Field notes from her study: There were outsiders like her, ones who didn’t seem to participate, but unlike her at least seemed to know what the function was all about. . . . The mood was generally high. . . . There were others, separate from the watchers, or voyeurs, ones who did not wear gold medallions, who acted as though they portrayed characters from a show or literature. . . . At times she felt there was an atmosphere similar to one of the comic-cons that Brian had made her go to. People took roles, but Angel was unsure whether they imitated something from a culture she was unfamiliar with, or if there was some storytelling going on. Like this may be an elaborate murder mystery party, or dinner theater. . . . Whether one wore a costume did not dictate their behavior. . . . The ones without gold medallions fell into two groups: mean or meek. The meeker ones always gave heed to the meaner ones, like bullies in the school halls. Occasionally a mean one, usually all in black, would emerge from one of the mansion’s wings and find a meek one sitting on a couch or in a group politely talking and they would summon the meek one to join them. Those interactions were watched by the man with the black eyes. . . . Angel watched the watcher. . . . So if the meek were not voyeurs, what was it for which they were summoned to the mansion’s wings? It was curious, but wildly entertaining.
But just as she remarked to herself the good fortune in staying seated alone on the couch, that changed.
Her fascinating surveillance of the party was waning, and she was looking forward to India and Abby returning, or maybe even thinking of seeking them out, feeling relaxed now, or at least more at ease with the nature of the party. She could stand at the edge of the dance floor and watch the others have a good time . . . A woman arrived at the party, standing out due to the bright copper of her huge mane of hair. She’d passed the desk, must have got her phone locked up by the woman out front, and now she stood at the ballroom’s threshold taking in the party’s spectacle. She dressed all in black, but not costumed. The clothes had that expensive look; they clung to her generous frame. The woman wasn’t young, but wasn’t old. Maybe thirty. The neck of her dress plunged to her sternum, the white creamy skin of her chest beaming in the party’s light. The woman had a generous figure; vivacious, with big hips and thighs, swelling bosom, but a narrow waist, neck, and knees. Angel studied her. The woman caught herself being studied and simultaneously saw the couch where her peeper sat was empty. She headed toward Angel. Angel shifted, and her heart rate picked up.
The woman stepped down into the ballroom, curly red hair bouncing, weaving through passing partygoers dressed in black leather, and Angel avoided eye contact now. The woman came around the table and the bouquet of comically large flowers then sat down on the other end of the couch and crossed one leg over the other. Angel side-glanced, saw the woman’s dress skirt split, her bare white knee and thigh exposed. The woman’s legs were freckled. Angel watched the woman in her periphery. The woman fidgeted; adjusted her dress where it was tight around her middle. She looked around like a woman seeking a waiter. She was nervous. No, not nervous, anxious.
When Angel chanced a more direct glance, the woman caught her, gave a nervous—no, anxious—smile. “Hey,” she said.
Angel said hi in return, then her eyes went to the woman’s shoes. A line of red along the side, red soles like those expensive shoes India wore.
“I got here kind of late,” the woman said, her voice strained and breathy. Nerves. Anxiety. Still she looked around.
The man with the black eyes standing at the edge of the party watched from the redhead to the bar and back. A waiter was coming with a drink on a tray held at his shoulder. But no drink had been ordered; the woman had only arrived. No drinks were offered to Angel and her friends. . . . Was that because they were so obviously underage? Probably.
Angel said, “Do you want to know what you missed?” trying to be light and funny to make the woman feel more at ease, like they could be friends in their shared overwhelm.
“No,” the woman laughed and Angel wasn’t insulted. She was joking.
The waiter arrived and offered the redheaded woman a drink which she thanked him for then took a sip. It was sparkling and clear with a big disk of lemon wedged on the rim. Possibly alcoholic, but not confirmed. The waiter left without saying a thing.
The woman leaned forward to set the drink on the table saying, “I almost didn’t come at all. Almost chickened right out . . .”
Now she rubbed her hands on her thighs. Anxious. Expectant. Fingers clawed, nails scratching. She wore no wedding ring, but her other jewelry looked impressive. She scanned the room while Angel folded her arms to protect herself from the woman’s radiating anxiety.
