taken from the Alhambra that bore fruit year-round in the Scroll and Key courtyard.
But the exterior of Manuscript just looked like a squat brick lump with a bunch of recycling bins stacked along its side.
“This is it?” Alex asked. “This is sadder than that place on Lynwood.”
Actually, nothing was sadder than the St. Elmo house on Lynwood, with its stained carpet and sagging stairs and roof spiked with tilting weather vanes.
“Don’t judge a book, Stern. This crypt is eight stories deep and houses one of the best
collections of contemporary art in the world.”
Alex’s brows shot up. “So they’re Cali rich.”
“Cali rich?”
“In L.A., the really loaded guys dress like bums, like they need everyone to know they
live at the beach.”
“I suspect Manuscript was aiming for understated elegance, not I bang models at my Malibu manse, but who can say?” The tomb had been finished in the early sixties by King-lui Wu. Darlington had never managed more than a grudging respect for mid-century architecture. Despite his best attempts to admire its severe lines, its clean execution, it always fell flat for him. His father had openly mocked his son’s bourgeois taste for turrets
and gabled roofs.
“Here,” Darlington said, taking Alex by the shoulders and walking her a little to the left. “Look.”
It pleased him when she exclaimed, “Oh!”
At this angle, the circular pattern hidden in the white bricks emerged. Most people thought it represented a sun, but Darlington knew better.
“It can’t be seen head-on,” said Darlington. “Nothing here can. This is the house of illusions and lies. Keep in mind just how charismatic some of these people can be. Our job
is to make sure that no one gets too out of line and no one gets hurt. There was an incident
in 1982.”
“What kind of incident?”
“A girl ate something at one of these parties and decided she was a tiger.”
Alex shrugged. “I watched Salome Nils pull feathers out of a guy’s butt in the Wolf’s
Head kitchen. Pretty sure it could be worse.”
“She never stopped thinking she was a tiger.”
“What?”
“Wolf’s Head is all about changing the physical, relinquishing human form but
retaining human awareness. Manuscript specializes in altering consciousness.”
“Messing with your head.”
“That girl’s parents still have her in a cage in upstate New York. It’s a pretty nice setup.
Acres to run on. Raw meat twice a day. She got out once and tried to maul their mailman.”
“Hell on a manicure.”
“She had him down on the ground and was chewing on his calf. We covered it up as a
mental breakdown. Manuscript paid for all of her care and was suspended from activity for a semester.”
“Harsh justice.”
“I didn’t say it was fair, Stern. Not much is. But I’m telling you, you cannot trust your
own perception tonight. Manuscript’s magics are all about tricking the senses. Don’t eat or
drink anything. Keep your wits about you. I don’t want to have to send you upstate with your own ball of yarn.”
They followed a cluster of girls dressed in corsets and zombie makeup down the
narrow alley and in through the side door. Henry VIII’s wives. Anne Boleyn’s neck was
covered in sticky-looking fake blood.
Kate Masters perched on a stool by the door with a hand stamp, but Darlington
snatched Alex’s wrist before she could offer it up. “You don’t know what’s in the stamp
dye,” he murmured. “You can just let us through, Kate.”
“Coatroom to the left.” She winked, red glitter sparkling on her lids. She was dressed as
Poison Ivy, construction-paper leaves stapled onto a green bustier.
Inside, the music thumped and wailed, the heat of bodies washing over them in a gust
of perfume and moist air. The big square room was dimly lit, packed with people circling
skull-shaped vats of punch, the back garden strewn with strings of twinkling lights beyond. Darlington was already starting to sweat.
“Doesn’t look so bad,” said Alex.
“Remember what I said? The real party is down below.”