Art exists for the benefit of the observer; performance serves at the pleasure of the connoisseur. Smile for the cameras, sweetheart; it’s for a good cause.
This article contains CWs for: Sexual allusions, mentions of violence and bodily harm.
When Charity Looks In The Mirror by mxsinister
For the rest of my work, visit mxsinister's corner office
⚠️ content warning ↑
JOIN US FOR OUR ANNUAL
CHARITY GALA
HOSTED BY
THE MARSHALL FOUNDATION
BENEFITING
THE LITTLE HEROES FUND
Friday, 21 July
6:30 - 9pm
Vanderbilt Hotel, Fourth Floor Ballroom.
35 Willowick Drive
Three Portlands
A black tie fundraising event for children battling cancer—if altruism fails to motivate this team, then consider the tax write-off opportunities. In either case, all hands on deck to make this successful.
—Amos H. Marshall
July 1, 2023
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," wasn't worth a damn if the beholder wasn't willing to buy what they found beautiful. Among the first things Dorian had learned from Amos Marshall and his acquisition team was not only how to distinguish trash from treasure in a technical sense, but how to accurately appraise fine art.
He'd developed a good eye for it—enough that he could spend his Saturday at a gallery opening in Three Portlands combing through the exhibits and judging what might be resold. Of course, possessed as he was of a distinctly anomalous gift of gab, he trusted his ability to turn around and auction off any of these pieces at an absurd markup.
Most of the artists were underpricing their work anyway, he noted, even before he approached with the intent to lowball them further. If the creator was present, he’d slip them a business card or make inquiries on the spot. For the most part, he’d simply scribble out names and titles into a black notebook before moving on.
His footsteps clicked upon the marble-paved floors, the space a winding maze of a floor plan with wide halls and high ceilings. The exposed brick walls gave the gallery an industrial aesthetic, though it was plain enough to fall into the background of the various installations.
Dorian turned a corner and was instantly bombarded by a jarring contrast of bright colors and textures, with yarn winding dynamically between patterns and pieces, weaving into several fabric creations that stood entirely on their own without the support of mannequins.
His first impression of Aumile Fyan’s collection was that it was visually striking, but technically mediocre upon closer inspection. The stitch-work was haphazard, especially for someone who got their start in tattoo artistry. Besides, he thought with a sort of detached disappointment, any student of anart could splice together bolts of polyester.
Well, at least be fair to them, Dorian corrected himself as he continued dutifully into the area, his hands folded formally behind his back as he examined an iridescent tapestry. They used better materials than that. According to the label, he was looking at a blend of spider silk, neon, and xenon. To the right of that, a mannequin in a tailored suit of pure carbon soot and titanium dioxide—tattoo pigments. Not bad, maybe this was growing on him.
Whatever piece was next in line, he completely ignored; the rest of the showcase became, suddenly and entirely, lackluster as he caught sight of what could have only been the magnum opus of the exhibit. Something bordering on a performance art piece, no doubt, as he recognized the artist themself fastidiously adjusting the embellishments upon an exceptionally well-decorated woman.
Had there been mention of the living art in the catalogue? How had he missed that?
The woman standing upon the copper display pedestal was a mirage of pastels—rosy curls pinned above her head to better expose her back and shoulders. Her body was adorned with embroidered and painted fabrics, stitched flush with ivory skin.
Probably some commentary on plastic surgery, he thought as he stepped closer, his discerning eyes sweeping her body. Or the beauty standard … Customization, something like that.
He made a wide lap around the artist and their piece, searching for a label. The neutral palette of her piecework, low-backed dress both mimicked and tastefully contrasted the rest of her colors, continually drawing his eyes back to those swatches of material sewn into the doll-esque stranger. What's more, he realized a moment later that the outfit had been sewn directly onto her in places—fastened by ribbons, clasps, and buttons fixed skillfully to her skin.
The London art market’s not biting for shit recently, but New York likes our oddities, Dorian figured almost subconsciously. Probably would get the prettiest pennies for her in Threeports—they do like their toys customizable here. We'd be looking at a few million, in any case… Seven or eight figures, is the real question …
As Dorian passed behind the pair, he watched Aumile's tattooed hands grasp two ends of the blush ribbons crossing up the woman's back in a symmetrical corset. As they pulled the pieces between her shoulders tighter, straightening her posture a smidgen more. Moving closer, he marveled at how the ribbons wove directly in and out of her cottony skin.
Aumile scowled and gave the ribbons a final, annoyed yank as they spotted Dorian. The woman between them didn't react, though her bright eyes met his as he strode back into her field of view.
"May I help you?" Aumile asked, easily retying the intricate knot between the doll's shoulder blades.
"Depends," he said, loath to look away from the patchwork woman to address the artist. "Is she part of the exhibit?"
"Do you use that line on all your girls?" she asked from her place upon the display, wearing an expression equal parts amused and curious. Her accent had the Transatlantic flair not uncommon to Portlandsers, although hers seemed too polished to be a happenstance product of living at a crossroads.
“No,” he said, blinking once before giving an easy, disarming smile. “Then again, I don't mistake many girls for fine art."
If his gaze had wandered even for a moment to the rest of her body, it would have been an undeniably sleazy thing to say. And yet, his eyes remained fixed on hers, watching them widen so that pearly white completely surrounded those cornflower irises, framed by lashes painted a hot pink.
“What makes you so sure you got it wrong?”
"Have I?" He asked, eyes flickering back to Aumile for a moment, their face impassive. They were all sharp edges and neons: lime-streaked ebony hair in a short, jagged cut matched the high-contrast embroidery stitched all across their black, silver-studded jumpsuit.
"She's just for display," they declared, their viridian eyes narrowing in a reminder of just how little love merchants got from the artists in this city (until, of course, their patronage lined their pockets). "Not for sale."
Dorian knew from experience that anyone and anything was for sale at the right price, but frankly, he didn't care about that anymore, and so he just gave a quick, half-indignant laugh before the woman chimed in with a shrug and wink—
"That's not me playing hard to get with you, mister; truthfully, Aumile doesn't have good title to me." Something in her delivery made Dorian wonder whether or not there was some entity with legal ownership to her.
"For the record, I never asked if you were on the market. Besides—" he allowed his eyes one more pass down her decorated form. "No tag, no listing, no provenance. It'd be a nightmare to appraise you without those things."
“Ah, a real collector, mm?” She remarked, setting her piecework hands on her hips.
“On occasion,” he said. It wasn’t even that much of a lie, yet he had the sense that she didn’t believe him. "So, a muse, then?"
She shrugged, still looking far more pleased than her companion. "Nothing so prestigious. Just an old friend." And one hell of a canvas, he couldn't help thinking.
He was robbed of the chance to answer by Aumile huffing— “Please, for my sanity, quit entertaining this private equity asshole.” Dorian thought wryly about all those high-end stores where sales representatives were instructed to be rude to customers, and couldn't help wondering if Aumile was following the same guidebook.
Without looking away from him, she quipped— “Oh, I think it’s a disservice to call this man private equity, Aumile.”
“Pfft—" the driest of smiles ghosted over their pierced, painted lips, "and the asshole part?”
“Mm, my friend’s right,” she said with a slight shrug. “You’ve been terribly rude and presumptuous, and as an apology, I think you ought to buy at least three pieces from their exhibit.”
Dorian’s brows shot up before he countered— “Nonsense, I’ve been practically a perfect gentleman. Two.”
“Three,” she maintained.
His smile widened. “Two and I take you to lunch?”
She grinned fully. “Two and you get inked.”
“Three, but I won't be limited to this exhibit," he resigned with an exaggerated sigh, throwing his hands up. “Expensive fucking apology, considering I'm still treating you to lunch after this."
"I'd love to, but I can't go out to eat in this, I'm afraid," she replied. I can help you out of it—Jesus fucking Christ, Sloan, you can't say that. "Exhibit closes at two—mind letting a girl change first?"
"Not at all. Gives me some time to search the rest of the catalogue, anyway." Since you've already made me agree to spend my money.
At this, she turned back to Aumile, grinning as she poked their shoulder—"Never say I never did anything for you."
"You're my favorite sellout," Aumile replied, glancing sideways at Dorian once more before telling her—“Jax Harding just walked in, I'm going to go say hello. Do try not to get bought and sold while I’m off.”
