Sirenz (10 page)

My arms and back were red and raw, but I jerked my blouse back on and buttoned it. The door flew open and Shar hastily shoved the stapler behind her back.

Apparently Reynaldo didn't share my opinion of our creation, unless the tortured rabbit sound he made was for joy.

“What … happened … here?” His mouth remained open, forming a perfect pink O, and for a few painful seconds, everything was silent. Reynaldo didn't move. Well, it was a valiant effort.

A triumphant Demeter slipped in behind him. “I want to be here when Arkady comes in. He'll rip you both apart. Think how dramatic, not to mention ironic, it will be for Arkady to be your downfall.” She turned her gaze exclusively on me. “Oh, here he comes, and with the pretty boy in tow as well.”

She stepped to the side, and Reynaldo breathed again. Then hyperventilated.

“The … dress … it …”

“Reynaldo?” Jeremy's voice came from the hallway. Reynaldo didn't budge until Jeremy tapped him on the shoulder, then moved aside like a robot.

Jeremy came through the door first, but he didn't look at our feathery creation. His attention was directed solely back at what was out in the hallway. He stepped out of the way, but offered an arm to someone outside the room. A second later, a hunched figure hobbled in, clinging to Jeremy with one arm and leaning on a cane with the other.

This
shuffling old man
was Arkady?
He was swathed in white cloth from head to foot and wore dark glasses like Shar. Neither hair, if he had any, nor skin showed.

Suddenly Jeremy realized that he, Arkady, and Reynaldo weren't the only ones in the room. He looked at us, mouthing, “What are you doing here?” He jerked his head to the side, motioning for us to go away.

Arkady grunted fiercely and jerked his arm from Jeremy's. Moving slowly and using the cane, he made his way over to the dress. He stood in front of it silently for several seconds. No one said a word. Then he turned around.

“Who is responsible for this?” His voice was grating and broken, thick with a Russian accent, and loud even through his wrappings.

“Oh! Mr. Arkady!” Reynaldo found his high-pitched voice. Of course our humiliation would have to be a soap opera. He pointed violently as us with both hands. “It was them! They did it!”

Arkady slashed a hand through the air for silence. Reynaldo clapped a palm over his mouth and looked ready to cry.

I thought I saw a smile from beneath the silk wrap that covered Arkady's mouth and nose; it reminded me of a movie I'd seen about a mummy come to life to wreak havoc on everyone.

Then he roared.

“Magnificent!”

Pretty Claws, Pretty Clothes, Pretty Close

I
t was magnificent? Our third grade art project?
I knew fashion, like art, was subject to personal perspective, but he really had to be kidding. It pulled our butts out of the fire, though, so I wasn't going to complain and neither was Meg. I heard her slowly let out a breath of relief.

Arkady spoke slowly, like he was trying to whisper, but it came out a coa
rse shout. “Bring them to the show tomorrow. The short stubby one needs updating. Tell the tall one her feet look too big in flats. She should wear heels. Send both out to get cleaned up. Everyone except Reynaldo,
leave me
.” Arkady held out his arm and R
eynaldo rushed forward to guide him to a chair. He pulled a rack of dresses forward, unzipping bags.

“Meg, Sharisse,” said Jeremy, gesturing toward the door with his head. Before we could think to mojo anyone, we were dutifully following him, pausing only when he closed the door behind him. “You guys are on a roll, but the next time you want to show that kind of initiative, please, give me a hint!”

Opportunity lost!

“Of course,” I assured him halfheartedly. “And we would've, but … there was no time.”

Meg exhaled slowly.

Jeremy looked at her. “Are you sure you're okay? I know he can be harsh.”

She smiled and nodded, then squeezed his hand. She was getting way too personal.

“What happens now?” I asked as I moved a tad closer, trying to draw his attention.

Jeremy rubbed a hand over his face. “Mr. Romanov needs to approve the accessories for each ensemble before it can be taken to the Met. He and Reynaldo will be busy for a while. And, since I need to be there, you two can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

He looked at us critically. “You'll need to wear something more appropriate to the show. Here.” He reached in his pants pocket and, from a gold clip with his initials and the House of Romanov design, slipped out a card and handed it to Meg. “Take the company credit card. Buy a few outfits.” He turned to me. “Look sharp. Be at the Met by seven p.m. And be prepared to work.
Hard.
You're not his guests. He's doing you a great honor. He
never
lets anyone close to him.” He gave us a rueful smile, although I noticed it lingered longer on Meg.

Okay. Not everyone preferred blondes.
My revenge would be a whole makeover—on her.

