Dangerous

by Sandra Kishi Glenn

Copyright © 2011 by Sandra Kishi Glenn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from Sandra Kishi Glenn. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

Cover art and illustrations by Sandra Kishi Glenn.

On the Web: www.sandrakishiglenn.com

Edition date: May 09, 2012

For V.

table of contents

hymn to aphrodite

Part One

1 luminous garbage

2 hungry

3 leap of faith

4 training

5 tasting

6 elements

7 tangled

8 brunch

9 commission

10 millie

11 details

12 debut

Part Two

13 milton

14 breach

15 adrift

16 grace

17 houston

18 party

19 scrapbook

20 gondriel

21 keeper

22 dislocation

23 clubbing

24 hooky

25 chamber

26 instructions

27 masks

Part Three

28 closure

29 holocaust

30 halcyon

31 questions

32 reset

33 dragon

34 coda

afterword

author’s note

acknowledgements

Shimmering-throned immortal Aphrodite, Daughter of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee: Spare me, O queen, this agony and anguish, crush not my spirit.

Whenever before thou has hearkened to me— to my voice calling to thee in the distance, and heeding, thou hast come, leaving thy father’s golden dominions,

With chariot yoked to thy fleet-winged coursers, fluttering swift pinions over earth’s darkness, and bringing thee through the infinite, gliding downwards from heaven,

Then soon they arrived and thou, blessed goddess, with divine countenance smiling, didst ask me what new woe had befallen me now, and why thus I had called thee.

What in my mad heart was my greatest desire? Who was it now that must feel my allurements? Who was the fair one that must be persuaded? Who wronged thee, Sappho?

For if now she flees, quickly she shall follow, and if she spurns gifts, soon shall she offer them, yea, if she knows not love, soon shall she feel it, even reluctant.

Come then, I pray, grant me surcease from sorrow, drive away care. I beseech thee, O goddess, fulfill for me what I yearn to accomplish, be thou my ally.

Sappho, Hymn to Aphrodite

part one

1     luminous garbage

AS I REACHED to drop my cup in the trash can, I was transfixed by the sight of the most beautiful garbage in the world.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my voice unexpectedly loud in the hush following the band’s first set.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” said a woman beside me, in a dusky contralto.

I would have been compelled to see who owned such a voice, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from that trash container.

One of the ice cubes in my drink was plastic, a clever fake inserted by the bartender, ablaze with the light of a vivid blue LED. Everyone’s drink at this party glowed a different color, an effect which magically transformed the warm Los Angeles evening into fairyland.

But I was unprepared for the magic’s poignant aftermath: a garbage can filled with a luminous mass of soggy napkins, discarded cups, melting ice…and all those glowing ice cubes. The whole thing shone polychromatically, somber as a drowned Christmas tree, surpassing every modern art installation I’d ever seen.

“It’s…amazing,” I said in wonder, though I found it a little obscene too. Those brilliant cubes must have cost a small fortune, and had probably been assembled by Chinese slaves. It was a perfect example of Western decadence—so much extravagance and toil for a disposable party gimmick no one gave a second thought. But tonight I moved among the rich and famous. As F. Scott Fitzgerald observed, they are very different from you and me.

“You must be an artist,” said the woman, and I wrenched my eyes from the luminous garbage.

“Um…an artist?” I turned to face her.

“Yes, dear. I’ve watched many people throw cups in there, but you’re the first to appreciate it. You’re sensitive to things of an aesthetic nature. Or have I misread you entirely?” It was almost a challenge.

“I don—” I began, and words left me. My first sight of this woman was as arresting as the spectacle of the trash.

She was two inches taller than me, and somewhat more slender. I guessed she was in her early thirties, making her five or six years older as well. Her frost-blond hair was caught up in a loose French twist, secured by a pair of ivory hairpins. But most remarkable was her pale, almost albino skin, rendered even more striking by her expensive smoke-colored pantsuit. Gray-green eyes regarded me with laser intensity; her generous lips were curled in a seductive, carnivorous grin. She wasn’t Annie Lennox, but could have been her cousin.

Yet the most striking thing about the woman was her presence. She was immaculate, magnetic, powerful. And at this moment, all of her formidable attention was focused entirely upon me.

She let me flounder for a moment before extending a hand. It was graceful, with short, well-manicured nails. Her handshake was firm. Confident.

“Hello, by the way. I’m Val,” she said.

“Koishi,” I offered in kind. The woman’s eyes swept over my body, and beneath that security-camera gaze my white tulip-tiered dress suddenly felt too short, too revealing.

“Koishi.” She repeated it slowly, as if sipping fine wine. “Delightful. May I ask your last name?”

“Paz,” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Ah yes,” Val said, and thought a moment. “Your father served in the military, didn’t he? He was stationed in Japan when he met your mother. But your family came to Los Angeles before you were very old.”

“He was stationed in Guam, actually, but…my god. How do you know all that?”

She laughed. “Simple logic. Lucky guesses. You’re obviously Japanese-American, and your last name says your father has Latin blood in him. I can see it in the shape of your eyes. Your first name suggests you were born overseas, otherwise you’d be another Mary or Jennifer. Yet you speak unaccented Southern California English, so you must have moved here at an early age. All of that tells me your father is either a businessman or military. I’m guessing the latter.”

I could only nod, I was that amazed.

“And that is what’s known as a cold reading. You were very obliging,” she said with a grin. “What I don’t know is how you came to attend this party. You must be a personal friend of our host, because you don’t strike me as a Hollywood insider.” She touched my arm lightly. “Don’t worry, that’s a compliment.”

I tried not to seem flustered. But she had guessed right again. “Yeah, Brent and I dated a while in college. We just stayed friends after.”

“Your friend’s done very well for himself,” she said.

He certainly had. Brent Braden was both talented and incredibly lucky. Fresh out of college he landed a screenwriting internship at Paragon Studios, where he helped turn Alternate Reality TV from an offbeat show into a surprise hit. When he repeated that success with the nerdy paranormal show Edge Case, his name became Hollywood gold. Brent leveraged that capital to take the executive producer role on Time Twister, now in its fourth season.

He’d grown shockingly rich in a short time, and purchased a three-million-dollar Encino mansion along the way. Which, as it happened, was the site of tonight’s Christmas party.