Despite their show of annoyance, they didn’t sound terribly concerned for her on this front, the pair fluttering their fingers at each other in adieu. She remained upon the pedestal with an almost uncanny stillness, ignoring a dozen or so onlookers and admirers in lieu of returning her gaze to his.
"I don't think your friend likes me," he remarked.
"No Portlandser likes a merchant until the check clears," she replied with a shrug, her lilting voice reminding him of something he'd hear in an old Hollywood film. The comment gave him pause, because for as ubiquitous as MC&D was in the abstract, it disturbed him to be identified so flippantly. Then again, he'd arrived well-polished and carried himself like a Michelin star critic inspecting a restaurant, so he supposed it wasn't the wildest of assumptions on her part.
"Well, not exactly inaccurate to call you a material girl, I guess." She barked a laugh at this before swearing softly to herself over the unexpected reaction. A flicker of satisfaction warmed him, and he continued—"Other than that, what do your friends call you?”
“Piecework, but you can stick with Piper for now.” The name rang some distant bell, although he was certain they'd never met, or else he'd have remembered.
“Pleasure to meet you, Piper. Dorian,” he replied as he shook her hand. Her grip was firm, professional, but not as dense as one would expect a hand to be. At that distance, he confirmed that the glittering gold around her finger was in fact the antler crown of a Deer College class ring.
“You're bold, Dorian, I'll give you that much," she remarked, releasing his hand as her eyes caught on the cuff of his suit coat. “Is that an Alexander Amosu you're wearing?”
“I prefer to think of it as a conscious effort to maintain fortune’s favor,” he said. "And yes, it is—good eye."
“Mm, it’s exquisite,” she seemed almost about to reach out and touch his lapel before stopping herself. “Who’s your tailor?”
“I’ve got a guy in London."
“I bet you do,” she replied, meeting his eyes again.
“Do you have a tailor?” Dorian ventured to ask, eyes following those delicate stitches up her arm. “And if so, do they double as your dermatologist?”
Piper's eyes creased at the corners as she laughed into the back of a patchwork hand.
“Yes and yes. He’s covered by my health insurance,” she informed him brightly. “Still, I usually do my own skin and clothes. This—" she said, gesturing to her skin, "is just a favor to Aumile. Plus, it's an excuse to come back into town."
"Oh?" He tilted his head. "Have you moved out of Three Portlands, then?"
"I have, yes … All my love to the city's starving artists, but I got hungry," she narrowed her eyes on him, her smile turning a fraction colder. "Of course, it's a different city entirely when you've got the means to enjoy it."
He couldn't find it in him to resent her for the jab, not when he knew what his employers and their cohort had done to the city over the decades. Still, he was too young to have been involved in any of that, and he figured she knew as much, which meant she was likely testing how easily she could get under his skin. Ah, it's a harder job than that, I'm afraid.
"Where'd you move post-grad, then?"
He didn’t know what to make of the mischief that lit up her face.
“I think this is the part where we exchange business cards, Mr. Sloan."
Dorian blinked, frozen. Piper's eyes glittered in amusement, as if cherishing an inside joke he was not yet in on. He cocked his head, voice going low and serious. “You know who I am?"
To clock him by his employer was one matter, but as an individual, Dorian cherished his privacy; while a social personality, he functioned better in his role when granted some degree of enigma. To have a stranger know him by name tensed his body and drained the color from his face.
"You introduced yourself, silly,” she said, “And because I made an educated guess. Hand me my purse, would you?"
“Hmm, gotta say, I don’t love the information asymmetry here,” Dorian replied. Despite his new perturbation, he found himself smiling once more as he extended the bag to her. "So yes, this is the part where we put our cards on the table."
Piper stiffened ever so slightly before reaching into her purse—a flimsy, glittery thing fastened to her shoulder and forearm with shimmering staples and pins. "Hey, that's not fair …"
She's overacting, he thought as he watched her produce a business card from the handbag. I hardly said enough to compel her properly, certainly not if she's from Threeports … He'd determined the efficacy of his ability to be inversely related to a target's exposure to magic, meaning that while he could typically sell a car to a Portlandser for a markup, he didn't expect to have much luck in telling them to drive it off a cliff.
"Oh, playing fair is for those who don't mind playing to lose," he mused, plucking the card from her fingers.
Know in your Head is a Wonderful Place!
Piper Elison
Public Relations Associate
⚲ Wonder World!™, MA.
☏ +1-617-♡♡♡-###
✉ c.tnemniatrednow|nosile.repip#c.tnemniatrednow|nosile.repipØm
Relief flooded him at once; of course, she would know him—he’d marked up and sold more of her company’s products than he could count.
"Ah, I'll be damned," he grinned. "Forgive my manners. You gave me quite the scare for a second, Miss Elison.”
“Oh, all in good fun,” she giggled lightly. “You’re not angry, are you?”
A laugh escaped him as he reached into his coat pocket for a brushed steel and leather card case. “No, I am not angry.”
He thumbed through the myriad of cards thoughtfully before handing over one of the few real ones he was carrying.
MARSHALL, CARTER & DARK LTD.
LONDON | NEW YORK | HONG KONG
DORIAN C. SLOAN
HEAD AUCTIONEER
777 WALL STREET, NEW YORK, N.Y. | dsloan@mcd_outmail.com | +1 ###-###-####
“I’m surprised it’s not plated in gold,” she mused, turning the card over in her hands to reveal the raised golden logo across the back. “Mm, spoke too soon … So, are you here shopping, or just killing a Saturday?"
"A bit of both," he admitted. "I enjoy these things, but I try to keep an eye out for what our clients would like. We're hosting a gala in a few weeks, and we're still finalizing the catalogue—" a light bulb went off, and he suddenly grinned. "—And the seating arrangement, for that matter. Any chance you're free the evening of the twenty-first?"
To: amarsh@mcd_intmail.mcd
From: dorsloan@mcd_intmail.mcd
Date Sent:01/07/2023 19:24 GMT
Subject: Guest List Addition
Amos,
I ran into one of Dr. Wondertainment's Public Relations associates in Three Portlands, and now there's a chance they sent her as a company representative to the charity gala on the 29th. Her name is Piper Elison, if that helps.
I'd hate to give the event planners any more headaches, but logistically, she can be counted as my plus one, so no rearrangements needed regarding seating and accommodations.
Best Regards.
To: dorsloan@mcd_intmail.mcd
From: amarsh@mcd_intmail.mcd
Date Sent:02/07/2023 10:03 GMT
Subject: Guest List Addition
Dorian,
Typically, I'd hesitate to let anyone bring a date that's not been vouched for, but knowing Wondertainment, they wouldn't dare send someone who would represent them poorly. I appreciate the advance notice. It shouldn't be an issue.
AHM
July 17, 2023
Dorian sat in his office and studied the finalized auction lots, which had at last been forwarded to him with Amos Marshall's stamp of approval following weeks of work by his colleagues in acquisitions, sales, event planning, and everything else.
| Auction Catalogue LHF493 | |
|---|---|
| LHF493/AB64B/ECHLL9 | |
| Lot | 17 of 97 |
 |
|
| Starting Bid | $850000 |
| Identifier | 'Easy Chair' by Levi Lovehark |
| Listing | You see a print of yourself in an armchair, crimson blood spilling dynamically out from the slash in your neck, the gouged viscera where your eyes ought to be, all soaking into the colorless upholstery and floor. You watch your chest rise and fall in staggered, impossible breaths. You gaze upon the piece with bleeding eyes and feel no pain for your expiration. |
| Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. | |
| Auction Catalogue LHF493 | |
|---|---|
| LHF493/AB04D/AFY780 | |
| Lot | 18 of 97 |
 |
|
| Starting Bid | $1000000 |
| Identifier | 'The Abstract of a Dress' by Aumile Fyan |
| Listing | What is form? What is reality? What is illusion? Plato suggested that physical objects were naught but shadowy imitations of a perfect, abstract realm. This instillation—a full-scale, wearable gown—offers a reflection of the viewer's own inner disposition and truth, altering itself in accordance to the wearers' desires and wisdom. |
| Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. | |
| Auction Catalogue LHF493 | |
|---|---|
| LHF493/HY748/GVK012 | |
| Lot | 19 of 97 |
|
|
|
| Starting Bid | $1300000 |
| Identifier | 'Hysteria' by Giovanni Veskoti |
| Listing | A gouache painting of a little grey man writhing in a straight jacket, slamming frantically against the two-dimensional padding that surrounds him, as well as the open fourth wall separating him for his voyeurs. His screams are muffled by the confines of the frame, but not silenced, lest one covers the portrait. |
| Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. | |
The product descriptions rolled easily off his tongue now, after an hour of practice, his eyes glancing at the words on the pages for occasional reference. Sure, Dorian would have cards with the items in front of him the night of the auction, but it always made for a better show if he could ramble without reliance on them.
