Page 76 of The Deer and the Dragon
She looked from me to Azrames, then back to me. “You’re lucky I didn’t have the option to say no. There’s no use asking why, just as it’s fruitless to understand why neon was ever on the runway or why the mortal realms keep trying to make salmon mousse palatable. It’s a fish, for fuck’s sake. You can’t force taste.” She sighed. “That said, Merit the Neon Salmon Mousse, you’re our Prince’s human. I wanted to see you with my own eyes before I made any calls, and now that I have…” she tsked, then looked to Fauna. “Do you have anything in your closet worthy of the royal family?”
I didn’t miss the loathing in Fauna’s eyes or the apology in Azrames’s as she stalked into the hallway. She reemerged with two gowns.
“Oh!” Ianna brows raised in surprise. “They’re shockingly not horrible. It’s hard to believe you own them. No offense, darling.”
“Everything about you offends me, but this isn’t my trip to Hell,” Fauna said, tossing the gowns onto the island.
“Yes, well.” She sipped her martini before saying, “As lovely as they are, you can’t go in black tie.” She procured a smooth rectangle like the one I’d seen Azrames use and lifted it to her ear. “Lyviane? Darling, how are you? It’s been an age. Yes, yes,” she cooed. “Listen, I’m going to need assistance. It’s for the royal family. Ha! Don’t I know it. Mhmm, mhmm. Yes, he called in an outstanding favor. Azrames. Yes, that’s the one. Tell me about it. We all go through it. Mhmm, yes. There’s three of them. Two feminine bodies, and one masculine. What do you have for me?” Her eyes went to me, then to Fauna. “The Norde might fit into sample sizes, but the human certainly won’t. That shouldn’t be an issue with your abilities. Yes, darling. Oh, you’re too good. I’ll see you in an hour. Yes, kisses.”
Ianna finished her martini and set the glass down on the side table.
“I have one more call to make, but before I do, tell me something?”
I frowned expectantly.
“How does a human girl lose the Prince of Hell?”
I’d felt like a dog on the way to the park as I remained glued to the window, gaping in excited awe at Downtown Hell. I’d seen the silhouetted edges of Gothic churches and sleek buildings but had no idea how ancient and modern a single city could be. Black, gray, stone, blue, and steel seemed to be recurrent themes, avoiding bright eyesores or the Global West’s architectural dark ages of distasteful, perfunctory buildings. Everything was visual candy, from the restaurants and businesses to the people and things strolling the streets.
Fauna had offered to sit in the back with me, though she made it clear to everyone in the car that she’d done it to keep me company, not to give Ianna preferential treatment.
“Your Norde is a real treat,” Ianna said, the backhanded compliment thick with judgment.
“She’s the whole cake,” Azrames agreed with a cool smile.
I looked at Fauna for a reaction but barely caught the upward tick at the corner of her lips as she remained carefully positioned to look out the window for our drive.
The walk from Az’s Bugatti to the designer boutique was just as distracting. I had an impossible time looking at any one thing, as every detail was more interesting, more marvelous, more engrossing than the last.
I had to put out my hands to stop from plowing into Fauna as I skidded to a stop, so lost to my marveling of the confusing amalgamation of historic decay and flashy modernity that I hadn’t realized we’d reached our destination. I planted a single hand between Fauna’s shoulder blades, whipping my head up just in time to see the door open, revealing the curious creature who had been on the receiving end of Ianna’s phone call.
I tried to tell myself that it would be just as abhorrently rude to stare in Hell as it would be to gape at a curiosity in the mortal realm, but I couldn’t help it.
Our host for the morning, Lyviane, was a rich, purplish mauve with ink-black hair.
It surprised me, only because I’d seen femme red and purple devils portrayed so often on tattooed sailors or tacky posters that no part of me imagined a demon might actually possess such features. In lieu of horns, she sported the same thin, pointed tail I’d noticed on the pool-playing patron at Shadow’s. When she spoke, I noticed the forked, serpentine flick of her tongue. Quintessentially demonic aesthetic choices aside, she was every bit the vision of a tasteful, frustratingly attractive woman in her early thirties with sleek, voluminous curls.
The gentle thrum of lyric-free electronica pulsed in the background as she beckoned us inward. I called on Maribelle, the part of me who knew how to handle foreign, posh social situations as I took in my surroundings.
The designer’s workshop had white walls, white ceilings, and white floors.
I knew enough to understand the statement made with white floors. It said: no speck of dust or filthy shoes will sully this upscale building, nor will anyone lowly enough to blot my pearly reputation cross this threshold.
I could be pearly. At least, Maribelle could.
I scanned the enormous studio for any further clues as to how I should act in this entirely alien realm. The only patches of color were the antiqued frames around the mirrors. which matched the same purplish shade of Lyviane’s skin. As if she’d selected candles to complement her coloration, soothing lilac filled the space in a calming, all-encompassing grip.
“Ready?” Fauna gave my bicep a squeeze as she breathed the question into my ear.
I did little more than nod. I wasn’t sure I had any other choice.
An hour later, I smirked to myself as I looked in the full-length mirror of Lyviane’s studio. As it turned out, the devil did not, in fact, wear Prada. Prada was too pedestrian for an ancient, egotistical shriek owl. That said, she had not picked the flashy prints or statement pieces that would have made me blanche. She slipped us into Hell’s finest.
“Yes,” Ianna purred behind me. “True power is understated.”
I agreed wholeheartedly.
When I’d first begun escorting, my volcanic eruption from poverty to privilege loved the way attendants would scurry to my side when I walked down Rodeo Drive. They’d eye my shoes, my bag, my clean, expensive clothes, and offer me something that had been withheld for more than twenty years: respect. While raised with holes in my snowsuit, I’d slipped into the skin of someone who could breeze to the front of a line and have the velvet rope clipped to the side as my pieces spoke for me.