“We used to hang out a lot more,” I said. “Dinner, movies, you know…just friends. Now he works twenty-four-seven. But his assistant still sends me invites to these Christmas parties, so I guess no one bothered to take my name out of the Rolodex.”

“I can think of many reasons to keep your name in the Rolodex.” Good lord, she was flirting with me.

“I almost stayed home tonight. All my friends were busy and I hate coming to these things alone.”

“Yet here you are,” she said with a smile.

At that moment we were joined by a woman wearing a burgundy Fifties-style dress and a velvet choker about her neck. She had long, black, artfully mussed hair with tints to match to match her outfit. Plucked brows, kohl-rimmed eyes, and dark lipstick gave her a slightly goth look.

I recalled seeing her earlier, talking to some of the other guests. She’d seemed pretty then. Up close, however, she had fox-like features and a crafty glint in her eye I vaguely mistrusted.

“Ah, and here you are,” said Val. “Koishi, I’d like you to meet my friend Millie.”

“Hello, Miss Koishi,” the woman said with unusual formality. She stood close to her friend, at an angle meant to thrust an invisible wedge between me and Val. Resentment radiated from her like the heat from an iron. Were they a couple, or what?

Val’s face remained pleasant, but her eyes narrowed in a way I couldn’t read. “Millie, Miss Koishi needs a fresh drink. Be a doll and fetch her a…” She looked to me.

“I guess another martini,” I said, realizing I’d been maneuvered into playing Val’s game, whatever it was.

“And I’ll have my usual,” Val added.

Millie’s eyes smoldered behind the mask of a smile before she strode to the bar with an angry flounce.

“I don’t think Millie likes me,” I said, feeling awkward. "I can go, if you—”

“No, stay." It was an order. "She forgets her place, and I’m going to teach her a lesson.” Her cheerful indifference spoke volumes. And then the carnivorous grin was back. “I like you, and that’s what matters.”

Her words kindled something in me, a warm pulse for which I was unprepared. But people who arrive as couples don’t normally flirt with strangers. Not even at Hollywood parties.

Then I remembered the empty cup still in my hand. I reached for the trash can again, but stopped with a pang of guilt. “I can’t throw it away,” I said, and plucked out the lighted cube before discarding the rest. I used a napkin to dry it off. “I want to take it home, but the battery will die by tomorrow, so what’s the point?”

“May I?” Val said, with an extended hand. When I gave her the cube, she whacked it against her open palm. The light went out. “There’s a switch inside,” she said, handing it back to me.

I cycled the light on and off myself. “Wow, thanks.” I tried to think of something clever to say as I tucked it into my purse.

Just then I was distracted by the sight of Scott Simonsen, the star of Time Twister, as he tossed his own luminous cup into the trash. He and his sexy costar Jenna Rydell had been a tabloid-worthy item at last year’s party, but tonight they’d each brought different partners, so that relationship was apparently over. I vaguely recognized Simonsen’s new girl as a recent addition to the cast.

I didn’t envy their celebrity, and was grateful to live far below the media’s radar. In truth, my recent long work hours left no time for relationships, scandalous or otherwise—a fact which rendered my life simpler, but also more lonely.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Val prompted. Her question? I blinked as I mentally rewound the evening.

“Oh, whether I’m an artist? Well, maybe. I was a Fine Arts major, but I haven’t done anything you’d call art in years.”

“No? I’ll be very surprised if you don’t have a highly creative job.”

“I’m an effects compositor at Lucid Dreams Studio,” I said, then added, “Compositing, that’s when you digitally combine different film elem—”

“I know what compositing is, dear. A fascinating process.”

“Sorry. Most people don’t have a clue what I do. But I’m not sure if it qualifies as art.”

“Oh?” She said, in a tone that expected an answer.

“A lot of my work isn’t obvious. Like combining parts of different takes in one shot, or replacing a sky. If the audience doesn’t see it, is it art?”

“A famous conductor once said the most perfect technique goes unnoticed. So yes, dear, you’re an artist.”

Her praise pleased me. I was starting to feel the buzz from that drink.

“Do you work on Brent’s show?” she asked.

“No, most of our work comes from American Pictures and Panoramic.”

Val looked around. “Well, your friend certainly has an odd sense of humor. Not everyone throws a Christmas party with a Hawaiian theme.”

It was true. The tiki lamps and other Polynesian touches scattered about transformed the huge backyard into Gilligan’s Island. Even the band was Hawaiian, complete with ukulele and slide guitar.

“Yeah, he never misses a chance to poke fun at tradition.” He’d been that way in college, too.

“So it seems,” she said, “Yet I did see a rather traditional Santa Claus wandering about earlier. And two elves. Pretty things.”

I’d seen them too, though I would have called them porny, given their red pleather teddies and fishnet stockings. Knowing Brent, they were probably exotic dancers moonlighting for cash.

“Maybe there’s a city ordinance requiring a Santa Claus at all big holiday parties.” That made her laugh.

Then Millie returned with my martini, and something for Val as well. The cups were disappointingly dark. “They’re out of the lighted cubes, Ma’am—I asked,” Millie said. I wasn’t surprised; a party this size would burn through hundreds of them in no time.

Val gave her drink a critical taste and appeared to find it satisfactory. Millie showed visible relief.

Curiouser and curiouser, and more than a little weird.

“May I ask what you do for a living, Val?” I ventured.

“Computer security.”

“Like, hackers? Viruses?” I asked when she didn’t elaborate.

“It’s nothing personal, but unfortunately that’s all I can tell you.”

Damn, was nothing simple or safe with this woman?

“Don’t feel bad,” she continued. “Millie doesn’t know either. Though she suspects I’m some kind of high-tech assassin.”

“Are you?” I asked with a grin.

“I’m afraid that’s something I can neither confirm nor deny,” she deadpanned. Was she serious? I could easily imagine her working for the CIA or some other three-letter agency. Normally that would have put me off, yet I hadn’t had this much fun in months.

“What, you don’t trust me?” I teased.

“The important question is whether you trust me,” Val said. “Shall we play a game, Koishi?”

“Uh, sure,” I said, fearing I’d just made a mistake.

She regarded me with eyes that were suddenly deeper, darker. “Truth, or dare?”

What? I hadn’t played that since my childhood.

“Dare,” I said on impulse.

“Very well, stand right there,” Val said, placing a hand on my shoulder as she moved behind me. “Millie, hold her things.”

The girl did so with a tiny roll of her eyes. I gathered she’d seen this routine before.