He was interrupted by three quick, precise knocks on his office door, their exact manner cluing him as to who it was.
"Come in," Dorian called, setting the listings down on his desk. While Lucas Monaco could technically cross freely through all the thresholds in the building, it apparently remained the habit of vampires to wait for a proper invitation to enter.
Lucas was invariably ominous by nature, but seemed especially so as he closed the door behind him and stood across from Dorian. Face inscrutable and voice low, he said— "We need to have a talk, young man."
The hairs rose on Dorian's neck; even after three years of working with him, those chilled crimson eyes still activated in him some primal prey's instinct.
He sat up straighter in his chair. "…What about?"
"Are you fucking a Wondertainer?"
Dorian's eyes went wide, and he could only choke out a quick laugh. "Jesus, let it never be said you're indirect."
"Answer the question."
Dorian leaned back. "No, not currently."
"Not currently…" Lucas repeated in disbelief. "Are you trying to?"
Dorian paused, trying to think of a polite way to tell Lucas that he was the last person in the world he wanted to have this conversation with. Then again, he was likely more than aware of that.
" … Is this about the gala on Friday?"
"Are you really using kids with cancer to get laid? That's fucked up."
"Spare me. I already cleared it with the Marshalls," Dorian said. "Like you said, it's a children's charity, and one Wondertainment has contributed plenty to. Hell, twenty-three of the ninety-seven auction lots are Wondertainment brand. That's more than enough reasonable justification for one of their representatives to be in attendance."
Lucas cocked his head. "Why is she coming as a representative, not as your plus one?"
Dorian sighed through smiling teeth. "Cause it was easier for her lawyers to swallow."
"I—" Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose, giving a deep sigh that tapered off into a laugh. "Oh, Madonne…"
"Since when do you give a damn who I go out with?" Dorian asked in genuine exasperation. "Not that it's any of your business anyway—"
Lucas' gaze snapped up, a spark of indignation playing across iridescent eyes. "The nerve to tell me what is my business and what is not—"
"You're right, I'm sorry." Dorian put up his palms. "I didn't mean that. But seriously, what are you worried about? Supply chain?"
"Oh, god, not unless you plan to royally fuck this up," Lucas scoffed, crossing his arms. "But no, shockingly—it's you I'm worried about."
"Aww—" Dorian brought a hand to his chest.
"No. Shut up." Lucas swiftly held up a gloved palm, silencing Dorian's response to the flattery. "By god, Sloan, you are possibly the most talented person I've ever met in the way of getting yourself into things you don't understand."
"Thank god I'm already sat for a lecture."
"Do not be a smartass with me."
"That was sincere, sorry. Lay it on me."
With exaggerated patience, Lucas asked—"What do you know about Wondertainment and its employees?"
"… That this one is pretty and has good taste in art?" Lucas put his head in his hands as Dorian threw up his own in defense. "Hey, I just sell their products!"
"I'm painfully aware, yes. Which means there's no reason you would know that they're the jolliest fucking gangsters in the world."
"And just what—" Dorian was cut off by another set of knocks upon the door. He called for them to enter, at which point, Robert Carter stuck his head through the gap.
"Dorian, do you—" he saw Lucas and paused. "Oh, I can come back."
"It's not that serious," Dorian assured him. In his periphery, he caught Lucas removing a silver cigarette case, prompting Dorian to thoughtlessly pass him his lighter. "What's up? How was Istanbul?"
"Oh, business as usual," Robert said, a hint of amusement trickling into his tone as he closed the door behind him with his metallic tail, which then began to sway with mirth. "Though Dr. Wondertainment's COO gave me a call before I left … Something about you becoming acquainted with his publicist?"
"Yeah, I took her to lunch in Threeports."
Robert didn't miss a beat. "Sloan, you fucking slut."
"Hey, hey, stones in a glass house, boss!" Dorian laughed as he cocked his head. "You spoke with Mr. Redd about it?"
"That crazy fucking Ken doll?" Lucas remarked, before fixing that cuttingly discerning gaze onto Robert. "He called you over this?"
Robert shrugged flippantly as Lucas placed a Treasurer London between his lips and lit the end. "Mr. Redd happens to be a good friend of mine. Don't worry—" Robert said to Dorian, seeming to enjoy this far too much. "I acted surprised and said all nice things about you."
"You kids are going to give me a fucking aneurysm," Lucas declared as he noticed Dorian's politely extended hand, prompting him to return the lighter along with a fresh cigarette before demanding in his strict manner: "Well, two's an audience. Go on and tell me how this happened."
July 21, 2023
"An art gallery! I still cannot get over that. How romantic." Mr. Redd (discontinued) Wondertainment laid the sarcasm on thicker than cold syrup, sitting cross-legged on the counter as he watched Piper at her vanity.
"Romance has nothing to do with it," she replied, stitching the last of her silk swatches into her face for the evening, the glossy beige and peach tones picked out to blend in reasonably with her skin. "This is professional. Platonic at most."
That got a chuckle out of Redd, at least. "You really are a wonderful liar."
Piper got up from her vanity with no more than a hum, which she knew to be less than the response he'd been fishing for.
"He was there shopping, wasn't he?" he pressed on, bracing his chin on an ivory hand, tapping his crimson-polished nails thoughtfully upon a rosy cheek—those owlish, mechanical eyes fixed on her in morbid curiosity, because she'd come to accept that most everything Redd did was more morbid than not. "Bet he took one look at you and started looking for a price tag."
"All the more reason to look like a million bucks," she replied, walking up to where she'd left a navy evening gown hanging—satin and sleeveless with a high collar.
"Oh, honey, no—that's far too affordable for that man," Redd admonished as she dropped her robe and stepped into the dress.
"Ha! Well, whatever his budget, it's not as if I could entertain someone who doesn’t appreciate art." For as integral as aesthetics were in her day-to-day life, her relationship to expression had been tainted more corporatism more than she wanted to admit: posters and propaganda, products designed to perfection. While Piper had always enjoyed the company of artists, she'd long accepted some distance between herself and Dr. Wondertainment Inc.'s so-called "Design Divas" and adjacently creative employees; her department's concern, after all, was not with the production of wonder, but with the promotion of pretty pictures and pleasing narratives by whatever means necessary.
"Oh, I'm sure he appreciates it plenty," Redd replied as he stood up to help with her zipper, pinching it cautiously between his fingers. She could feel his intense, concentrated effort toward not tearing it from its track before it reached the hook and eye below her scapulae. When he'd succeeded, he moved his hands up to her shoulders and held eye contact with her in the full-length mirror on the far side of the room. "Especially when it's turning him a profit or accruing value in a warehouse. It's all fun and games until you wake up in a temperature-controlled vault in the Geneva Freeport.1"
"That's oddly specific, but hey—assuming the company doesn't sign me away with good title, he'll have given you and the Publicity Puppies the perfect chance to plan a heist." She stepped away and went about donning the rest of her accessories—ones she'd decided best toed the line between elegance and whimsy.
"That does sound like it could be fun," he admitted as he watched her fasten her earrings—diamond-crusted black bowties. "Are those new?"
"Mhmm—appeared mysteriously in my post office box last week," she replied, earning a cackle from him.
"My, my, I have to admit, he's got good taste," Redd said, leaning against the wall as he manifested a paring knife in his palm, which Piper noticed warily without reacting to. "And he still romances like a poor man—how fun."
"Ha, where do you reckon he learned that?"