“Then we need to get going,” I said imperiously. “I need time to work my magic on Meg. Shopping is serious business. See you at seven tomorrow.”

Using Jeremy's card and dropping a few hints about the show and what could be hot for the summer, we were ushered into the Red Door Salon like pop princesses. Meg complained, but I brushed it all aside.

“They're known for their discretion. With these hands”—I wiggled my ugly fingers at her, the nails thick and curving—“I need someone who won't laugh. Or take secret pictures and sell them to the tabloids with the caption
Secret Government Cloning Experiment Goes Horribly Wrong
.”

We were escorted immediately back to a semi-private room, having chosen to get worked on together. We lay back in the ergonomic red-leather chaises. An icy blonde sporting a surgical mask worked on Meg's feet, submerging them in a warm footbath. A stunningly beautiful Asian woman, also with surgical mask, held one of my hands.

“You have fungus?” she asked, examining my fingers. Thank God I'd skipped the pedicure. How can you explain bird toes without people, no matter how professional, calling Guinness?

“Something I must have picked up in Taipei. Maybe you're familiar with it?”

Totally nasty, yes, but it hurt me to see my once-cute toes and fingers looking like something off the dino skeletons at the Museum of Natural History. For this alone I hated Hades. The deal we were forced into was an added incentive to despise him—his good looks, omnipotence, and tight butt notwithstanding.

The woman shook her head and got to work. Aromatherapy candles of nutmeg and oranges and a CD playing rain and thunderstorms soothed us. As the technician lathered up our faces for a scrub, I asked Meg, “How do you like it?”

“It's too weird having people play with my feet, and hands, and face.”

“Sit back, relax, and enjoy the pampering. I doubt Had—” I cut myself short before I said his name. “I doubt he has these facilities where he lives.” The technician was struggling to smooth my claws. “God, I
hate
long nails!”

Meg's voice was muffled as the woman scrubbed off dead facial skin. “Don't feel so bad. I'm waiting for someone in the office to tell me to go on a diet. That skirt that he arrayed me in yesterday was a whole size bigger than what I usually wear.”

“Like these are attractive,” I wiggled my claws at her. Dragon lady nails.

“You have the rest of the package.” Meg sounded a little forlorn.

“Curvaceous body, sparkling blue eyes, and a quick wit. Cry me a river. But by the time I'm finished with you, even you-know-who will be panting in your direction.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

I could feel the tension in her voice. I glanced down; she was gripping the chair arms tightly.

“You're here for the complete makeover,
ma Meg
. You're going to knock the breath right out of any guy and leave him begging for scraps of your attention.”

Maybe Hades would come on to her for a change. Him, or someone at the show. That will leave me to comfort Jeremy. There's still a chance.

“Come on, Shar.” Meg shook her head, “That's not going to happen.”

“You have a lot going on for you. Ditch the mourning clothes and you might see it.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” Her voice was whisper soft.

“Because (a) you're my roomie, and I have standards if you want to be seen with me, and (b) Arkady told us to ‘clean up,' although I'm sure he was talking more about you. I'm
always
put together. And (c) one of us should find a Prince Charming. It might be you. So shut up and take it like a trouper.”

“Thanks, Shar.” Meg reached over, clasped my hand, and gave it a squeeze. I
tried not to feel guilty about my ulterior motive.

“Let's see if you still feel that way after these ladies are done!” I smiled to myself.
Eyebrow wax!

Three exhausting hours later, we stumbled out. Except for where she'd feathered out, Meg had been buffed, scrubbed, exfoliated, and moisturized to within an inch of her life. Her short and razored haircut emphasized her blue eyes, and the makeup job made her skin glow. Maybe I'd been too thorough with her makeover; she looked unbelievable.

I felt pretty good myself. The nail technicians had made the claws less obvious with a dull skin-tone polish. They couldn't cut them because not only would they grow back, but now they'd hardened and were too tough. Hades' doing. But for now they were shaped and doable.

Squinting through my dark glasses now that we were out on the street, I said to Meg, “I'm tired, and it's too late for the boutiques. Let's head back to the apartment and go clothes shopping in the morning. Then we'll head over to the show.”

Meg shrugged listlessly.

We hailed a cab, stuffed our bags of beauty and bath products into the back seat, and rode in silence back to the apartment. Once chic, the penthouse now felt cold and almost forbidding. We ordered the latest chick flick on pay TV and Thai from the restaurant across the street, then settled in for the night. Before bed, Meg handed me the iPhone.