Val’s hand moved hypnotically on my bare arm. “Hands at your sides. Just like that. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply and relax.”

Feeling awkward, I tried to do as she asked.

“Now keep your eyes closed, and your back straight.” Val’s hand went away. “When you’re ready, I want you to fall over backward. I promise to catch you.”

It seemed a trivial thing, yet panic seized me in the dark behind my closed eyelids. I laughed nervously when my body refused to move. Then I heard Millie’s mocking hmph. A flash of annoyance overcame my fear, and suddenly I was falling backward into the unknown, squealing in terror.

And Val caught me. A blast of relief and adrenaline shot through my body as she held me a moment, before helping me to my feet. Millie returned my purse and drink without comment.

“Well done,” said Val.

The ice cubes of my drink rattled in my shaking hand. I scarcely noticed the nearby guests staring at us, so struck was I by a sudden feeling of connection with this woman, as if we’d exchanged something intimate, even a little sacred.

I set my things down on the grass and took a position behind Val. “Your turn,” I said.

Millie spluttered and laughed, as if I’d just put a fish on my head. With a look of amusement, Val faced me and said, “I’m afraid our game doesn’t quite work that way. But let’s see how Millie does.”

I picked up my things, feeling abashed. To my chagrin the girl fell back into Val’s arms without the least hesitation or alarm. And when it was over, Millie shot me a grin that said I win.

§

For the next half hour Millie remained polite but cool. Val didn’t seem to care, and kept assigning small tasks to her companion. Fetch us another round. Go flirt with that man over there, see if you can get his phone number. Find Mr. So-and-so, and give him my card. Millie dutifully performed each mission with an eagerness Val seemed not to notice. She was too busy charming me.

Exactly what was the nature of their relationship, to permit such games? I’d guessed they were a couple, but now I wasn’t sure. Val was clearly in charge, which matched what I already knew of her personality. Millie, however, was the enigma. She behaved like those annoying production assistants I deal with at work, who fawn over their bosses and cringe at the least disapproval. And that was consistent with Millie’s use of “Ma’am”. Well, sort of. If she resented my presence, why didn’t she just speak up rather than glower?

Yet I was drawn to Val and her attentions, despite her counterpart’s growing resentment. Or maybe because of it.

During the clamor of these thoughts Val said something shocking.

“Oh, listen,” she said with a look to the band, which had begun a downtempo set. A few people were already slow-dancing. “Millie, I have an idea. I need to speak with Mr. Robertson over there, before he leaves. In the meantime won’t you be a good girl and invite Miss Koishi to dance?”

What the hell? Although Millie’s expression didn’t change, I sensed her suppressed rage. Yet she seemed unwilling, or unable, to refuse Val’s seemingly casual request.

As for me, I was in free-fall. For one thing, I’d never slow-danced with another woman before. It didn’t bother me in theory. But being thrust into it, in public, was quite a different matter. I was irritated, too. Surely Val knew I had no wish to dance with Millie. Yet she actually seemed to enjoy our antagonism, and used this request to sharpen it.

So what was her game? I felt like a contestant on Face Your Fear, where people ate bugs and let themselves be buried alive for a million-dollar prize. Damned if I was going to lose, and miss seeing Millie humbled.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Koishi?” Millie asked in a strained voice, offering her hand.

With her bizarre request Val had swiftly opened a door of opportunity. I didn’t know what lay on the other side, but there was no time for hesitation. I could either pass through it into adventure, or turn aside and stay in my safe, boring life. My heart pounded.

A thought struck me. I can stop any time I want. I took her hand, and a voice just like my own said:

“I’d be delighted, Millie.”

§

Val let us dance for two songs.

Millie would not meet my eyes. Instead she looked past me, the way an actress doesn’t see the camera. The hard line of her mouth and frequent blinks told me she was fighting tears. Two or three times she took in sharp, sniffly breaths, but didn’t cry.

Millie’s body was even more conflicted than her features, a chaos of supple moves and hard angles. I could almost hear the clang of her emotions like tennis shoes in the dryer.

My own inner storm had quieted after accepting Val’s challenge, however. I enjoyed Millie’s struggle with great detachment, as if looking down from a fluffy white cloud. The couples dancing nearby seemed to know we were about some dark business and gave us room, but I didn’t care.

Near the end of the second song Val returned and said to Millie, “May I cut in?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied, as her voice caught.

“Thank you,” answered Val, with a smile I would later come to think of as shark-like. Millie released me and walked briskly toward the house, out of sight.

I win, I thought with dark satisfaction.

Millie had danced with her arms around my neck, taking the girl’s role, but with Val it was the complete opposite. Her hands on my hips were strangely affecting, impossible to ignore.

“Did you enjoy your dance, Koishi?” Her voice in my ear, so close.

“It was, um, different.” What else could I say?

She didn’t speak for a while, but simply danced. No stiffness, no inner battle; she moved with a fluid control that was easy to respond to. And unlike Millie, Val kept her eyes on me, studying.

“You handled that quite well. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” I said, with a flush of pride.

§

The song ended, yet Val didn’t let go. I stood with my arms still about her neck, wondering what to do next.

Millie returned with two small plates of appetizers and a wholly new attitude. “Ma’am, and Miss,” she said with a meek smile, holding them out to us. Her puffy eyes were ringed by smudged makeup; she’d been crying, but seemed to have capitulated. I savored the sweet, dark taste of victory.

Val released me, and took one of the offered snacks. I followed suit. Millie curtsied, saying, “I’ll see to the drinks, Ma’am.”

“Yes, and you may get one for yourself, dear.”

Millie smiled timidly, and left with no anger in her flounce this time.

Val and I sat on a nearby bench to wait.

The band took another break and someone kicked on a driving vocal trance mix. A few people began to dance again, among them the Santa we’d seen throughout the evening. He’d had too much to drink. His shirt flopped loosely where the padding had been; somewhere in these vast grounds Santa had given birth to a mound of sweaty belly-stuffing, and abandoned it. His hat was askew, his beard long gone, and he was betrayed as an improbably young surfer dude with sun-bleached hair. A pretty, dizzy blond girl fought off his broad advances.

The porny elf girls were nowhere to be seen. Oh, there they were: clinging to a rich, connected producer-type wearing an ostent. That was my private name for those trendy, ostentatious headsets with LEDs that glowed in the Self-Important band of the visible spectrum.