Redd's face lit up in a way she'd often found to indicate danger. Instead, he only purred—"Oh, you didn't know? Mr. Sloan was dead broke before MC&D got their teeth in him."
She paused, processing this until Redd—apparently bored by her lack of response—halfheartedly hurled the knife at her. It whizzed past her head without so much as a tremor in her face; Redd was known to employ such 'composure tests' to keep the public relations associates sharp, and he looked proud as punch by her passing this one.
"… I have to fix my wall now," she said, at last unpinning the rollers in her hair.
He flashed a grin of pearlescent razors. "Oops."
"Really, Redd," Piper remarked, flipping her head upside-down to shake out the rosy curls, "don't tell me you think I'm going to lose my nerve over a man,"
"No," he relented, his expression graver than Piper had expected when she looked back up at him. "But by all accounts, he's the most charming man in the world, and you need to keep your head about you."
"That's rather melodramatic."
"No, Piecework, it's not. Because Percival Darke would not bat an eye for, much less pay the salary of, anyone or anything short of the best of the best," Redd said, raising his voice just enough to emphasize the point before giving a strained sigh. "Now, I doubt Mr. Sloan would be foolish enough to try anything with you; Robert Carter even vouched for him, said he'd most certainly play the gentleman … But I know and you know how foolish boys can be, how entitled they feel to play with the toys they want."
Piper slowly stood up straight before her body went still. He looked down, biting the inside of his cheek.
She thought of Mr. Redd and his pseudo-siblings, the Little Misters; though they'd first entered circulation long before Piper's time at the company, she knew several of them had passed through MC&D's hands.
Acquisition, appraisal, auction. Merchandise is merchandise, and at the end of the day, art existed for the benefit of the observer, served at the pleasure of the connoisseur.
So what? Boo-hoo, but that's just how it is. Redd's a doll too, shouldn't he understand?
"… I'm going as a company representative," she said softly. "Dorian knows that any affront to me is an insult to you and your family. Just imagine the profit MC&D would stand to lose from that."
"… All I ask is that you keep your guard up," he said. "I'm not telling you to have no fun and be back by eight."
"Do I have a curfew?" She asked, moving again to slip on her heels and grab her purse, unclasping it to double-check the contents.
"No, s'pose not … but do you remember the advice you gave me the first time I went to Vegas by myself?"
She thought about it, then grinned to herself. "Nothing's open past one a.m. but legs and fast food chains."
"Bingo~"
"You—" Her cellphone buzzed, and she shook her head. "I hate you. Driver's five minutes out."
He made a heart with both hands. "Keep me updated," he purred. "And represent us well, or so help you."
How strange the city looks from this view, Piper thought as she watched Three Portlands speed past the tinted window. It felt wrong, viewing her old home from the comfort of a private black Cadillac, charging through that crowded, curving domain of concrete.
Homes nestled themselves between gas stations and galleries; high-end manors and office spaces separated themselves from the slums with iron railings, turning their nose up at the absence of zoning only until it served to feed the endless appetite for development. This was a landscape that bred brutal art and exquisite violence.
Some days, in the weak and quiet moments, she missed it.
And are you so foolish to think it misses you?
You've sold out once, and now you return, dressed in silk—
Piper killed the thought; she was practiced in that. Guilt was a bottomless, self-pitying pit—homesickness, a seduction into stagnation; she would not have either ruin whatever adventure this night would entail.
The driver informed her—"We're here, miss."
"Thank you."
Dorian had offered to pick her up from Boston himself, but she had declined. Better to keep the illusion of distance, at least for now. Nevertheless, she spotted him walking up to the valet the moment she arrived at the Vanderbilt Hotel.
With immaculate timing, the door opened for her just as he stepped to the curb. He was dressed head to toe in jet Armani, his silhouette sharpened to a near-painful elegance. Extending a slender hand for her to take, he opened—
"No issues with transportation, I hope?"
"None at all," she said, stepping from the car. "Thank you again for the arrangements."
"Please, it's the least I could do," he cocked his coiffed head. "It's not too forward, I hope, to say you look stunning."
She called him too kind, and they walked arm in arm into the hotel. The lobby was an embellished spectacle of greens and golds, rich velvet carpet leading them into a grand lift, one of those with a glass wall that let her watch the first floor grow smaller as they ascended.
In the minute they spent in the elevator, Dorian told her about the recent renovations and location history, speaking in a hurried yet clear voice that made Piper wonder if he was somehow nervous, or if he was merely practicing for his show. Either way, his words were unreasonably pleasant to listen to.
They had not seen each other in three weeks; following their first encounter at the gallery, Piper had thrown a coat over her couture and taken him up on lunch. They had only just ordered appetizers when they received simultaneous communications that killed the easy flow of their conversation. Both swallowed their irritation, and when Piper said—more apologetically than she'd have expected—that she had to leave for a work emergency, Dorian asked if she was talking about the Foundation raid on a shared-supply warehouse in the Bronx. That shared crisis, that brief flicker of mutual understanding, had been her last impression of him, as she couldn't possibly have gotten away with meeting him for a meal preceding this event if she had any hope of maintaining a veneer of professionalism.
As they emerged onto the fourth floor, Piper spotted a short line of well-dressed people—several of whom were sporting cosmetic animal anatomy or robotic augmentations—queued to check in. The moment her eyes drifted, Dorian must have caught her looking, as he assured her—
"Oh, you don't need to worry about that. Here—"
His free hand reached into his breast pocket and produced a golden name tag, identical to the one pinned to his lapel, save for the engraving. She thanked him, taking it and fastening it above her heart.
They breezed through the door and into a breathtakingly opulent ballroom: a few dozen tables with ivory cloth and floral centerpieces, floor-to-ceiling glass doors sundering the main hall from a broad balcony, situated not-quite opposite from the stage currently hosting a dragonling orchestra.
"Mm, the events team really outdid themselves," Dorian remarked, almost to himself, before smiling back at her. "Now, what can I get you to drink?"
"Oh, thank you, but I don't drink." Not here, certainly.
"Doesn't have to be alcohol. What can I get you?"
"Hmm, do they make an Arnold Palmer?"
"They will if I ask," he said, beckoning a tuxedoed man over to put in a request for that and champagne.
Piper noticed just a moment before Dorian did when a blond man approached, all scowls and stringent mannerisms.
"Oh, hey Lucas," Dorian noticed. Lucas returned no introduction, just demanded—
"Lot eighteen. Oil or acrylic?" Dorian's brow furrowed.
"Neither. Gouache."
"Good—" Lucas clasped his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Piper cocked her head slightly, eyeing the shushed exchange with curiosity.
"Okay … Need anything from me?"
Lucas shook his head. "No, just wanted to make sure you had it straight in your head. You'll have the right listings on the podium." He took one step to depart, though halted as if having forgotten something. Rather unexpectedly, he turned to face her, extending a hand.
"Piper Elison? Lucas Monaco. Well met."
She smiled, returning the handshake. Even through his gloves, he felt corpse-like. "Well met, Mr. Monaco." He gave her an odd look—somewhere between discerning and disquieted—before departing.
"He seems nice," Piper said to Dorian as an attendant came around to hand them both crystal flutes.
"Ha, you're very polite," he said. "That'd be our External Acquisitions Manager; he's an absolute ass, but he's the most competent motherfucker I've ever met."
"So I've heard," she mused as she brought the iced tea and lemonade to her painted lips.
"Ah, of course, who am I kidding? Naturally, you've dealt with him."
"Not personally, but yes," Piper replied. "May I ask what that was about?"
"Oh, just a mistake on the catalogue," Dorian said, waving his hand. "Someone will get fired, probably, but such mistakes don't get past all of us. Lucas and his people will see that everything's in order by showtime. Until then, we've got forty-five minutes left of cocktail hour; you don't mind working a room, do you?"
Relieved, she told him—"Not at all."
A pleased glimmer in those eyes—pupils swimming amidst golden irises like black bugs trapped and preserved in age-old amber. "Good. Of all the things to ask money for, this is an easy sell. Before jumping into that fray, though, let me introduce you to the senior Marshall. If you'll follow me—"
He set his hand lightly at the top of her back to guide her through the room. They caught Amos Marshall on the back end of a conversation he'd been eager to leave, based on how easily he dismissed the couple from his attention upon spotting Dorian's approach.
