Broker studied her face, his gaze lingering on her eyes. “Enjoy yourself while you can. Santoso has plans for you, and what he wants, he always gets.”
“He might be disappointed this time,” Iris told him, fighting to keep her voice from quaking. “He might have just bitten off more than he can chew.”
“Perhaps,” Broker said, surprising her. “But Santoso’s plans are my plans, and I can assure you that I know exactly where you stand.”
A chill raced through her. Broker smiled and left. As soon as the door clicked, Songbird uncurled, crawling on all fours until she crouched in front of Iris. She still had her joint; it flip-flopped between her lips and then dropped to the floor with a very soft thud.
“Broker is a bad man,” Songbird murmured. “He makes things happen.”
“He sells women.”
“He does other things.” The girl’s shoulders quivered as she peered past the curtain. “He wants your eyes. The king, I mean. I heard him tell Broker that he wants your eyes. He wants your body, too.”
“He can’t have it,” Iris told the girl. “I won’t let him.”
“Maybe,” she said softly, picking up the joint. Her hand shook. “But he’s not the one in chains.”
Rest was impossible. Iris lay on her pillows, Songbird curled nearby, and simply filled her head with all kinds of motivational speeches—kick, bite, fight, kill—as she waited for the next twist in her life to unfold.
She thought about her mother, too. About why now—why her mother had come home just at that moment, and it was a safer train of thought than all the others—gun, blood, body—because anything else filled her with a hurt too terrible to bear, the kind of thing that would kill hope if she dwelled on it too long.
Knocked unconscious, that’s all. No need for tears, no need to fear, no need at all to be blue—
Blue. She wanted to see him almost as much as she wanted her mother—and that was a shock. What was the old test of love? Hang a person over the edge of a volcano and see who they cry for?
Well, now Iris knew. Although love was not something she wanted to think about right now. Not her love, and not his. If he felt anything for her. And really, why would he? He had known her for only a day.
Not that it matters. Even if he does care, he won’t find me. He might try, but the only way I’m getting out of here is on my own. I can’t depend on anyone else.
Because even if she could rely on her friends or the police to help her—even if there was the possibility of rescue—it was too dangerous to lull herself into believing it would happen. Complacency was the devil. She might as well sign away her life if she stopped taking responsibility for herself, just give up, play dumb, pick up a needle and start shooting away her mind so that whatever happened next just wouldn’t matter.
Right. Like that’s your style. Give me a break.
She heard movement outside the room; beyond the curtain, the door opened. The two women who had been taken away appeared, still naked, but slightly more alert. They settled immediately on the pillows they had vacated and began munching on some grapes in the bowl beside them. They did not look at Iris. They did not look anywhere but down—down at the food, their hands.
Santoso appeared behind them, accompanied by three of the same men who had been with him at the casino. Songbird rose to her feet.
“You may go,” he said to her. “Take a shower. Your hair’s dirty.”
“Yes,” she said, and ran out without a second glance at Iris.
“I hope you don’t expect me to be that well trained,” Iris said to him. “It’s not my style.”
“No. I can see that.” Santoso removed a set of keys from his pocket. “I’m going to unlock you now. I’m sure you’ll see this as an opportunity to escape, but that would be unwise. My men will shoot you.”
“I’m a patient woman,” Iris said.
“Yes,” Santoso agreed. “But then, you’re not really a woman.”
Iris frowned. Santoso walked around her and unlocked the main chain from the ring in the wall, the one upon which all the others were linked. He held the steel in his hands and jingled it like a leash.
“Go on, now,” he said. “Up.”
Iris thought about barking like a dog, but was afraid that might be a turn-on for him. She stood. Her body ached, her legs felt weak, but the leopard unfurled and her muscles reacted. Good as new in seconds. She imagined snapping Santoso’s neck—and really, who would have thought she could possibly be so bloodthirsty?—but she glanced at the men, saw that all of them now had guns in their hands, and thought, Later, save it for later when he makes a mistake.