“The veil is thin, in Tinseltown,” Val said into my ear, having seen the fallen state of Claus and his helpers. “You see how quickly our secret hungers come out, at the first scent of blood in the water.” She paused, leaned even closer. “Are you hungry, Koishi?”

Those words, her breath in my ear…it stopped my heart. This is how it feels to be nuzzled by a vampire, I thought. The thrill before the bite. Is this what bound Millie to Val? I could well believe it.

And then she straightened, leaving cool night air to fill the void where she’d just been, so hot and close. I looked down for a moment, needing something to say, something to do. My first taste of Val’s mystery world on the other side of that door had been very darkly velvet.

Millie hustled back with a concerned look and three drinks in her hands. She’d been gone a long time.

“I’m sorry Ma’am the bartender was a different guy and he couldn’t get your drink right and he had to make it three—”

“Hush, doll. Let me have a taste.” She appraised her drink. “Well done. Come, sit here,” she said, patting the bench on the side opposite me. Millie gave me my martini and sat close to Val, eyes bright at her sudden good fortune. As we chatted, this version of Millie was absolutely charming: eager, breathless, almost worshipful. I began to see what Val prized in her.

At the same time, I felt the subtle shift in the energies of our triangle. I was no longer the focal point; Millie was back in Val’s good graces, and I missed the extra attention. Especially after the whispered intimacy before Millie’s return.

Had I blundered and broken some unspoken rule? Or was Val just playing with me? Whatever the reason, I craved what had been withdrawn.

“Let’s go have a look around, shall we?” Val said, looking at me, telling me I was still in the game.

We rose and followed a small stone path away from the main party area. It twisted through trees, among faux rocks, and past a gardener’s shed. I realized, then, that I’d never seen Brent’s back yard during the day. It always seemed so mysterious in the nighttime. Farther back, there was a well-concealed hot tub of dramatic fiberglass boulders. Colored, recessed accent lights turned the spot into a mini-Disneyland.

A look crossed Val’s face as she regarded the scene. For a moment I feared she was plotting some new mischief, like ordering Millie into the pool, until another group of guests wandered in. As they oohed and ahhed the moment of peril passed, and Val led us on.

Millie stayed very close to Val now, forcing me to follow. That was annoying, but not enough to throw me from Val’s outer orbit.

Eventually the path looped back to the other side of the party area. There we ran into Brent, who was now busy saying goodbye to departing guests.

He caught sight of the three of us. “Valeria? Koishi? I…had no idea you two knew each other,” he said with surprise. What did he know about Val that I did not?

“We’ve only just met tonight,” Val replied. “But I understand you two go way back.”

Brent nodded. “Yeah, we’re old college friends.” It was odd, being discussed as if I wasn’t there.

“How do you know each other?” I asked, partly to remind them of my presence.

They each gave different smiles. Val’s eyes had a knowing crinkle, while Brent’s expression was more guarded. “Through a mutual friend,” Val said. “How is Natalie these days?”

Before he could answer, Santa bumped hard into him from behind. The man’s arm was wrapped around the waist of a girl nearly as drunk as himself. “Brent, my man, I’m outta here! Thanks for the rockin’ party, dude!” The girl giggled and snorted.

Brent turned to bid them a good night, and asked if they were okay to drive home. But the girl had called a cab, and Santa Dude was going home with her. Brent assured the man he could pick up his car tomorrow, and offered them both a practiced benediction.

I looked back to find Val opening a pocket watch on a chain. Already I knew this was a carefully chosen affectation meant to reinforce her slightly Victorian aesthetic.

After Santa Dude had gone, Brent gave us each a kiss on the cheek. “It was so nice of you ladies to come,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go say goodnight to some people.” And off he went.

“And I’m afraid we must be going, too,” Val said. “Koishi, it’s been a delight making your acquaintance. Isn’t that right, Millicent?”

Millie gave a bright smile and curtsied. “Yes Ma’am!” She was faking it, but the illusion was perfect. It made no difference; I still disliked the girl.

“Thank you,” I told Val. “I’d have had a boring night if I hadn’t met you.” A simpler one at any rate.

She handed me a business card. “I know a nice little jazz club. Buzz me if you’d like to have a drink sometime.” I put her card in my purse.

“Say good night to Koishi, dear,” Val said.

Millie gave me a warm hug and, to my surprise, an impassioned kiss that went on long enough to make me uncomfortable. Her own bit of revenge, perhaps.

When it was over I looked at Val in surprise.

“You’re a delightful thing,” Val said, stroking my cheek with the backs of her fingers. The gesture was at once flirty and parental, and it made my scalp tingle. I felt delicate, small.

“Ta,” she said, and the two of them turned to go.

The newly-risen moon shone over the house, casting silver highlights in Val’s hair as she walked away. Millie’s step had an anticipatory bounce to it. I could not imagine what the rest of their night would entail.

That was how I met Valeria Stregazzi.

2     hungry

MONDAY WAS CHRISTMAS Eve, and I dutifully drove up to Bakersfield to visit my parents for the holiday. I truly loved them, but it was so much easier to love them from afar. Trips home were stressful.

Being young, I had adapted quickly when our family moved to the States. Mom had not. From the parallax of my new American life, she became a cipher to me, encrypted by a culture I never knew firsthand, nor absorbed from her. I gradually stopped speaking Japanese and turned gaijin before her disapproving eyes. Nothing I did satisfied her; after a while I ceased to try. Moving out of my parents’ house was the happiest day of my life.

And then there was Dad, who seemed to shrink a little more each time I saw him. When I was eight he’d been strong and handsome as a Greek god. On returning from the First Gulf War his health had failed, even as the government refused to admit responsibility, or even that he suffered a real illness. The betrayal had destroyed his belief in The System, and now he saw conspiracies everywhere. Who could blame him? But he’d changed, and withdrawn to a cold, distant place I couldn’t reach. It was heartbreaking.

They were genuinely glad to see me though, when I arrived that chilly afternoon. Mom and I kept our claws sheathed, and Dad didn’t lecture me about 9/11 or the New World Order.

My favorite part of visiting my parents was the ambiance of Mom’s kitchen: the tang of fish and miso, the rice cooker’s happy burble. Although this was not the house of my childhood—they’d moved here four years ago to save money—it already smelled like home to me. As soon as I arrived Mom sat me down to a steaming bowl of kimuchi nabe, and I realized how much I missed her cooking, if not her constant company.

