Feather Bound (17 page)

All of that in one breath.

“Uh, OK.”

Nonthreatening pop music blared in the background as Shannon crossed her legs. “So, you know I'm Shannon right?” She pointed to herself with a long finger. “Lady Pen? The girl you emailed yesterday? I mean, you didn't suffer any massive head trauma on the way to the station or something, right?”

“No head trauma. Like I said, my boyfriend is jealous and has money.”

“Money that gives him the financial means to act on his jealousy in surprisingly childish ways. How is it, by the way, dating a billionaire who was technically dead a month ago?”

“Not nearly as fun as it sounds.” I sat on a chair next to the bed, kicking away an empty box of instant noodles. “Especially when he seems completely incapable of listening to criticism without taking it as a personal attack.”

“Criticism?”

“About the magazine.” I gripped my jeans.
Remember your talking points.
“I told him about how
Bella
was basically endorsing slave-labor and he didn't want to hear it. He never listens to me, to be honest. It's like he automatically filters everything I say through a ‘silly woman' translator and dismisses me outright.”

“Ha. Been there.”

She was obviously the restless type because after sitting for about a minute, she got up again. Throwing off her beanie, she leaned against the bookcase, her shades dangling off the hook of her finger. It was the first time I'd actually seen her face in person since Hedley's funeral. It was much more intense close up: thin with sunken eyes, high cheek bones and a strong jaw. And she was tall.

Tall enough.

This just might work.

“So, Dee. How exactly were you planning on taking action? In your email, you mentioned a masquerade party this Saturday. Sounded like you had a plan.”

Right down to business. “Yes. Kind of.” I crossed my legs on the chair, trying my best to sound sure of myself. “Do you have any friends that might be interested?”

“Sure. And there's tons of stuff we can do depending on the specs of the vicinity, the level of technology, the exits and so on.”

Damn. She really wasn't new at this. This made me more nervous than it should have.

“But that only matters if you can get us inside,” she continued. “From your email, it sounded like you had a way in. But it sounds like you and your boyfriend are on the rocks. You think he'll randomly let you add your ‘friends' to the list?”

“It's a masquerade ball. We'll have to use that to our advantage; all you need is the right attire.” I fished my phone out of my purse. “Hyde's cousin, Anton Rey, is gonna be there with a few models on his arm. They're all going to be wearing this mask.”

I showed her Anton's text: the photo of a laced, exquisitely embroidered gold mask.

Shannon's eyes sparkled. “Ooh. Yum. So?”

“I can get you a few of these. I know where to get them.” Not really. But if I asked Hyde, I was sure he'd find out where to get them and then buy a few for me. That was the plan, anyway.

I was just using people left right and center, wasn't I? I fought to suppress a shiver. It was to help him, right?

“And then?”

“And then you wear the masks and impersonate the models to get inside.”

Shannon raised an eyebrow. I couldn't tell if it was an incredulous or intrigued eyebrow, but the tiniest curve of her lips told me that she was at least partly amused.

“Anton's supposed to be picking them up himself. All you have to do is be where I tell you, wearing the masks. You'll get to ride in a limo, if that's any consolation.”

“You seem pretty sure Anton won't instantly know we aren't his lady-friends.”

“Anton isn't exactly pro-feminist. He uses and discards girls like they're nothing. His models don't even speak English. It's risky, but I'm confident he won't know the difference as long as you keep your masks on and don't, you know, talk. Which I'm sure he'd prefer anyway.”

Her smile widened. “OK, Dee, so how do we get rid of the real models? Where do we stash them?”

“I don't know. I don't want them to get hurt or anything. We just need to get them away from the party.”

Shannon stroked her chin. “I guess we can figure something out.”

“To make it work we'll need three girls who are skinny enough to make believable models. You'll have to be one of them.”

“Sounds good. I think I can scrounge up two more girls.”

“The ones I met are white and blonde... Anton said he had a type.”