Still walking, he leaned down to rattle informatively into her ear—"That pair there are Kishan and Gouri Hinduja; they have a brand new set of twins at home, so if you feel so inclined as to give toy recommendations, you've got primed customers. And this—" He raised his voice, slowing it down enough for polite conversation, "—is Mr. Amos Marshall. Mr. Marshall, Piper Elison, Wondertainment PR."
The senior Marshall was a flax-blond man with a dour face and a sable suit; his visage imposed the impression of some desolate sadness, the sort of weariness with life possible only in those who want for nothing. He gave her a once-over, a nod, and a handshake, all in the same practiced, fluid bit.
"How do you do?"
"I'm wonderful, thank you for asking. And thank you for having me; this is a beautiful event." The compliments were genuine, not simple flattery. One would not be wise to come across as ungracious to such a nonpareil. Yet, for all the bloody and golden power held by Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd., his handshake was utterly mundane. "How are you this evening?"
"Well, fine," he said flatly. "Please, enjoy the party. Dorian, may I have a word?"
"Course—Piper, I'll find you later." With that, they stepped away, speaking in hushed voices. She broke away to take a lap, keeping perpetual motion as she took a moment to observe the party's composition. Though undeniably lavish, it was far from the Gatsby-esque jamboree she imagined of MC&D—maybe they just saved that for the holiday parties?
It was not a large crowd—no more than a hundred inside, another score or so on the balcony—but a varied one; heiresses and industry leaders swam among gangsters and mages. An arcane doctor here, an oil baron there. All so satisfied with themselves and their altruism.
None of it particularly intimidated her; very little had that ability when one enjoyed the championship of the Maker of Wonders himself. Still, she figured her best-case scenario would be to find someone she knew—
"Holy shit—Piper?" Well, that was easy.
She turned, lighting her face up with recognition. "Hello, Anne!"
Anne McKenna had graduated from Deer College three years before Piper, and had rapidly climbed the corporate ladder up to her current role as Anderson Robotics' Vice President of Public Affairs—she'd been young for the title, yes, but they liked their execs lean and hungry, or so Piper had heard. In any case, it explained her presence tonight, although her being flush with inherited wealth certainly helped her spot on the guest list.
"Are you still working for Wondertainment?" Anna asked before Piper could get a word in, her expression downright appalled.
"Why, yes, I am!"
"I picked the wrong job, clearly," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "How much are you getting paid?" Piper didn't allow herself a genuine reaction to that question, as rude as she found it. Not that she recalled Threeports ever having been a city of manners, but really? It hadn't been thirty seconds!
Nevertheless, she picked up easily enough, recalling her objective. "I think the real question is how much you're willing to pay to make sure some kids are lucky enough to live—"
"No, shush," Anne silenced her with the harsh flash of a palm. "Who bought your ticket?"
Curiosity ticked her head to the side, a playful lilt still instilled in her voice: "That's the accountant's concern, not mine."
Anne looked at her as if trying to confirm if she was stupid, bullshitting, or something else. Piper only smiled blankly.
"The name tags are different colors to indicate amount given," she explained at last, pointing to the solid gold pinned to Piper's chest. "That right there costs about five million pounds sterling in donations."
If numbers still had all their meaning to Piper, she might have had more difficulty swallowing her astonishment. After all, she knew damn well Dr. Wondertainment hadn't paid that for her to go to a party.
"Hmm, well, isn't that fascinating?" She pointed to the platinum label bearing Anne's name. "And how much did yours cost?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand," Anne replied.
"Pfft—broke."
"Fuck you," Anne said, though they'd both started to laugh. After a moment, Piper set a hand on her shoulder and said—
"Hey, but really, don't you think that if you can throw around cash like that for such trivial status symbols, you can find it in your hearts to write a check?" After a moment's hesitation, Piper continued, fully committed to deliver a sob story when Anne held up a hand once more—in resignation, this time—as the other reached into her purse for her phone. Piper watched with delight over her shoulder as she opened the webpage to make another donation to the tune of fifty thousand pounds.
"There. Happy?"
"Immensely."
"Not enough for Wondertainment to quit turning our pockets inside out buying toys we don't need, eh?" Anne grinned. "Though, I guess that's hardly your fault."
Piper paused for a moment before asking—"Are you referring to the auction?"
Anne hummed in confirmation as she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "MC&D's auctioneer is rather good. He's around here somewhere, probably …" A sip from the crystal flute, then—"Word is he gets a pair of white gloves after every show."
"Meaning he sells every piece on the catalogue?"
"Mhmm—and for an arm and a leg, at that," she scoffed, still wearing that somewhat-ironic smile. "I'd bet more money than I have that the man's magic, but who cares? No one here needs anything—we just want to show off what we can want, and MC&D's pretty damn good at telling people what they want."
Piper gave this a thoughtful pause before agreeing. "I suppose sales is the art of telling people to break their bank in such a way that they reach for their checkbooks."
"Maybe," Anne shrugged before downing her drink in a smooth go. "Or maybe it's just looking good and talking fast. Either way, I must be on my way—promised someone a hookup in the bathroom five minutes ago. Nice seeing you."
"Oh! Well, pleasure was mine …"
Following this, Piper committed herself to finding the couple from earlier. Certainly, she could have sought out Dorian, spent the night on his arm, but where was the fun in that? Besides, it would have hindered their flitting about amongst the attendees.
Every time she caught a glimpse of him, he was on the move—chatting amicably, offering lights and refills, brushing shoulders and elbows, dropping a few smiling words into the ears of whoever he could catch, frequently without interrupting their conversation with another guest. What the words were, it didn't matter; how primed, she realized with a sort of impressed horror, everyone must already be for the main event.
On occasion, he'd cross paths with her just to facilitate some introduction, lingering long enough to make sure she had the ball rolling before taking an Irish exit. Never in her life had she seen someone make such a sport out of networking—and dammit, she couldn't help having fun herself.
Time was nonsensical, but at some point, she paused and put her back to the wall, sweeping her eyes across the sea of guests until she saw him across the room, appearing to survey the room in kind.
In that moment, his countenance was inscrutable, impassive. For the briefest moment, she thought she spotted contempt tempting those pleasing features—something dangerously close to scorn for his surroundings playing behind his tawny eyes. Do you enjoy any of this, Mr. Sloan? she wondered, or do you just enjoy making fools out of them?
And then he caught her gaze. In a practiced, graceful motion, his micro-expressions righted themselves, once more finding an agreeably neutral, if still enigmatic, appearance.
He cocked his head toward the terrace, and she met him by the glass door. It was a spacious balcony with a stellar view, but as the summer air was hotter outside than in the main ballroom, only a gaggle of smokers bothered to remain out there, standing around a high-top table, periodically dabbing their foreheads with silk handkerchiefs.
"Hey," Dorian called as they stepped out. "Don't you sons of bitches know this is a no-smoking property?"
This earned a fair amount of laughter, and at least two offered cigars, though Dorian waved them off in favor of walking toward the railing. He already had a metal case in one hand, a lighter in the other. He paused, looking at her—
"Do you mind if I smoke?" His voice lowered, softened. "I don't have to."
Liar, she thought bemusedly. "No, not at all."
"Grazie," Light, inhale, exhale. "Do you smoke?"
"Ha, no, but thank you," she replied before reaching into her purse.
"Figured, but I—hey, what's—" his brow knitted in confusion as she retrieved what undeniably appeared to be a pack of cigarettes. She brought the end to her lips and exhaled a stream of iridescent bubbles into the evening sky, causing him to cackle at the novelty.
"Well, I need something to do with my hands," she explained.
"Ha. Remind me to call you if I ever try to quit," he remarked, both of them pausing for a drag before he continued. "You were good in there, you know. And believe me, I've given a lot of empty compliments tonight, but that's not one of them."
"Oh, I … Thank you, Dorian. So were you."
He hummed, his lips hinting at a smile between pulls, the smoke mixing with parfum cologne. Training her eyes on the traffic backing up the streets below, she held her expression neutral while willing the butterflies in her stomach to hurry up and dissolve in acid and die.
She got her wish the moment she spotted a crimson cardinal perched upon the power line. It had already spotted her, of course—as was its assignment. Every stitch of her body went utterly still as she felt those beady eyes zoom in on her.