“I’m Kelly,” the woman said without looking Angel’s way.
“I’m Angel.”
“That’s a great name,” the woman said, then gave a short tight laugh. She looked Angel’s way. “You’re a voyeur?”
“Unintentional, I guess. But, yes.”
Kelly chewed her lip, eyes unable to stay still, scanning the room. Her legs were jumping. She leaned to take her glass, sipped, missed her mouth and spilled a little on her chin. On Angel’s side of the table there was an errant cocktail napkin, clean and unused, and she passed it to Kelly who wiped her chin.
“Thanks,” she said, “I’m not usually so—”
Angel regarded Kelly when she stopped speaking. Kelly’s eyes had stopped moving, locked somewhere across the room. She spoke to herself in a whisper: “Oh shoot, oh no, oh Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, it’s too late now . . .”
Angel followed Kelly’s line of sight and saw of what she must be fearful. A man stood on the threshold of the ballroom having come from one of the wings. He was tall. Imposing. Dressed all in black, he wore a frightful mask that gleamed in gold. It looked like the face of a dragon, eyes wide and baleful, short sharp horns poking above lowered brow, fangs bared. Not a dragon, no, Japanese . . . One of those demons—were they called Oni . . .?
Louder now, fearful but standing her ground (or sitting), Kelly said, “Here we go, Angel, this is real . . .”
The man’s mask faced them, unwavering, those black mask eye holes watching Kelly. He stepped down to the ballroom with quick steps, moving slow but light despite his size. The closer the man got the larger Angel realized he was. Maybe six and a half feet tall, long legs and arms, broad shoulders. Under his flowing black cloak he wore a suit, also all in black. Black shirt, black tie; he wore gauntlets in black leather.
Around the table and its flowers the masked man came to stand by Kelly who looked up not saying a thing now. The man’s mask tilted downward, the eyes behind the mask staring into Kelly’s eyes. He held her face in his black leather glove. Angel watched Kelly’s throat jump as she gulped a swallow.
The approach of the demon-man wasn’t dissimilar to what she’d earlier witnessed. Someone would come from the wings, find a meek partner and take them away. But something more dynamic occurred here. Kelly showed more fear than the others, and the man with the Oni mask showed more menace.
The man’s gloved fingers stroked Kelly’s pretty face, and Angel was glad to see a blush rise on the woman’s cheeks because whatever was happening next to her on the couch, Angel’s own cheeks were burning. The man’s thumb parted the woman’s plump lips, pushed into her mouth. Kelly was reluctant, but she closed her mouth on his thumb and began to suck. The act was shocking and lewd and Angel looked away.
Other partygoers were watching too, like they also sensed this man and this redheaded woman were different.
Kelly grunted a pained sound, and Angel turned to see her being brought to her feet by the man who held her by a fistful of her gorgeous red hair.
“Hey,” Angel said, but her voice was timid and quiet and unheard, and even though she’d tried to rise to defend Kelly, she was still seated, heart hammering now.
Kelly held the man’s wrist to alleviate the pain of his hair-pulling. She was on her feet, pigeon toed, beautiful face contorted. “Angel,” she grunted, “would you come with me?”
“Me?”
“Come watch for me, please,” Kelly said, eyes closed, teeth clenched, her voice tight and pleading.
“But . . .”
It was too late to negotiate because the man led her away by a handful of hair in his leather grip. He walked Kelly who toddled on tip toes ahead of him.
Angel stood but didn’t follow. She turned back to the dance floor beyond the windows, lights still flashing, people still jumping around out there, no sign of India or Abby. She wrung her hands together. A man nearby scowled directly her way. Admonishment. Kelly’d asked her to come, and she wasn’t following. Breaking protocol. Against party rules. . . . But what if it was more? What if Kelly really needed help? What if Angel needed to serve as Kelly’s Watcher like the man with the black eyes had protected Abby from Mr. Fairbanks?
“Ah, shoot, shoot, shoot,” she hissed, bouncing in place. Then she was off, trotting in Kelly and the tall man’s wake, trying to catch up before they disappeared in the mansion’s wings . . .