor the dress,” I snip in response. “VeryPretty Woman.”
That shuts him up. He waits as I tumble gracelessly into the backseat, my tight skirt and heels seriously limiting my mobility, before he shuts the door behind me and rounds the back of the car to the other side.
Once we’re off, Nathan wastes no time in debriefing me on my mission. “The night will start with cocktails by the carousel and the silent auction. The guests will then be free to wander the menagerie at their leisure to take in the exhibits. Mr. Mathis is hoping you will mingle with the guests to answer any questions they may have about the creatures and their care. With that, the night will conclude with an announcement of the winners of the previous gala’s silent auction. Once everyone has left, I will take you home.”
Honestly, it sounds simple enough, and even kind of fun. When else will I have the opportunity to rub elbows with the rich and famous and eat a bunch of fancy free food? “I can do that,” I tell Nathan, feeling a bit better about the whole situation… even if I do have to half lie across the back seat to keep from creasing this fussy dress.
“I know you can,” Nathan replies smoothly. The barest hint of a smile touches his lips, and I find myself realizing that, despite his stiffness and rigid compliance with the rules, I’m starting to like this man. He may present himself as a robot with his only programming that of the perfect assistant, but I get glimpses sometimes that give me hope that he’s more than that. Is it too much to hope that he could be an ally, too, or at the very least not an enemy?
After a moment, though, Nathan’s smile fades, and he looks almost… grim. The sudden change makes my heart beat quicker, tapping out a staccato rhythm, though I don’t quite know why. “I know you’re already aware, but I will remind you that you have signed an NDA. These galas are for the elite, and any mention of the guests or their behavior is strictly forbidden.”
The wording is odd, maybe even ominous, though I can’t quite sort out why until my brain catches on the word ‘behavior.’ What could they possibly do that would make Nathan worry I’d go blabbing to a tabloid? “This isn’t actually an orgy, is it?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“Nothing so salacious,” he replies, though he won’t meet my eye.
Well, that didn’t make me feel any better. We ride the rest of the way in silence, Nathan occasionally tapping at his phone, me smoothing and re-smoothing the silk of my skirt as I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
* * *
When we arrive at the warehouse, it looks the same as it always does except for a nondescript gray Audi parked at the curb. As we pull up behind it, an older man with salt and pepper hair exits the back seat wearing a black tuxedo and crosses behind the car to open the door on the other side. He offers his arm to a woman, and as she stands, her golden dress falls around her in a waterfall of glitter and glamor. When her companion leads her toward the ugly front door, she doesn’t simply walk—sheglideslike the ghost of some tragic Hollywood starlet doomed to forever walk the red carpet.
Toto, we arenotin Kansas anymore.
“Maybe it would have been better if I’d been in some type of uniform,” I tell Nathan desperately as the Cadillac slows to a halt. I dry my sweaty palms on my skirt for the umpteenth time since we embarked. “So the guests can more readily identify me as the help.”
“That wasn’t what Mr. Mathis wanted,” Nathan replies, as if that settles the matter. And, really, I suppose it does. “Hold on a moment, and I’ll get the door for you.”
I may not exit the vehicle with quite the same aplomb as the model/actress/heiress I was admiring, but I do manage to slither out of the back seat and squarely onto my feet without falling, ripping my dress, or letting my boobs spill out. So, overall, I’ll call it a win. I mean, I did have to cling to Nathan’s arm so tight that he grimaced, but still.
As we start toward the door, another car pulls up as the Cadillac’s driver (still nameless, still faceless) eases away from the curb and heads back toward the gate. This time, it’s a black Mercedes-Benz—still a luxurious car, but not quite the Lambo or Rolls-Royce I would have expected from this crowd. When I mention it to Nathan, he nods. “Guests are asked to remainas inconspicuous as possible. No flash or fanfare, no parked cars to draw attention to the warehouse.”
Well, that’s not suspicious in the slightest.
Colby is on duty at the door tonight, and we exchange a meaningful look as Nathan and I hand him our phones before continuing through the door. I always come in through the back these days and rarely have a reason to pass the carousel. Seeing it now takes my breath away all over again, and especially when I see that it’s in motion.
The carousel turns in slow, clockwise circles, the mechanical mounts rising and falling over their spiraling golden poles as the fairy lights twinkle overhead. Several guests adorned in finery chat casually on the spinning platform, sparkling flutes of fizzy champagne held in hand and brought to painted lips. Several women perch sidesaddle on the mounts, their dresses draped fetchingly across flanks and their slender bodies posed as if for aVanity Fairphoto shoot.
On the brick path surrounding the carousel are two concentric rings of tables. The inner ring is comprised of round tables with pristine white tablecloths, their many forks set in perfect parallel lines and their collections of wine glasses glinting as if they’re full of stars. In the center of each table is a tall candelabra painted in distressed gold leaf and topped with deep red candlesticks, each tipped with a tiny golden flame. Twined around the candelabras’ shafts and curling out from the bases are long vines of English ivy, which give an untamed element to the otherwise immaculate arrangements.
The outer ring consists of long, rectangular tables also adorned with white tablecloths as well as an assortment of objects laid out along their lengths. Some of the objects are baskets filled with a variety of items, others are open velvet boxes whose contents shimmer and gleam, and others are simply sheets of fine parchment with black calligraphy scrawled across the crisp, cream surfaces. In front of each item is a small tablet, and I notice a few guests peering at the items and reading descriptions before tapping away at the glass screens. These tables must be for the silent auction, then.
Maybe a couple dozen guests are milling around the tables, bidding onitems or peering at place cards. Many are greeting friends, usually with handshakes and hearty back slaps for the men and brief cheek kisses that spare their lipstick for the women. As I’m taking in the room, Nathan waiting patiently at my side, an announcement floats across the space from an unseen loudspeaker, making me jump. “Attention, esteemed guests,” intones a lilting, pleasant female voice. “Please make your way to your seats. The first course will be served in ten minutes.”
“Here,” Nathan says, and as I turn to him, he takes hold of the shoulders of my jacket. After undoing the buttons, I let him slide it from my shoulders, fighting against the urge to cross my arms over my chest and hide. After Nathan deposits my jacket with someone running a coat check to one side of the door, he returns to my side and scrutinizes my dress. Apparently satisfied, he gives a single approving nod.
“This way,” he instructs me, leading me around the carousel toward the opposite side. As we promenade, I glance back at the carousel, my eyes instinctively seeking my wolf’s likeness. When I find him, I notice with a start that a woman is lounging against him, her tall, willowy frame draped in a pale pink and gold sari. With her warm bronze skin, lustrous hair that tumbles over her shoulder in cascading ebony waves, and angular cheekbones that contrast with her pouty lips, she complements his wild beauty perfectly. I scowl, unaccountably jealous, not liking the way her long fingers with their shimmering gold nails rest possessively on his neck.