Smile, you're on camera!
The CCAO2 Cams!™ were ubiquitous in Wonder World!™, and she was not surprised to know her surveillance had followed her here. If anything, she supposed it should have comforted her. Her bosses wanted to make sure she was okay.
And more importantly, that she was still on her best behavior.
"Something wrong?" Dorian's interruption nearly made her jump out of her skin.
"No," she dropped the end of the bubble-stick into an ashtray.
"Try again," he said simply, and although nothing about the reply was accusatory, she had the knee-jerk reaction to tell him to mind his business, because that is all there is to tell someone who doesn't understand the nuances of graceful self-censorship.
So instead, she glanced at him and asked—"Is ten million pounds mere pocket change to you?"
He raised his brows. "Is—Oh, someone told you about the name tags?"
"Five million each? Seriously?"
A hum, a shrug, a pull of the Marlboro between his fingers—now only a ring of fire creeping up on the filter. "I'll put it this way: I'm getting paid a flat fee of about fifteen million to come to this event and do my job." He took another small, almost nervous drag, and added quickly—"You know, before taxes." As if anyone here paid those.
How much of your earnings come from auctions, anyway? she wanted to ask; not for a second would she believe that MC&D kept his work within the scope of his official job title … On second thought, a party balcony was an inappropriate setting for that question, not to mention that it would have justified his asking whether "Public Relations Associate" reflected her professional purview, and that was no conversation to be had without a solid NDA.
"Does that include commission from the auction?" she asked instead, pleased to see him relax the slightest bit.
"No, I'm not actually taking commission tonight," he replied. "If I really were a heartless bastard, I'd say it kills my incentive to sell well, but hey, it's for charity." He fished a small box out of his coat and shook a few tiny golden coughdrops into his palm, popping them into his mouth before cocking his head—"Wait, are you getting paid tonight?"
"Nothing extra," she admitted, to which he furrowed his brow.
"That won't do. When tonight's books are done, I'll see about wiring you what you're owed." He held up a hand to her objection before she could even start, adding rapidly—"I've heard you bringing in money. Only fair you get a cut."
"… And if I don't give you my banking information?" she asked, more out of curiosity than anything. Unsurprisingly, he just shrugged.
"I have a sleuth of an accountant. Barring that, I can give you cash." Though his tone was conversational, he was respectfully discreet in his volume. "Really, Piper, you'd be doing me a favor—I hear Wonder World is a tax haven, at least for employees."
"Tee-em."
"What?"
"Wonder World Tee-em—the city's trademarked," she said. "And try as you might, you're not going to convince me that you pay taxes."
"Shh~" He only tapped his index finger against his grin.
"… Maybe I'll donate it all to charity," she said, half to herself.
"Maybe you do," he said, giving no indication he believed her. This did nothing but encourage her to dig her heels in.
"You don't think I will?"
"I don't think I'm in any position to tell you how to spend your money," he said, pocketing his hands and leaning in so they were eye-to-eye. "But I think you like nice things, and that you ought to have what you want."
With that, he said something about returning inside, waving her along and leading her to a table at the foot of the stage. Eight seats, all empty aside from Amos Marshall and a grey-haired man to his left—the head of the Little Heroes Fund, if she recalled correctly.
"Forgive me, they put you next to Monaco," Dorian whispered, pulling out her chair for her before taking the spot to her left. "Then again, he might skip sitting for dinner altogether. Vampire on stimulants, you know? I can count on two hands the number of times I've seen him eat food."
Conversation was pleasant, light—arts and medicine, mainly—and uninterrupted until the dessert course. In the midst of everyone receiving their servings of tiramisu, Lucas returned to the table, only to unceremoniously dropped a bundled napkin on the empty placemat before her.
The corners of the white cloth fell back, revealing a dead dove, its carbon-fiber skeleton crushed amidst mangled tawny feathers, bits of it still twitching it the faintest remnants of an electric current.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Lucas—!" Dorian exclaimed, fighting to keep his voice down. Even Amos and the other table guests flinched back, sputtering into silence.
Lucas leaned down and hissed into her ear: "You'll notice there's no press here, Miss Elison."
Expression perfectly impassive, she didn't look at him. There was no sound of his breath in his ear, and she found it disturbingly easy to imagine him snatching the drone out of the sky with a well-timed jump and a bare hand.
Silence, because what was there to say? They're not watching you, they're watching me? I didn't mean to bring them? Whatever she said would be picked up, recorded, put in her file—because even he could not have caught them all, not if they'd sent a whole flock—
Before anything else, she wrapped the feathered drone back up in the napkin and tucked it into her purse. Besides it being unsightly for a dining table, she didn't want the intellectual property falling into MC&D's hands.
"Are you spying on us, or are you being stalked?" Lucas demanded.
She swallowed, willing her nerves to stay steeled. She glanced over her shoulder inconspicuously, spotting nothing, but feeling the prickling of surveillance on the back of her neck. Despite wishing otherwise, her heart ran faster, and she knew Lucas could hear it. She moved her hand in front of her lips in what she hoped would appear to be a casual gesture.
"… Second one."
"Well, in that case, you're welcome," he replied with caustic charity.
"Monaco," Dorian snapped at last. "You're making a scene." He had his hands folded in front of his mouth, eyes set furiously on Lucas. "And you're acting like London's not riddled with cameras."
Lucas moved into the empty seat with a swift, silent grace before leaning forward slightly on the table. "The difference is that we own London."
Dorian inhaled sharply and looked at Piper with a strained smile. "I'm sorry about him."
Lucas actually growled. "Do not apologize for me."
At that point, Amos whipped the napkin off his lap and laid it upon his table setting with an aggressive flourish before he stood. "You two—come with me."
The three men absconded, leaving her at that table feeling like she had a bomb in her purse. The drone was no longer operational, of course, but that did not negate what it represented. The worst part about fucking up, she thought numbly, is when there's nothing you could have done differently.
After assuring remaining guests of the encounter's innocuity, she continued to listen politely as they resumed their conversation with a trained, pleasant smile. She kept her hands folded in her lap, not even shaking.
Her cellphone buzzed with a single text: "Sheesh. Touchy."
She stuffed the phone back into her purse alongside the bird. It would do no good to respond—not here, not feeling like this. It occurred to her to text her lawyer to confirm whether or not she would face any backlash from either company, but she didn't do that either. Instead, her brain drummed up possible consequences with detached morbidity, each outcome worse than the last until she felt a pleasant level of nothing toward any of it at all.
As she stared at her untouched tiramisu, considering the possibility of Dorian's bosses asking for her eyeballs on a platter for her indiscretion, Amos and Lucas returned to their seats.
Immediately, she asked: "Would you like for me to leave, Mr. Marshall?" Nothing sharp or guilty to her question, simply sound manners. Yet, Amos looked taken aback for a moment.
"There's no need for that," was all he said before raising his brows expectantly at Lucas, who'd taken the seat to the other side of her with a slightly sour expression. "Well?"
Lucas exhaled before telling her through gritted fangs—"I'm sorry." The words sounded utterly unnatural and not the slightest bit sincere, but apparently, it was enough for Amos, who returned blithely to his previous conversations. She and Lucas sat in silence as he picked at his dessert with a silver spoon, while she moved hardly a muscle. A waiter brought him a martini that could very well just have been olive oil in a chilled glass, which he proceeded to ignore. I should have ordered a drink.
When she thought the ten-ton silence might suffocate her, she smiled and asked: "So, Mr. Monaco, how long have you been with the company?"
Crimson eyes snapped over to her, communicating his contempt with practiced mastery. She ground her molars, willing the iciness out of her smile.
"I'm not answering questions from you."
While it would have been easiest just to let the conversation die, it would have felt like a defeat at that point, and so she persisted: "Beautiful weather we're having tonight."
"No, it's not. It's hotter than hell on a Sunday, and I should know."
"Did you have to learn how to make conversations with you feel like eating glass, or has it always come naturally to you?"
"Did Wondertainment erase documentation of your life after your employment, or have they been false or nonexistent all your life?"