When the night turned cold I gave my parents their gifts early: two fluffy, sleeved blankets designed for lounging on the couch. And a little later Mom deftly hid the check I slipped her, while Dad wasn’t looking. Despite his illness and a tanking economy he still had his Latin pride.

The next morning Uncle Oscar and his daughter Lupe drove up from Riverside with food, gifts, and a year’s worth of stories. It was good to see my cousin again. Lupe was my age, and she’d been my first real friend in the States. Now we squealed with joy as if were were ten again, as she told me of her engagement and the wedding planned in June.

“You have to be my bridesmaid, Koishi. Promise me!” she demanded, amber eyes ablaze.

“Yes, my Queen,” I said with a formal bow.

She smiled, as I knew she would. Yes, my Queen was a private game we’d invented the summer before fifth grade, when our two families lived a block apart. In that game we took turns as Queen and gave the other orders, like a round of Truth Or Dare, or having to do something silly or embarrassing. If you didn’t obey, or failed to please the Queen, she gave you a punishment—and usually that was the funniest part. We’d fall down dizzy with laughter, and one time Lupe laughed so hard she wet herself.

Neither of us had thought about that in years. For a moment we stood glassy-eyed, recalling a happy time almost two decades past. I was still thinking about it when she and my uncle drove back home that night.

§

For two days Mom, Dad, and I managed to act like a real family, but that was our limit. When Mom started grilling me about romantic prospects over Wednesday’s breakfast I knew it was time to go.

I spent that blustery drive home wondering what to do with myself for the next week. Things were slow at work because of the writer’s strike, so our office would stay closed between Christmas and New Year’s Day.

I napped when I got home. Went to the theater. Cleaned my fish tank. Cooked dinner. And started reading the latest Sue Grafton novel.

§

I blame Norman.

Oh, his call that night was harmless enough.

“Hello?” I said, picking up the phone as I sat on the nearer stool.

“Hi, Koishi. It’s Norm. How ya been?”

Ugh. Please god, not Norman. Not tonight.

“I just got back from Christmas with my parents, so you can imagine how I’ve been,” I managed to say.

“Yeah, I know,” he chuckled, not knowing at all. That was the extent of his polite curiosity before cutting to the chase. “Hey, I know it’s been a while, but I was wondering if you’d like to go to a New Year’s party at Rob’s? Remember him? It’ll be fun.”

I dimly remembered Rob as his red-faced friend with the mullet and a Dixie flag on his truck. As for Norman, I’d stopped returning his calls six months ago. Nice enough guy, but about as exciting as tofu. The thought of being caught under mistletoe with him was more than I could bear.

“Aww, I’d like to, Norm, but I already have plans,” I lied, smooth as silk.

“Are you sure? I’d love to see you again.”

His pleading annoyed me enough to tell another lie. “Yeah, sorry. Oh damn, I gotta go put my clothes in the dryer. Bye!”

But his phone call, mom’s questions about dating, and the break from work with nothing to do threw me into a delicate funk. I desperately needed some company. Someone different, someone independent who wouldn’t cling. The problem was, my little black book was fresh out of numbers and I didn’t feel like going on the prowl.

As if on autopilot I lit the stove and put on a tea kettle, then sat to wait.

That’s when I remembered Val’s card, still in my purse on the far end of the counter. I leaned over and pulled it closer, the snap sliding on the faux granite counter with a metallic rasp.

I hadn’t even glanced at the card when Val offered it. Now, as I sat looking into the side pocket of my purse I was reluctant to touch it. Yet it found its way into my hand, almost against my will.

I’d hoped to learn something further about Val from that card, but I was disappointed. It simply said:

Valeria Stregazzi
(818) 555-4930

Just who, or what, was Valeria Stregazzi?

Self-assured, educated, and a good deal wealthier than me. Claimed to have a job she couldn’t talk about. If that was so, why didn’t she just say something boring, like “I’m an actuary.” No, she’d intentionally dangled that mystery to fix my interest, like the glowing lure of an anglerfish. Val was probably a rather vain person.

Kinky too, that much I knew, if not the details of her particular thing. She’d have made a fine vampire with her pale complexion and penetrating eyes, and Millie on hand as a ready snack.

Like a vampire she radiated power, and possessed an almost supernatural focus of attention. The most shocking thing, though, was my own reaction. I’d been captivated. I’d wanted it, wanted more, and not because of the drinks.

Wanted what, exactly? Sex?

The kettle sang, and I wrestled with the question while preparing the tea. No, I told myself, not sex really, but an unnamed yearning spiced faintly with fear. Val seemed to know a dark and delicious secret that smoldered in her look, her words, her touch.

I’d felt something similar in seventh grade, watching the older high school girls with their ripe curves and knowing eyes. Compared to my skinny twelve-year-old Asian body, they were blooming goddesses: haughty, numinous, sharing a carnal language closed to me. And it had been a source of wonder and dread to know that I would soon be one of them, whether I wished it or not.

With Val, I’d touched the numinous again, felt a similar awe. But unlike those high school girls, Val had crossed the divide to offer her forbidden fruit, dared me to bite.

Then there was the question of Millie. What was she to Val, exactly? She’d resented Val’s interest in me yet endured it, even when told to dance or fetch drinks. Stranger still, by the evening’s end she’d displayed, if not pleasure, some measure of acceptance toward me. Why did they both act as if Val had every right to flirt with me?

I found the whole situation bizarre yet strangely alluring, and my ruminations left me feeling even more fragile than before. I sipped my tea and swam back to the surface of the present, hoping to distract myself with last week’s unread copy of Time. When that didn’t work, I looked at the clock—8:55pm—and called my friend Trish. It was an hour later for her.

“Hey, Toots,” she said in that warm, ebony voice. We’d been coworkers and close friends until she moved to Tucson three years ago. Now we kept in touch by phone and email. When she flew into town a couple times a year, we usually found time to meet for dinner or drinks.

“Merry Christmas, Trish. Is it too late to call?”

She instantly detected my need to talk. “What have you done now?” Her tone was equal parts teasing and maternal concern. I imagined her standing with a hand on one hip, head cocked, awaiting my confession.

“More like what I’m thinking of doing. I kinda met someone last week.”

“And his name is…?”