Santoso made Iris walk in front of him. It was not easy; her ankles were still bound, and she kept feeling as though she would trip as she stepped over the resting women. With one man preceding her, and the other two following Santoso, she left the modern man’s version of Harems-R-Us … and entered the cover of an Architectural Digest.
The spacious area was a waiting room—she saw that instantly—covered in gleaming hardwood floors polished to a mirror shine. Archways floated above her head, delicately carved with trees and birds, and indeed, piped into the background, Iris heard a New Age chorus of pipes and drums. The theme was delicate, neutral—most definitely woodland chic—and the immense bronze pots brimming with rich ferns and orchids served only to heighten the sensation of nature, artificial privacy. Brown leather chairs dotted the edges of the room; men in suits occupied them. They sipped drinks and read magazines and seemed so perfectly normal that Iris wanted to rage and scream when they looked at her with nothing more than mild interest. As though seeing a young woman in chains were nothing. As though seeing, as they must have, those women carted out on stretchers were as normal as apple pie.
There was a refreshment center; a young woman in a modest black uniform poured coffee for an elderly man leaning on the counter in front of her. In another corner was a large desk that held a computer and telephone. Another woman manned it, also in uniform. Iris heard her mention a time, a date, a session with a therapist—oh, how delightfully not funny that was—and Iris looked at Santoso and said, “What the hell is this place?”
“An empire, Layak,” Santoso said. “Or rather, the future of it.”
“And it’s yours?” she asked, thinking of how Songbird had called him king. “You’re responsible for this?” This cruelty, this perversion, this display of refinement and wealth that was nothing more than a mask for slavery and degradation and God only knew what other horrors.
Santoso looked at her. Studied her eyes in the same way Broker had, as if he were trying to dive right down into them. It made her insecure, as though there were something wrong with her, something terrible that could be revealed just by looking into her face. Iris wished she had a mirror so that she could see her eyes, which made her think of her mother, who always wore dark sunglasses to keep people from seeing her deformity: cat eyes, slit irises—caught permanently in a bad shift.
Santoso never answered her question. He pointed to a hall on the other side of the receptionist desk. Iris almost refused him—wanted to see what kind of rise she could get out of those other perverts sitting so calm and rich with their eyes on her body—but she calmed herself and walked, chains heavy and clinking. Broker appeared from another hall, glanced in her direction, then introduced himself to a gray-haired man in a green shirt. He said something in French, and pointed to another set of doors near those Iris had just walked through.
“More sex?” Iris asked Santoso.
“This wing is devoted to sex,” he replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Were you expecting something primitive? That is unnecessary, you know. There is no reason at all why sex—or anything the world finds distasteful—cannot be negotiated with class and dignity.”
“Ah, right. Because kidnapping women and forcing them into sexual slavery ranks right up there with high tea or Sunday dinner. Fuck you, Santoso.”
“You think to ins
ult me?” He smiled. “We are all slaves, Iris. The fight of one’s life, the only fight, is to become the master.”
“Then I expect we will have a very exciting relationship,” Iris said, tugging on her chains.
They walked. The halls were wide and beautifully decorated. No windows. It was impossible to tell whether or not it was night or day. The air smelled like flowers, undercut with the odors of bleach and other cleaning fluids. She did not know how the men in the waiting room had entered the building; she saw nothing that looked like an exit, and no one else who could be a guest.
But the scents changed; she began to smell blood, though she did not know from where. She also smelled sickness, death, and dying.
“We’re in a different wing,” she said without thinking, and glanced over her shoulder at Santoso.
“Yes,” he said, tilting his head to study her. “We do not sell sex here.”
“And?”
“And we are a corporation, a diverse business. You will see.”