Waiting for some reaction, he sipped his martini. She offered a patient, polite smile, wishing in that moment she could kill him without consequence. She had to settle for the next best thing:
"You have bugs under your skin." Vampires, she knew, tended to be intensely neurotic creatures. With any luck …
"I—" his eye twitched, as did his hand, his expression betraying the slightest hint of perturbation. Bingo. "What?"
"You," she repeated slowly, as if the issue had been his hearing— "have bugs under your skin."
Before he could respond, the lights dimmed, and the ballroom grew quiet. She, along with everyone else, lifted her eyes to the stage at the room's forefront, which burst into focus with theatrical illumination.
Dorian stepped out from behind the velvet curtains and approached the podium with unhurried steps. He had not altered the monochrome black of his outfit, but had enhanced it with a smooth obsidian mask obscuring the better half of his face, leaving a faintly smiling mouth visible.
"What a crowd we have tonight," he observed, resting his fingertips atop the podium's edge and surveying the tables. "First things first, if you've reached this part of the night and are still feeling too financially responsible for your own good, I'm going to need you to step to take a step outside for me, yeah?" It was a joking icebreaker, generating a wave of chuckles, and yet two people slipped out onto the veranda. "Then, if you haven't already, I expect to see checkbooks on the tables, people. You know the drill: no returns, no liability, but that's not stopped any of you so far, has it? Remember that this is for a good cause, so consider any and all subsequent purchases to be an investment in sleeping better at night, mm?—"
The words began to race and blur like a car gathering RPM, speeding in a gilded chatter by the time the attendants began wheeling items on and off the stage with robotic efficiency.
That hint of enchantment at the gallery had been nothing. His voice was nothing short of spellbinding—golden and alarming, a record skipping across words like "bid" and "give" between calls for ever-climbing prices. It was the song of a siren, entreating you to throw yourself into the sea, to pay millions of dollars for the priceless opportunity of letting the waves shatter your body on the rocks with pleasure.
There was a playfulness to the patter, imploring to throw reason and inhibition to the wind. The austere crowd had turned electric, having fun because he was having fun. Prices went up by tens and hundreds of thousands of pounds at a time, and no one seemed to care.
Like any good auctioneer, he understood the power of a story; true or false, the captivating provenance he spun sold the ugliest painting she'd ever seen in her life for twenty-nine and a half million. Three lots later, Aumile's contribution went for nearly twice as much; as exasperated as they had been to hear of Piper's Friday evening engagement, she hoped they would at least appreciate the commissions and purchases to come of it.
To her right, Lucas grumbled something to Amos about him blowing past his upper caps, only to be waved off.
"Let him show off," Amos sighed back. "It's for a good cause."
Piper had brought earplugs as a precaution, but didn't reach for them. She fought no urge to raise her hand, to throw her hat in the ring; she had enough exposure to magic and manipulation, not to mention a bachelor's degree in memetics, that gave her armor enough for that. Even if she had had capital comparable to that of those around her, she would not have been persuaded.
But she was enthralled, and she wondered if that wasn't worse.
What else could she be, though? When he kept fixing his gaze on her, forcing everything else but him to melt out of focus, his speech a meaningless, rapid swarm through her head, burning up every fiber of her being and enjoying it far too much, even knowing the words were not meant for her.
"Sold!" With each final purchase, the word rang out like a gunshot, all the while she silently begged her beating heart to be still.
Redd's words rang in her head. The most charming man in the world.
… Oh, fuck. His eyes were on hers again, stealing her breath and common sense. Only half-intentionally, Piper flicked her tongue out across her painted bottom lip. At which point, for the first and only time all night, Dorian stuttered.
His whirlwind words derailed for an instant like a sprinter losing their footing mid-dash. Still, the auction chant obscured the mistake so seamlessly she might have dismissed it as imagination if not for the caustic sound of Lucas muffling laughter and curses alike into his hand.
Shaking his head, Lucas pulled the white gloves off his hands. "Pardon," he murmured before discreetly reaching in front of her, dropping them in Dorian's empty spot just as the last lot sold.
"Hi, I'll have the cheeseburger meal with a Sprite, please."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah—the eight-count chicken nugget meal with a vanilla shake." Dorian glanced over his shoulder, double-checked with Piper, then said into the receiver—"And that's it."
"Please pull up to the second window."
"Thanks."
Piper finally let out the laugh she'd been holding in her chest, which had come and gone in waves since she'd gotten in his passenger seat.
They had not stayed long after the auction's end. After leaving the stage, Dorian had apparently received Amos' blessing of dismissal and informed her of his plan to get some real food. After such an evening of performance, she took him up on it without hesitation; after all, she'd not gone grocery shopping in nearly two weeks, which made for a lovely excuse in addition to the fact that she wasn't quite ready for the night to be over.
If not for the sheepishness with which he'd divulged the information, she would never have believed his confession regarding his preference of an after-show meal: We can go somewhere nicer if you'd like, but considering what's open—"
No, she'd told him. It sounded perfect.
He grabbed their food from the window and paid with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, told the cashier to keep the change, and parked them in an open spot. The dashboard read 11:19 p.m.
"What baffles me," Piper said as they sorted their food and drinks, "is that MC&D lets McDonald's of all things get away with sharing their initials. I mean, our copyright lawyers would have a fit."
"Mm, your legal department is a tank of fucking sharks, from what I hear, and we literally go to hell for our counsel," Dorian mused, unwrapping the paper from his burger. "But if I had to guess, we just don't want to be the first thing that comes up when you look us up." With a shrug, he started to ravenously scarf down his meal.
The dichotomy amused her anew; never in her wildest dreams—and heaven knows she was not short of imagination—did she picture herself sitting in a Jaguar F-Type with a man wearing full Armani, eating at the most overpriced McDonald's Three Portlands had to offer. When he heard her laughing, he quickly swallowed to keep from choking.
"God, please ignore my manners. 'M fucking starving—can't eat before a show." She laughed, assuring him there was no need to apologize. Starting on her chicken nuggets reminded her of her own hunger, and for a few minutes, there was no pressure of conversation as they ate, Sublime on the radio.
Ever the storyteller, Piper narrated for him the first time she'd gone to Disney World, accompanied by a gaggle of lawyers licking their lips for pounds of flesh. Dorian had never been—couldn't afford it as a kid, didn't want to as an adult; in turn, he shared the first time he'd gone to hell to meet with MC&D's counsel. For trade, her own first time in hell. She stopped wanting to talk about Las Vegas (bad memories he didn't need to know), and he let the subject change without resistance to the music.
"Saw them in concert with my sister—they were good." Better, he admitted, because he hadn't paid for tickets. After lamenting their lack of sub-Veil touring locations, she asked how many sisters he had. Four: three younger, one older—just them and their mom growing up, all spoken of with a fondness that deliberately ignored the chilling angst and dread of poverty. "What about you? Any family?"
Only a mother, for as long as that lasted, then an orphan at ten. Three Ports was an easy place to slip through the cracks of, and she fell in with what was left of the city's cliques of grungy artists. "That's how I met Aumile Fyan, you know. I lived in the studio above a parlor for a while, during their apprenticeship." She was proud of how quaint she could make it sound.
"Do you have any tattoos?"
"More than I can count, I'm just not wearing them."
"You—Oh! Okay, I'm with you now," he said. "Do you change your skin every day?"
"Hmm, only the pieces on my face. The ones on my body, at least three times a week. Depending on the fabric, the patches can just go in with the laundry. I don't wear the tattoos as frequently these days." Aesthetic purposes, bad memories, didn't matter.
"Does it hurt, sewing yourself?" He asked somewhat uneasily, as if trying to imagine the process.
"Not quite—or if it does, I’m none the wiser.” She reached over and pinched his cheek, making sure to do so with the tips of her manicured nails, leaving little crescent-shaped imprints in his flesh that would fade in a few minutes' time. Still, the touch sent blood rushing up to his cheeks. “Feels about like that, I’d wager.”
He mumbled an agreement that it wasn't that bad. She granted that a few minutes touching her skin up in the morning wasn't comparable to spending hours at a time under a needle, especially an amateur's, just to secure room and board. She hadn't said it so frankly, but Dorian didn't miss the implication, concern seeping into his follow-up questions. Committed to painting her life solely in broad strokes, she brushed them off with trained ease.