“Um, actually…it’s not a he,” I admitted.

She laughed, her voice like honey. “Wow. Was the last guy you dated that bad? Norbert?”

“Norman. And it’s not because of him, you goof. It’s just—well, I’m not really sure what I should do.”

“She must be an incredible woman. So what’s her name?”

“Val. Valeria. I met her at Brent’s Christmas thing on Saturday.” Trish had met Brent two years ago, when she came with me to his 2005 party.

“Valeria,” she said, tasting it. “She an actress, with a name like that?”

“No, she does something with computers. Security, I think. But she knows Brent too.” I gave her a brief sketch of the encounter—without mentioning Millie or Val’s evasions concerning her job. “She gave me her card, said we could meet for drinks.”

“You gonna do it?”

“I don’t know. Should I? I mean, I don’t real—”

“It’s the Twenty-first century, K. Do what you want. Just be careful. And if things don’t work out, there’s always Norbert.”

§

When we were coworkers Trish had been my pole star in such matters. Now her approval put some of my doubts to rest. If she had freaked, Val’s card would have gone straight in the trash, end of story.

I decided it was okay to meet Val for a drink and play it by ear. If her interest was purely social, it would just be a nice chat. And if she wanted more, well…I could always say no if things got weird. What was the harm in that? My curiosity was killing me.

Still, I didn’t call her the next day. Or the next. Every time I saw her card on my counter, I recalled her voice in my ear, breathing, “Are you hungry, Koishi?”

§

I broke down and called Val on Saturday.

The phone rang ten times and she answered just as I reached to hang up.

“Hello, Koishi.”

That mind-reader thing again. Or was it just caller ID? But more disarming was the silver sound of her delight in my inevitable return, my persistence in letting the phone ring so long. Did she see that as desperation? Was everything a test with her?

“Hi, Val,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You mentioned getting together for drinks, the other night…”

“The Blue Nile, in Century City. Nine pm?”

“Tonight? Um, sure.”

“I’ll make reservations. See you then.”

“Okay,” I said. “What should I—”

“Ta.” And she was gone.

§

I arrived ten minutes early and was seated after giving Val’s name to the hostess. Val appeared precisely at nine o’clock. She didn’t offer her hand when I rose to greet her, but simply gestured for us to sit, facing each other across the small table. A waitress took our drink orders.

A small band played a subdued improvisational piece, with piano, sax, and bass tumbling over slithery, bumping percussion. It was quiet enough for us to talk without having to shout. A couple dozen other customers were there, chatting quietly at their own tables.

“That’s a lovely dress,” Val said.

I’d agonized over what to wear before deciding on my Little Black Dress, a stretchy rayon off-shoulder thing I hadn’t worn in years. I’d put my hair in a loose up-do, Audrey Hepburn style.

“And you look terrific, Val,” I replied.

Tonight she wore narrow glasses that gave her an air of gentility. Her appearance was less severe than at the party, but still slightly masculine: a plum-colored vest over a white blouse with lace cuffs, and soft gray-blue slacks with smart-looking darts in front. Her dark, low-heeled pumps had slightly squared toes rather than points.

Surprisingly, though, she’d worn her hair down. It reached to the middle of her back and framed her face in a way that gave her an androgynous, slightly vampiric appearance. She was more classically beautiful tonight, but also more feral.

Val watched me for a minute, pale and intimidating in the soft light from the candle in the middle of our table. She waited for me to speak and the moment dragged on until I was forced to laugh nervously. “I see you didn’t bring Millie this time,” I said, privately relieved. “How long have you two…” I didn’t know how to finish that question.

She smiled. “Millie just flew back to New York last night. She visits every couple of months, when she comes here on business.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, not seeing at all. “I’d thought…”

“Thought what? There’s very little about my life you could possibly know, or even guess. Now…tell me why you called this afternoon.”

What kind of a question was that? I struggled to compose a suitable answer. What did I expect from this meeting?

“You said you wanted to have a few drinks with me, Val.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, like a cat’s. Ready to pounce.

“My exact words were, ‘buzz me if you’d like to have a drink sometime’. Isn’t that right?” Chastened, I nodded. This wasn’t turning out the way I’d imagined. “Which means we’re sitting here because you wanted to meet me. Surely you had something in mind?”

I sat back, blinking back the sting of a tear in my eye. “I don’t know. You’re unique. I thought we’d have a good time together.”

Her shark smile again. “I’m sure we could have a splendid time together. But what do you imagine that might involve?”

Her questions were like hot pokers, touching me in tender spots I didn’t know I had. It was impossible to have a normal conversation with this maddening woman who delighted in stripping away pleasantries.

Our drinks arrived just as my cheeks began to color. I didn’t object when Val paid for both, believing I deserved something for my grief. Maybe this meeting was a mistake after all.

But when the waitress left, Val relented.

“I was making a point, dear. You see, I don’t waste my time with people who can’t communicate honestly. Sadly that rules out most of the human race. But you seem at least partially aware of your true feelings. Better yet, you act on them. You may even be capable of breaking through your barriers of self-deception. What do you think?”

Was this praise, or a goad, or both? I was a butterfly pinned to a display board, trapped yet admired. Is this how cult leaders do it? Tear people down and rebuild them?

But she had a point. An unnamed yearning had brought me here, and I had to confront it. Suddenly I was a little girl again, gathering the courage to whisper my sins through the confessional screen. If anyone could be the perfect sin-eater, it was a creature like Val. With her I could be brave.

I nodded humbly, and received her look of approval.

“Now tell me. Why did you want to see me again?”

The word—her word—rose from some dark, unexplored part of my mind.

“I’m…hungry.” And felt foolish saying it.

Val closed her eyes as if savoring a bite of Belgian chocolate. This was what she’d wanted to hear. The truth. My heart pounded as blood sang in my ears.

I can stop any time I want to.

She opened her eyes. “That’s a good girl. As a reward, I’m going to ask a few questions. Answer honestly. If you don’t know an answer, say so. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find me attractive?”

I nodded. “I do, actually. Which is surprising because you’re not really my typ—”

“Please answer with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, unless I say otherwise.” She paused. “Do you want to experience the kind of relationship I share with Millie?”

How could I answer that? Deep breath. “Yes.” It felt less wrong than no.

“Do you have any idea what it is we do together?”

“Um, maybe. I wanted to ask y—”

She frowned. “Yes or no, please.”