And, apparently, everyone else would see her see. There were cameras embedded in the walls, in the ceiling—and near the base of the floor she noted tiny silver markers that were, no doubt, motion sensors. If she changed shape, if she slashed her fingernails across Santoso’s throat, someone would see her do it. Someone would record it. And then what? Proof for the masses? Or worse, motivation for some underground party like Santoso to try to sell her as a freak of nature, prime for perverts or scientists?
One thing at a time. One step, one breath, one action. Live in the moment. That’s all you have.
All she had, and it was so terrifying she wanted to crawl out of her body with a scream on her lips, because the nets were down and the wildness was gone. Collared and chained, a slave to flesh, and the more she walked, the stronger the sensation, so overwhelming that it was all she could do not to give up her life in one burst of light; give up the human ghost even if it meant bullets and the betrayal of her kind. She could not take this. She could not.
But Iris pressed her sharpening teeth into her tongue and tasted blood; she pressed her nails into her palm and bit flesh; she fed the leopard her physical pain and said, Rest awhile longer. Sleep. Sleep and dream.
Dream a way to escape. Dream a destiny that involved more than being Santoso’s sex slave.
They stopped walking in front of a wide set of ornately carved double doors, and on the other side of those doors Iris found a very plain room. A long table took up most of the space, and a large plasma screen television hung on the wall.
“Our specialists hold conferences here,” Santoso said. “You may sit wherever you like.”
Iris took the chair nearest the entrance. She felt one of the men take up guard directly behind her. She smelled his sweat, his aftershave, the metal of his gun. Her chains dangled to the floor, clanking. Her wrists and ankles hurt.
“Are these really necessary?” She pointed at her restraints. “Surely you all outnumber me.”
Santoso smiled, gesturing at the man standing near him, who opened a small cabinet in the wall and revealed a tiny refrigerator. He pulled out two bottles of water, the first of which he gave to Santoso. He opened the second and handed it to Iris. She hesitated, battling pride, but her tongue suddenly felt thick, her mouth dry, and she took the water. The cool bottle felt delicious against her skin; she drank deeply, heavily. Iris knew Santoso watched her, but she did not care. She had to stay strong.
“The chains,” Santoso said slowly, “are an experiment.”
“In perversion?”
“In resourcefulness and desperation. I want to know what it will take for you to release yourself. How far you are willing to go.”
“You act as though I could just slip free of these restraints anytime I want.”
“Can’t you?” Again he smiled, but this time it chilled Iris to the bone. His expression was knowing, sly, and she reminded herself that this was the man who made notes from flesh, who had shot her mother—no, don’t think of that, not now—and that despite the veneer of civility, he was exactly the same as the business he ran: dirty, sick, and violent, with absolutely no respect for the dignity and freedom of others.
In other words, one dangerous bastard.
Santoso pressed the table; Iris saw buttons inlaid into the wood. The television set flickered to life.
“I noticed you some time ago,” Santoso said. “An acquaintance introduced me to your show, and while the other acts were tolerable, yours …” He stopped, and for the first time his smile seemed genuine. “You, Iris, were beautiful. Free, powerful, full of youth. In other words, perfection. I have not missed a performance since.”
“And so you decided to kidnap me? You didn’t think that would draw attention to you, that I would be missed?”
Santoso laughed; the sound was unpleasant and it did not reach his eyes, which glittered black and small. He pressed another button. A picture flickered to life on the screen.
It was her dressing room at the Miracle.
“My plans were simple,” he said quietly, as Iris—horrified—watched herself enter the room. It had to be a tape from just that morning; the clothes were the same, and her actions, the way she paused at the flowers and then threw herself down at the makeup table …
“So simple,” he said. “I would make you my woman. I would make you perform for me, and me alone. My dancer, my lovely, the Catwoman to my Songbird. Such a good plan. So perfect. And then … yes. Here.”