"Can we just agree that being broke fucking sucked?" Agreed. Especially in places like Three Ports and New York, where wealth flaunts itself before your eyes, dangling just beyond your fingertips. The two of them just got lucky: exceptions to the rule.
"I love this city, you know," Piper said wistfully, gazing at the bowl-shaped horizon. "I just wish it had any redeeming qualities." He laughed, and in asking about her years growing up there, wrangled from her the admission that she missed it: sometimes, only sometimes.
"The traffic, especially, I'm sure," he said sarcastically. Not only did she laugh, but she got to brag about the lack of cars in Wonder World!™, bumper cars notwithstanding. No one knew how to drive in Threeports, they agreed. Nor in New York, she assumed—no argument from him there.
He admitted that he didn't get a driver's license until he was twenty, months after being swept under MC&D's golden wing. His had been an adolescence of subways and taxis; hers, all shared rides and street racers. The company-issued motorcycle, she admitted, was pretty cool, but what can beat singing in the car?
"You know, people are shocked when I say this, but I hate to sing." He was right, this did shock her. He swore he was tone deaf, but she wasn't sure she believed him. Key doesn't matter with a voice like that, but he insisted any attempt at persuasion in a musical manner burned his vocal cords raw.
"Singing, but not smoking?" she mused. But how surprised was she, really, that MC&D had fancy cures for such mundane ailments? Hell, it surprised her not one bit that they had ample cures for cancer, too. What a unique delight, to hear one of the world's premier merchants complain about the healthcare industry—"Of course I feel a bastard, raising money for research and treatments like we don't have it figured out. But hey, it's not my family anymore…"
There is cruelty, and then there is callousness. Both, she knew, could be indulged in from a place of care. A long way to prove that old axiom about what paves the road to hell, but who was she to judge? Most people were selfish, and she much preferred to hear him be so straightforward about it, even if he did so with such an ironic smile and tone that should have been detestable.
Oh, because you thought you were getting in this car with a good man? Yeah, right.
"I'll be honest, I'm itching for a cigarette, and I don't want to smoke with you in the car."
"It's your car. I don't mind the smell." A white lie, but she knew she didn't mind the view. Who decided such an awful habit should look so attractive?
Still, they ended up stepping out, leaning on the hood while he lit a Marlboro 100 as she asked how he first discovered his abilities. Between drags, he told her about being thirteen, realizing how conveniently persuasive he could be between the voice cracks. Charm and confidence were all he chalked it up to, until he started putting it to the test. The first job it had scored him was that of a busboy at one of Manhattan's most sterling restaurants; his experience with sales had started soon after, though only at a humble used electronics store.
"I'd just become a stockbroker when MC&D found out about me. The Foundation, too, for that matter," he grinned. "If anyone asks, though, I like to tell people that the Darkes found me in a cardboard box on the steps of the New York Stock Exchange."
He had nothing but positive things to say about his bosses, particularly the junior set (apparently, Iris Darke herself had given him his current lighter). If he was on track to go to hell, he joked, then he'd at least be in good company.
"I wouldn't worry too much about hell if I were you," she said. "Would have thought MC&D to be shareholders."
"Ha! And there's gotta be suite tickets for any Irish Catholic who ends up working for British occultists."
"Ah, is ait an mac an saol," she remarked, the language stumbling off her tongue. Dorian just blinked, uncomprehending, until she gave a light laugh, feeling foolish. "Uh, 'life is strange', I believe. Only know that one 'cause people loved to get it tattooed. I apologize—my Celtic is horribly out of practice."
Tapping away a bit of ash, he assured her that any modern Celtic she spoke was more than he did; it was not common among Irish-Americans, at least, not in his family. It was more common in Threeports, though, especially in Little Avalon. She stated that she could only teach him greetings, swear words, and bits of scripture, not that the last one held much meaning to her.
Though she refrained from telling him this outright, Dorian's being Catholic was as fascinatingly novel to her as his being a Democrat. Neither of the city-states she'd called home could be labelled representative in their governments, and as for god, she confessed that the closest thing she had to a higher power was a CEO.
Despite her better instincts, it took the conversation turning to politics and religion for her to remember that the car was naught but an illusion of privacy, and standing in the open summer night, she had not even that. Catching her flickering eyes, he followed her gaze and asked—
"Any of those birds work for you?" None that she could tell, but what did that matter?
"… Are you done? I want to get back in the car."
He frowned. "Yea, sure. Missing the AC anyway." Only when they'd returned to their seats and closed the doors did he say. "You know, Monaco sent me on my way with an anti-surveillance ward. Said not to hand it over, or else I'd give you the recipe, but we'd hate to see it patched."
Everything stopped. Every esoteric eye set upon her, sewn shut—she struggled to imagine it. She was certain whether to feel more with regards to her safety or to her autonomy, but it was not as if Dorian had threatened her so far; the only matter was that of her redeemed privacy, and she didn't know how to feel about that.
There was no sudden relaxation, no off-switch for when the cameras cut. Dorian's masks might have come on and off, but her disingenuity was something to be shed one layer at a time.
And if he reaches the center, he'll realize we're ersatz all the way down.
"I know this isn't exactly the sexiest conversation to have," he said. "Least of all in a McDonald's parking lot at two in the morning, but if we're going to keep having conversations like this, we should sign NDAs sooner rather than later."
"Yes, agreed. Nondisclosure and disparagement alike—holy shit, is it really two a.m.?!"
"Wait, you can swear?"
"I—not within city limits," she blinked at the time on the dashboard, trying to recover from her fluster. "Which I should really have gotten back to by now. Thank you for a lovely time tonight, but—"
"Don't run out on me now, I wasn't through," he said calmly, taking her arm and gently drawing her away from the door. She settled down, blankly meeting his gaze. "What are you doing next Saturday?"
Giving tours all morning. Reviewing newspapers for compliance. Mandatory paintball practice with the other Publicity Puppies. "Saturday's busy."
"Fair—how's your Sunday schedule?"
"… Well, I suspect I have a meeting with an MC&D employment about some paperwork."
A pleased grin illuminated his face. "Then how about I take you out to dinner in Manhattan while we let our lawyers do battle in a room across the street?"
"That sounds agreeable."
No, what was agreeable was the voice in her head telling her to wrap his tie around her hand and kiss the satisfied smile off his face. To learn what all can be accomplished with a tongue trained to rattle off a thousand words a minute. To let him take her home and pin her against the wall next to some painting worth the GDP of a small country. To find out what euphonious sounds he might make if her hands pulled the skin off his back in a moment of passion.
The louder, more reasonable voice reminded her that Legal would wring her neck, HR would make her wish she were dead, Mr. Redd would bury her six feet under in shame—all while Dorian Sloan got to brag about taking a Wondertainer to bed for the price of just one night and a few measly million pounds.
Oh, I'm staring. Not even at his eyes, but at his lips, like the world's most obvious fool.
Into the long silence, he whispered: "I'm not allowed to say anything during this part."
"… No, of course not." Not when your job description includes talking people into bad decisions. For better or for worse, he was committed to making sure any regrettable action she took tonight was made entirely within her free will.
Moving stiffly, she kissed the inside of her fingertips, then touched them to his lips. If he was disappointed, he hid it well enough, waiting a moment before wrapping her hand up in his and kissing the golden stitches across the top of her knuckle.
"I really should go."
"Must you?" Fuck, please, stop looking at me like that.
"Yes."
"And you said you don't need a ride back?"
"No."
"Well, then, I guess this is good night, Miss Elison." He squeezed her hand once more before giving it back to her. "And it really has been a good night."
She managed only a murmured "goodnight" before forcing herself out of the car, walking across the concrete to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the McDonald's. Despite her wiser intentions, she looked back at him before she set her fingertips to the window, which started to shimmer, warping into an iridescent portal—a mechanism built into her employee contract, ensuring a Wondertainer could always get home through the looking glass.
A blink, a step, and she was back in her apartment. She kicked off her heels and walked through each room, ensuring no one had thought to stake out her safe return. After confirming the vacancy of the quarters, she put her back to the wall and slid down, unraveled by exhaustion.
Covering her face in both hands—as if that obscured her at all here—she wondered what sick pleasure could contend with that of denying herself the things she wanted.