I thought about it. “No.”

“Yet you’re willing to dive in anyway. Brave girl. You appear to trust me a great deal.”

“Yes.” Strangely I did, though I couldn’t say why.

“That wasn’t a question, Koishi. Please try to follow my instructions or I’ll have to call this off.”

I nodded, off-balance. This game of Simon Says was exasperating. All my social skills were completely wrong for it, and I had to think carefully about each answer before speaking. It felt…perilous.

“Have you ever had sex with a woman?” she said, loud enough for the next table to hear. Sex, not made love.

I blushed. “No. Well…”

Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Either you have or you haven’t. Explain.”

“Yes. If you consider one time of heavy petting as sex.” I said quietly, leaning forward.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Had I? Lacey Dalton and I had been college classmates and good friends. One night, after her messy breakup with a long-time boyfriend, the two of us had gotten pretty stoned and one thing led to another. It never happened again. She and I drifted apart soon after, and one of the unspoken reasons was our awkwardness over that unplanned intimacy.

I’d never really considered what happened with Lacey as sex, but still….

“Yes,” I said, surprised by my own answer.

“Have you ever been tied up?”

“No.” Though one boyfriend had wanted to try it, and I’d refused.

“Would you consent to it?”

My heart raced. Wow. Could I do that? After looking to see if anyone was listening, I forced myself to reply.

“Yes.” I was sure my eyes betrayed my misgivings.

She had that sated look again. I waited for the next dreadful question, taking a drink just to busy my hands.

After a long pause, she said:

“You’ve done fairly well considering you’re new. We’re done with the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions.”

“Thank god,” I laughed. So far, this encounter felt more like a job interview for the CIA than a date.

She pushed her glasses up and sat back. “Anyway, you’re spirited, and bright enough for me to invest some time into. You might just grow into the role I have in mind. What do you know about dominance and submission?”

Ah. Now we’d come to the point.

The term evoked a swarm of impressions, all off-putting: corsets, studded collars, and bellicose, bare-chested men in leather chaps. “Only what I’ve seen in movies. Some guy in college gave me a book about it, The Book of O or something. It…”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“It seemed crazy at the time.”

“And now?”

I grinned meekly. “It still does, kinda.”

“And yet here you are. Why?”

“Is that what you do? The whips and chains thing, I mean.” Because it held no appeal for me.

Was it amusement which raised the corners of her mouth, or something darker? “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Neither have you,” I said playfully, and immediately knew my blunder by the change in Val’s expression, like a door closing.

Val stood and smoothed her vest, preparing to go. “Thank you for coming.”

I reached out a hand and blurted, “No, no, I’m sorry, Val. Please don’t go.”

That stopped her, but only just. She waited for more.

“I’m here because you’re interesting,” I said. “I don’t really know anything about that other stuff. Really, I’m sorry.”

She took her seat again. “Let’s try this once more. Why did you call me?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

“That’s nice. What do you want from me?”

My mind raced, unaccustomed to such direct questioning.

“I…You gave me a taste of something at the party. I don’t know what, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I guess I want more.”

Judging by her expression, this was progress.

“You said you were hungry. For what?”

“Really, I don’t know. I want something different, and you’re definitely that.”

My appeal to her vanity had the desired effect; she sat back and took another drink while considering her next words.

“Millie is a submissive. Surely you figured that out, at least.”

“I knew there was something weird—I mean, unusual—going on there.”

She continued: “Submission comes in different flavors. For some it’s a little spice in their sex. Silk blindfolds, light spanking; that sort of thing.”

I nodded.

“For others it’s a total power exchange. It all depends on the tastes of the participants, what they agree to beforehand. But in general a submissive is obedient. Attentive. Available.”

“Isn’t that sort of one-sided? What does Millie get out of it?”

“My undivided attention. Which, she would tell you, can be quite fierce. Mind you this isn’t about sex; it’s more of a discipline. An art form. Not unlike the Japanese tea ceremony, which I expect you know something about.”

I nodded. Mom had tried to teach me, but I was a poor student. I’d almost preferred being dragged to Mass by Dad.

“Some people might call Millie a pet, which is one kind of submissive. But pets require too much maintenance, so I prefer to keep dolls. It’s my own term.”

I’d heard her use the word doll several times with Millie, in a not-quite-innocent in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. Now I knew why.

“A doll is a toy I play with, then put away for another day. Unlike pets, my dolls don’t require constant supervision. They’re self-sufficient until it’s time to play again. But when we do play, a doll must obey me. Completely.”

Yes, my Queen, I thought, as a tumbler clicked into place deep inside my soul. I knew this game, or at least its basic outline.

“Does that frighten you?”

“Yeah. A little.” Val would be a more demanding Queen than my cousin Lupe, that much I knew.

“With my personality and line of business, it just works out better this way. Millie’s been my doll for a year now. Did she appear to be a victim?”

I shook my head. A bitch, maybe, but not a victim.

“Most people are not cut out for this. I’ve let several dolls go because they demanded more attention than I could spare.” She studied me closely. “I choose my dolls carefully. I can’t stand drama or co-dependence. But you don’t strike me as having those flaws, which is why you received my card. You’re interesting. You’re motivated. And emotionally mature enough to avoid being a burden, I’m betting.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Any thoughts? Questions?” She regarded me over the rim of her glass while taking a drink.

I was, in fact, piled high with questions but they refused to coalesce into words. Finally I said:

“I don’t know the first thing about any of this. I’d probably do something stupid and you’d…” Several scary verbs came to mind; I chose the least worrisome. “…get upset with me.”

“Dolls aren’t expected to know anything right out of the box. You’ll learn what’s required of you.” Her head tilted down slightly, but her eyes remained fixed on mine. “You strike me as a girl who enjoys roller coasters. Yes?”

“I haven’t been on one in years. But yeah.”

“I sensed that about you. Very well. Understand that I’m considered a rather extreme person, and this game involves intense interactions. Strong feelings.” Val paused. “Feelings such as lust. Bliss. Humiliation. Anger. Even fear.” The slithery coolness of that last word made me shiver.

“What if it’s too much for me? I mean, I think I trust you but this is way beyond anything I’ve ever done before. I’m not sure I can…make an informed choice at this point.”

“I’m patient. There’s an art to training a doll. Each one is unique, and it takes time, so we’ll go slow. Also I want you to remember this word: frogspawn."