“Guy likes his Aryans. OK, fine. For me it's nothing a little hair dye won't fix. Though that leaves Yazmin out of the mix. Damn. She would have loved this.”

“Whatever you plan on doing, you should make him one of your targets… and Hyde too. Hyde has a hand in the editorial decisions made at
Bella
,” I lied. “And Anton suggests stuff to Beatrice Rey all the time since he's her stepson.” Another lie. Maybe. Who knows? “Using Lamont as a designer was entirely Anton's idea, even though he knew swans were involved. And Hyde signed off. So if you're going to target anyone, they should be on the list.” Lie, lie, lie.

Shannon frowned. “Well, I haven't quite figured out exactly what we're going to do once we're inside, but… OK. I'll keep that in mind I guess.”

“No.” I was on the edge of the bed now, back stiff. “Has to be them. Anton and Hyde. Honestly, they're horrible. Some of the stuff they do… they've done…” In my mind's eye, I saw Anton's pasty face through steel bars. “A couple of rich kids who use people however they want, whenever they want – especially swans.
Especially
swans. No matter what, we need to–”

“OK, OK, relax.”

It was only after Shannon had spoken that I realized I was very nearly shrieking.

Shannon plopped back down onto the couch next to the bookcase. “This is your first rodeo, right? I'm guessing you're a little nervous. On edge?”

“Yeah.” More so because I knew how severe the consequences would be if this went wrong – or more specifically, if Anton were to find out that I set this whole thing up.

“I can see this is important to you. For you to go this far… meeting me, setting this up. Takes guts. Or a lack of sanity. Or both?”

“Try desperation,” I said, though I hadn't planned to. I couldn't reveal too much, couldn't let her know what this was really about or why I needed her. But I said it anyway, because it was the first truthful thing I'd said to anyone in a long time.

“Hmm.” Shannon folded her legs, sheathed in deep violet tights, and gave me a sidelong glance. “Are you sure this isn't more about embarrassing your boyfriend than it is about seeking social justice?”

I pressed my lips. Targeting Hyde and Anton was critical and I needed a third party involved, a party seemingly acting based on their own agenda that couldn't be traced back to me. If Shannon did something as shocking as she did at the funeral – flashing, chanting, whatever – that could potentially make Anton's “seduce and destroy” plan completely pointless. I hadn't thought it all out yet. No, to be precise, I had no goddamn clue what I was doing. But I had to try. I had to do something.

I wasn't going to be Anton's pawn.

“No, it's not that,” I told her. “If I just wanted to screw Hyde over, there are plenty of things I could do.” Like drug him and try to force him into a public orgy. “It's just that Hyde's been… the source of a lot of pain for me. And for a lot of people.”

Shannon was silent for a while, chewing her frayed pink lips as she stared off into space.

“Are you OK?” I asked, but only when the silence had gone on for too long. “Did I say something?”

“You know, it happened when I was thirteen.” When she talked, she looked right at me with her pale green eyes. “While I was growing up in Bakersfield. It was the short, geeky kid who sat next to me in homeroom. He'd always been nice. A little too nice, you know, the kind of ‘nice' guys are when they expect ass as a reward.”

I watched her sigh, but said nothing. “I didn't, of course,” she continued. “I didn't want him. Eventually, he asked me out and when I said no it was like I'd broken some kind of unspoken contract. He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. I thought he'd just suck it up and move on. It was all over when he found out I was a swan.” She shook her head. “Three years, Deanna. We were McGinnis High's cutest couple.”

I curled over, propping myself up on my knees.

“You know, when your feathers are taken, it doesn't matter where you are. You'll be at home, at the grocery store, on your way out of town and it'll hit you. Once the sun goes down, that one thought tugging at you, screaming at you to obey: ‘I have to go to him'. No matter what. Wherever he is, you have to be there.