Iris could not look away. She knew what was coming, she remembered, but still, watching that shift come over her face, the fur and the light, the ripple of her skin as the cat pressed up and up through her flesh—it was beautiful and terrible, disturbing beyond words because she could see in that moment how far removed she was from the rest of the world. How inhuman she truly was. And for this man to see it, too …
Iris looked at Santoso and found him watching her, drinking in her reaction. She schooled her face into something flat and hard, and he smiled, whispering, “No, you cannot hide from me, Iris McGillis. I have seen what you are, and it is beautiful. You are Layak. A shape-shifter.”
Iris battled nausea. “What do you want from me, Santoso?”
He pointed at the screen. “That. I want that. Give me that.”
“You want to see me shift.”
“Not just that, but yes. First, you will shift for me.”
And what then? Iris wondered, but she did not dare ask. Not now. Not with that look in his eyes that was both hungry and aroused. He smelled excited. His men smelled scared.
Yes. Be scared. Here there be monsters.
“I won’t do it,” Iris said. “And you won’t kill me. So that leaves us with a problem.”
“Your problem. Not mine.” Santoso looked at the man nearest him, and he left the room. Only for a moment, though. He returned with Songbird. Her hair and skin were wet. Pulled out of a shower, and with no towel to cover or dry her body. Iris wondered how long she had been kept out there, waiting for this moment.
The man pushed Songbird against the wall and pinned her there. She was very small compared to him, small and wan and pale, and his companion drew a long knife from his jacket that made the girl whimper—not just with fear, but recognition. Her eyes were clearer now, the drugs wearing off; Iris could smell her terror and it was horrifying, awful.
“I suppose this is another experiment,” Santoso said calmly, as the man with the knife stepped close to the cowering girl. “An experiment in compassion. Not mine, of course. Do not think for a moment that I will not hurt you if I must, Iris McGillis. If you were any other woman, I would not hold back. I would break you. I would have you pinned and pissed upon and raped, again and again, by every man in this facility, if it would make you say yes. Unfortunately, I am afraid of what that would do to your physiology, and I just cannot risk your body being sullied. Not when I have other uses for it.”
“You’re an animal,” Iris murmured. “You’re an animal, and I’m going to kil
l you.”
“No,” he said. “You’re going to save me. So shift. You shift, right now. Or I will have that man cut off her breast.”
Iris hesitated. The man pressed the tip of the knife beneath Songbird’s breast and slowly, slowly pushed upward. The girl flinched, crying out. Blood trickled.
“Stop,” Iris said. “Stop, please.”
“Show me your other form. Show me.”
Songbird wailed, twisting against the hands holding her. The knife pressed deeper. Iris stepped forward—found a gun pointed at her face—and snarled. Her fingernails shimmered; nails disappeared beneath claws, pale skin overcome by sleek fur and spots.
“You want to be entertained?” Iris held up her hands before Santoso’s wide eyes, shoving them near his face, and though she hated it with every fiber of her being—exposed and violated, forced to rape herself for his pleasure—she let the leopard rise in a burst of golden light, a roar of fur that poured down her body, rippling like water through her bones. She tore away her tank top, ripped off her shorts, her underwear—and the nudity was nothing, nothing, because she was already worse than naked, stripped down to her soul, and nothing could change that now. All she could do was ride the shame and turn it into power; give herself something in return for what she was giving away.
Iris bared her teeth and screamed; her voice was inhuman, wild. Santoso laughed, and though she was close enough to do it, she did not kill him. She felt the guns pointed at her head, saw Songbird still with a knife to her breast—but the fear, the fear she smelled was so damn good, and she rode it, drinking in the scent of piss and sweat as her face began its final shift, elongating, ears expanding as her hair receded into her scalp, swallowed whole by fur. Her spine changed, grew more fluid; she sank to all fours and stepped out of her restraints. A tail poured from the base of her spine. One of the men behind her vomited. Songbird screamed like a banshee, though her voice cut out after a moment. Iris looked; the girl hung limp, knocked out.
Santoso was the only one who betrayed no fear. In fact, the expression on his face was one of pure delight.
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