“Look, way down at the bottom of the list—it says there's a portal in the Met. It's not in the main area, see, it's over by the back offices. We can get him there.”

“You think? If our luck holds true, we'll be eating out of bowls with the hell hounds,” I grumbled. But it was hard not to let her enthusiasm get to me. There was a portal on the same floor, in the same wing, where we were going to be.

The next day was a flurry of activity. By nine a.m. we were showered, dressed, made up, and out the door.

“So are they waterproof, like a duck's?” I asked while we stood outside waiting for a taxi. A light snow had fallen and the Christmas decorations felt almost depressing. It was the end of the holiday, one which I usually enjoyed, but too many unsettling things had happened. This was one vacation I would be glad to finish—if everything worked out successfully.

“What?”

“Are the feathers waterproof? Does water just slide off them, like with ducks and swans?”

Meg glared. “Do your talons keep your meat from running away?
What do you think
?”

So much for making light of the situation. Meg was her old self. “Well, if I knew, I wouldn't be asking, would I?”

“Sorry.” She gave her head a shake. Her newly shaped tresses waved cutely. “I guess I'm a little anxious about this evening. I keep imagining every conceivable disaster.”

“What happened to ‘we can get him there'?” I reminded her. “But I understand; creepy old man, portals, eternal servitude. Oh, and a completely new look. It's a lot for one night.”

A cab pulled up. “Where to?” asked the driver.

“Downtown, 9th and 14th please,” I answered. I leaned closer to Meg. Her earth-frien
dly hair spray had a pretty vanilla scent and seemed to have a masking effect on the dander. I whispered, “I'm never setting foot in Henri Bendel again after what happened last time. We're probably on security tapes and posters.”

She nodded grimly.

A few minutes later, the cabbie deposited us in front of a line of boutiques.

“I know we'll find you something good, even if it's black,” I assured her as we walked into the first shop.

Of course I found a ton of things for myself. For the show I chose a long black skirt with a silver overblouse. I also had to get a sleek pair of gray pants that caught my eye, and a light blue button-down shirt and a long black jacket to go with it for the office. For something fun I chose flared jeans with a beautiful greenish-gray sweater. Fortunately, I'd managed to find good-looking black stiletto boots that actually fit at a store that carried larger, wider sizes. For transvestites. It was a relief to be out of the mangy sneakers I'd been sporting. I stocked up, buying a dozen pairs of shoes. I was almost in my happy place.

After that, I dragged Meg to some cute boutiques where we found a flowing black skirt with a sleek tailored jacket to cover her feathered areas. And of course I got something for myself too—a slinky, revealing turquoise halter dress. Her feet, damn her, were still normal, and I was surprised when she chose a pair of butter-soft Chie Mihara Victorian boots—in lavender. There was hope for her yet.

“Who's Mary Poppins now?” I teased as she twirled around.

Meg started to tear up.
Uh oh. Guess I went too far.
“I'm sorry! I just wanted to—”

Meg shook her head. “No, I've never had anyone do so much to make me feel special. All this”—she motioned to her new clothes—“and this whole situation …” She sniffed, took a deep breath, and looked me in the eyes. She smiled. “Thanks.”

I'd never seen Meg emotional. Or at a loss for words. She was the rock; I was the slobbery one. It added to the guilt I felt—since my goal had only been to get Jeremy to notice
me
if men or gods were all over
her
.

“Well,” I said awkwardly, “not just
anybody
can be seen with me.”

Meg laughed, breaking the tension.

I led her over to a glass case. “Okay, while we look at accessories, I'll cry over my ugly feet and you'll think how we can get Arkady to that portal.” I had to get my mind off Jeremy an
d onto the task.

But neither of us came up with anything. Meg pointed out that we'd need to know where Arkady was in relation to the portal in order to figure out how to get him there.

“What if in the end he won't go?” Meg sighed.

I didn't want to think about that. Hades' interest in me wasn't innocent. I doubt I'd be the Tartarus dogsitter for long; more like dogmeat, and Hades the hungry puppy.

After we loaded up, thanks to Arkady's beneficence, on satin headbands, lacey gloves, and evening bags, we went back to the apartment and got dressed. At 6:45 p.m., we were standing in front of the Metropolitan Museum.

“Let's go,” Meg said, striding forward. I could see the determination in her step. Jeremy was in the atrium directing models, makeup artists, and dressers to the staging area. I saw him look at Meg, do a double take, seem to forget what he was doing, and look again.

This was not how it was supposed to go down!

“Please tell me it was worth my suffering,” I quipped, sliding up to him in front of Meg. The inevitable glasses were back on.