“It's like the fairytale, Dee. The hunter steals the swan maiden's feathers. She follows him. They make a home together. But what they don't tell you is that she is his because she has to be. And no matter how far she runs, she always comes back to him, every night. As long he has her feathers, she doesn't have a choice. All the times I snuck out of my room. My parents thought I was some kind of ‘problem child'. They didn't know what was really going on because I physically couldn't tell them – because of the swan's curse: that unspoken rule that forces you to be loyal to the one who's captured you. All the time. Always. As soon as he took my feathers, it was just second nature – a drive as natural as breathing. I was caged in a nightmare.”

“Shannon…” I shook my head, clenching my teeth as if it would force the horrible images out. “How…” I didn't even know how to ask.

“How did I get free? He killed himself.” Shannon had said it so simply that I half-expected her to ask me if I wanted to go grab breakfast next. My stomach wouldn't have been able to handle it anyway. She turned, facing the bathroom door, sinking deeper into the couch with her arms folded over her chest. “Bastard killed himself. And at the end of the day,
he
was the one they cried for, even after they found my feathers. ‘Poor Matt. He'd been suffering for so long. His guilt must have sent him over the edge.' I was a footnote in someone else's tragedy.”

She laughed, as if laughing were the reasonable response to something so horrifying. “So I get you. I get why this matters. It matters to me too. If I have to gatecrash a few masquerade balls and terrorize a few socialites to get the message out, so be it.”

When I finally raised my head, I noticed she was looking at me. She'd just shared something personal she didn't have to. And there I was trying not to cry all over her friend's duvet.

“It's OK. This isn't tit for tat or whatever. I told you my story. You don't have to tell me yours. That's your choice. Everyone deserves a choice.”

I nodded, thankful for the thousands of knots loosening in my chest.

“So. We need to talk details. You wanna get out of here? Union Square is pretty damn close. Oh, and I'll call some of my friends over too. Gotta meet the partners in crime, right?”

She stood up, throwing her bag around her shoulders, beckoning for me to follow. For one ridiculous second, I felt as if I were one of them. As if I were part of some greater movement.

“You coming?”

“No, it's OK,” I said, but my smile struggled. “I've gotta get home. Let's chat online later.”

I wasn't a part of anything. Just a clueless coward who'd been driven into a corner. Shannon wasn't my partner. She was my soldier and I needed her, even if I couldn't tell her exactly what her help meant to me.

And how vile I felt for using her.

16

MASKED

 

Hyde had been so busy with his meetings, I only saw him once before Saturday night. I figured Anton would think I was slacking and dial me up, once again dangling the threat of slavery over my head like the perfect prick he was. But he didn't. He was probably banking on tonight.

“Wow. Nice,” Ade said in my doorway, leaning on the frame. I was in front of my mirror, holding up the black evening dress I'd tried on yesterday morning: its tight floral bodice had just enough cleavage to make Anton think I was trying, and synched at the waist, flowing down my legs in a layered cascade of fabric.

“Yeah,” I muttered and placed it on my bed.

“Looks like you're getting used to the Ericka-lifestyle. Balls and gowns. How's it taste?”

I couldn't quite look Ade in the eyes.

“I'd rather not go,” I answered flatly, sitting at my desk, pushing aside the Margaret Atwoods so I could lay my head down.

“Why not? You've got a pretty dress. Hot rich boyfriend – even these little weird glove things.”

When I looked over, she was trying them on.

“Marry Hyde and you'll be Ericka: The Next Generation, except richer and only slightly less neurotic. Who needs straight As, am I right? You'll finally get to leave this dump for good.”

I couldn't tell if it was jealousy or disdain lining the disgust in her tone. Could have been both.

“So what's the problem, Dee?” She paused. “Or is it Hyde? Your man giving you problems?” She chuckled. “Damn; it's always the guy who messes up the fairy tale, isn't it? Ha. Ericka 2.0 indeed.”

To say Hyde was “giving me problems” was an understatement large enough to fill canyons.

“How is little Richie Rich, anyway?” she asked. “He doing OK?”