Untitled

“We have parties like this in our city, too,” Marla said, sliding closer to the wall in order
to let the crowd ebb and flow around her. “My old mentor, Artie, used to throw them.
He loved having people over, fucking on his living room floor, while he sat and smoked
a cigar and ate a ham sandwich and watched.”
“Some people have a strange sense of fun,” Rondeau said.
Marla snorted. “He didn’t do it for fun. He—”
But before she could finish, Zara appeared before them, smiling at Rondeau. Maybe her
simpering look from earlier had been aimed at him in particular, then. She wore a wide
leather collar, shiny black, with a silver ring in the front, and a black latex maid’s apron.
Silver bars pierced her nipples horizontally, and she had a ring in her belly button. In
one hand she carried a battered leather backpack—not unlike Marla’s—from which the
handle of a whip protruded. The deeper contents of the bag clinked, metal on metal,
when it shifted. To his credit, Rondeau didn’t stammer or drool—he smiled and nodded
to her. “You look wonderful.”
She dropped an ironic little curtsy. “I’m going to walk around a bit and see who’s here,
then I’ll be downstairs. You should look for me later.” She glanced at Marla, then
lowered her eyes demurely. “If that’s all right with…everyone.”
Marla laughed. “He doesn’t belong to me, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah,” Rondeau said. “I don’t belong to anybody.”
“I’ll see you, then,” Zara said, and slipped into the stream of people pouring deeper into
the house.
“All is forgiven,” Rondeau said. “The way you took the window seat on the plane, the
sightseeing tour that culminated in a parking-garage elevator, all of it. I think I’m going
to like it here.”
Marla considered trying to restrain Rondeau, to make him focus on the serious work at
hand, but what harm was there in letting him run off and play? He wouldn’t be much
help in talking to Finch, and it might prove advantageous to have a secret ally in the
house. “All right,” Marla said. “But check in with me in an hour or so. I’ll meet you in
the kitchen. And if I’m not there, come looking for me, all right?”
“You’re a princess among peasants, Marla,” Rondeau said. He went to get a paper sack,
then began to strip.
Marla sighed. It would be more conspicuous to walk around a party like this fully
clothed, and she didn’t want to start any buzz or commotion—she just wanted to find
Finch. She’d thought her days of walking around mostly naked before crowds of
strangers had ended a long time ago, when she gave up waitressing in favor of sorcery.
At least she wasn’t a novice at public nudity. She asked for a grocery sack and
undressed, stripping down to boots, panties, and cloak. With the cloak closed around
her, she looked as modest as a nun, though of course it slipped open with every step.