For the first time in a long time, Amaya is genuinely afraid; it’s exciting and novel.
“Your invitation please,” says the Nine of Hearts. He’s decked out in the style of the Queen’s Court from Alice in Wonderland.
Amaya doesn’t have an invitation. She lacks all the prerequisites of someone suited to attending a masquerade hosted by the Constantine family. For starters, she has a soul. She also makes less than forty thousand dollars a year and isn’t the CEO of her own multi-billion-dollar corporation. VV knows all this, she’s sure. Amaya is also certain that gaining entry to the exclusive party is only one of several tests her angel of death has set out for her.
“I’m here with Noelle,” she says to the Nine. Amaya makes it a point to tug at the hem of her short and revealing costume. Black fishnets and a black feathered corset dress are more Halloween than masquerade, but it was the best she could do on short notice.
The email she’d received had been vague on details, but Amaya was able to put it together from the referenced news articles. Tinsley Constantine’s debut masquerade is the perfect hunting ground for the Vagina Vigilante. There were at least a dozen suspected child molesters in there, not to mention the rapists; her preferred prey. Something in her heart feels warm at the thought of VV having such confidence in her abilities.
“I see,” says the Nine.
Amaya tries not to shrink beneath his speculative gaze. The costume is rented, and it shows. “What?” she asks. “You never heard of The Ugly Duckling?” To be honest, she didn’t think it looked that bad until she showed up and saw all the other costumes. She was never going to find anything suitable at a rental store. It’s a blessing that her outfit came with an exotic headdress of black feathers and an extended orange bill to guarantee her anonymity.
“My apologies, I meant no offense. I’ll have someone escort you to Miss Noelle.” The Nine of Hearts takes a step closer. His white-gloved hand rests on her bare shoulder. He caresses her with his thumb. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
“Old enough,” Amaya says. Her time turning tricks has taught her how to spot trash. She’s four feet and eleven inches of dark brown skin and long curly hair with small breasts; she knows what he sees and what he wants. Amaya still gets carded by truancy officers when school is in session.
“Of course you are, miss.” He gestures to the Seven of Hearts to come toward them. “Greg, please escort this young lady to Miss Noelle.” He addresses Amaya as she walks past. “Behave yourself in there, little miss. Don’t grow up too fast.” He ruffles her tail feathers.
Her first instinct is to punch him in the dick, but she keeps a tight lid on her revulsion. “Don’t worry, papi. You’re not gonna get any complaints about me.” She wraps her silk-gloved arm around her escort’s bicep and allows herself to be led into the belly of the beast.
Amaya has seen movies and read books. In fifth grade, her class took a field trip to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. She knows about bougie things. But nothing could have prepared her to see it with her own eyes. It’s like stepping into another world—one where magic exists. Classical musicians welcome the guests with music from La Bohème as characters from every fairytale Amaya has ever heard of make small talk and sip champagne through their masks with glass straws. She can’t make out their expressions when she walks by, but she can still feel their judgmental eyes on her. She’s not sure if it’s because of her skin or the fact she’s dressed as an ugly-ass duck.
Everywhere she looks there’s something spectacular to see: marble floors, chandeliers made of crystal, pearls, and gold. Over their heads, replicas of the Sistine Chapel. Beneath their feet, grand hand-woven carpets. Even the walls are gilded with silver and glitter in the soft light. As her escort takes her deeper into the mansion, he reveals pathways through other rooms with varying themes, music, and lighting. Amaya nibbles the scar on her lip. She’s lost some sensation there, but she finds the gesture soothing.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” says the Seven of Hearts. “Mrs. Constantine spared no expense for tonight.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Amaya says without thinking. “Sorry,” she adds, “I meant yeah—yes—it’s amazing.” She’s out of practice when it comes to handling fear; it’s been years since she had anything to lose. Tonight, she has everything to lose, and she doesn’t have a clue what to expect. VV has a sick sense of humor. Does she think Amaya is going to walk up to Noelle Stein and the woman is just going to confess to using her modeling agency as a human trafficking scheme? The woman is a notorious socialite with prolific connections.
They descend a spiral staircase which takes them farther from the main parlors. “The Constantines are a reputable family, miss. They are an institution here in Bishop’s Landing as well as in New York City. I’m sure Miss Noelle speaks highly of them,” says the Seven of Hearts.
Blue light and trance-like music shift the ambiance of the space surrounding them, and his mask reflects the change of lighting as he continues to lead her.
“She doesn’t really talk to me, you know?”
The Seven chuckles. “Of course.”
Amaya hasn’t given an appropriate amount of thought to what she’s going to do once she gets to Noelle. She reminds herself she’s on a mission from God to help VV with her work. She blesses herself with the sign of the cross just as the Seven guides them to a halt in front of a set of double doors where two men dressed as Jacks keep guard.
“This young lady is here with Miss Noelle,” he says, and each Jack takes hold of one of the doors and opens them. Amaya feels like her heart is about to drop out of her butt, but she steps through the doors.
Amaya’s eyes meet with a spectacle and sensory overload. Moss-draped, Southern live oak trees are well placed around the room to give the appearance of a surreal, gothic forest. Wildflowers and hundreds or thousands of twinkling string lights cover everything with a soft iridescent glow. Ryegrass and more moss conceal the ground. Throughout the grandiose room are ornate chaise lounges and vine-cloaked nooks. Deep, hypnotic music infused with a modern bassline and discordant cello penetrates the ears and grips the mind. Between the lights, sights, and sounds, Amaya struggles to keep her nonchalant composure.
The Seven of Hearts points toward a makeshift altar made of a tree stump the diameter of a redwood. Upon it, on a throne made of whittled wood and silk cushions, sits a scantily-clad woman draped in strategically placed leaves and flowers.
“Miss Noelle is there, miss. I’ll take my leave.”
Amaya digs her fingers into his arm. “You’re leaving?” She recoils at the shrill sound of her voice. Of course he’s leaving! “My bad,” she says more evenly. “This shit is wild, never seen anything like this. Rich people are too much, got me nervous.”
The Seven of Hearts pats her hand as he coaxes her into releasing him. “It’s understandable, miss.” He turns and leaves. The doors close behind him, leaving Amaya with an intense feeling of foreboding.
Amaya remains rooted in place with her eyes firmly on Noelle and her pale, expressionless mask. As she watches, Noelle extends her slender arm and crooks a finger for Amaya to come forward. Mouth dry, she swallows past the lump clogging her throat and approaches with caution.