I laughed uncertainly. “Frogspawn?” The word triggered a nauseating mental image of a Surinam toad, the kind with a layer of eggs wriggling in its back. I willed the image away with a shudder.

“Yes, it’s a safeword. If you ever have a problem, just say that word and we’ll stop whatever we’re doing.”

That was reassuring.

“Understand this, Koishi. It will be you driving this process. Exploring your own subconscious. Not me. I’m only a tour guide. We can go as deep, as slow, or as fast as you like. If you need a break, just say so and we’ll stop. And besides, I have other dolls to play with if one is resting."

That sounded scary but survivable, though I wasn’t sure how I felt about her polyamory. At least she wasn’t likely to cling, like most of the people I’d dated.

Val took my silence as consent, and plunged on.

“You’d still have your own life, your job, your freedom, everything you have now. But when you’re with me, I am your Keeper. As my doll you must do exactly as I say…until you decide to not to. And don’t worry about expenses, I’ll cover whatever comes up. Clothing and travel, for example. All I demand for my efforts is your attention. And your willingness to follow the rules."

“What do you get out of all this, Val?”

She didn’t even pause to think about it. “When I show you what’s buried deep within you, the shock will be profound. That moment—when a doll confronts her true self—that’s what I live for.” Her face glowed with the memory of past feasts.

I didn’t say anything, but feared I’d prove a disappointment. I considered myself a well-adjusted person with no major hang-ups. No abuse, no traumas, no Electra complex.

She set down her glass and sat a bit straighter. “Think carefully, Koishi. Shall we proceed to the next stage? I’m not asking for a commitment, just determining your interest."

No. Yes. I didn’t know.

My voice had fled, and Val savored my indecision. This was madness. But it also promised adventure and an end to loneliness.

Unlike my previous relationships, Val’s plan had the allure of a complete travel package with everything decided, nothing left to chance, if only I would sign the dotted line. A perfect antidote to the soul-sucking experience of Norman, who had expected me to fill the twin voids of his need and insecurity. I worked too hard, too many hours a day, to be someone’s Mommy and their lover.

And I had the safeword if things got too weird.

After long seconds she added, “I promise to catch you.”

Then I remembered her little game of trust, my fear shattering into joy, the long glow after.

I whispered, “Yes."

“Excellent. In that case, I have a task for you.” She reached in her purse and handed me a pretty envelope with Koishi written on the front. For a moment I admired her distinctive, anachronistic cursive. “Everything you need to begin is inside that envelope. Complete the task exactly as instructed, and we’ll discuss the next step.”

“Um, do I open it now?”

“No, wait until you’re home. Is that clear? And you must follow the instructions to the best of your ability."

I nodded, again. “Okay, I can do that."

“Wonderful! And now I must be going. You may stay if you like."

I shook my head, “Nah. To tell the truth I’m not very fond of this music."

Val laughed. “How curious. Neither am I.” She stood and looked deeply into my eyes for a moment.

“Ta,” she said. And she was off.

3     leap of faith

I WAS GOOD. I resisted the temptation to pull over and open Val’s envelope for fear my face would betray me later, should she ask. And I wasn’t eager to know what she might do then.

It was another kind of test, of course. Would she tail me, hoping I’d cheat? But that was just paranoia. I’d watched her drive away in her…well, what exactly was that thing?

Val’s car had been parked three spots ahead of mine, and looked exactly like a black Lotus Elise: sleek, low, removable top. Standing beside my open car door I watched her deactivate the alarm and get in smartly, without a backward glance or a wave. I waited for the growl of a high performance engine, but it never came. All I heard was the throb of industrial music from deep-throated speakers as it executed a sharp U-turn and was gone. Like a giant slot car, it accelerated with an electric whine and the song of tires on asphalt. I’d seen electric vehicles before, but a sports car? It must have cost a fortune. Here, at least, was one thing about Val that wasn’t Victorian, which I found reassuring.

At any rate, tailing people didn’t strike me as Val’s style. But tonight I had entered a world where such things were possible. That little film noir detail gave me a renewed appreciation for the strange turn my life had taken. Nevertheless, my rear-view mirror remained empty of her low, slanted headlights all the way home.

Once inside, I put the unopened envelope on my dining room table and prepared for bed. My curiosity had given way to a fear that the moment I opened it I’d be less free, somehow.

So I unhurriedly let down my hair, took out my earrings, and put on some sweats. Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, fed the fish. The whole nightly ritual.

Twenty minutes later I anxiously slipped my finger under the flap of the envelope. Inside was a note and another envelope. The note said:

Koishi,

I’ll be out of town until Sunday, January 6th. You have that long to complete this task. I’ll want to see the video then.

—Val

I turned over the second, unmarked envelope. It was unsealed. Inside were five one-hundred dollar bills paper-clipped to an expensive, four-color business card.

The moment I read the printing on the card, I knew exactly what she had planned for me.

“Oh. My. God.” I said in disbelief. And screamed.

§

The next day, with trembling hands, I called the number on the card to schedule a session. The earliest they could fit me in was Saturday, the fifth. Though every fiber of my being begged me to hang up, I made an appointment for 2 pm.

And on that Saturday afternoon I screamed again—screamed and screamed and screamed for long seconds as I arched spread-eagled within my harness, writhing against the straps which held me secure. I did not even notice the video camera moving just a few feet away, impassively recording my ordeal. Every nerve in my body exploded with this unimaginable assault upon my senses. The immensity of what was happening, my adrenaline crackling, my sense of time simultaneously collapsing and expanding into one eternal Now—pushed me into a realm of experience beyond anything I’d ever endured before. It felt like dying and being reborn to a world where the rules were completely different, and there was no solid ground any more; only falling, endless falling.

Now that I was committed, there was no way to stop. Begging was pointless. There was only doing, only surviving, being transformed into a ball of pure experience.

And when it was over and I could finally speak again, the first breathless word from my mouth was, “Again!” I didn’t care how much it cost. I had to have more.

And we—my trainer and I—did it again.

§

Val’s house was high in the Calabasas Hills at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was half as large as Brent’s but still light-years beyond anything I would ever afford. Whatever she did with computers, it paid well.

I rang the doorbell and waited, holding my purse in one hand and a DVD in the other. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s outfit opened the door. She seemed to be expecting me.

“I’m here to see Val. I mean, Miss Stregazzi,” I said meekly.

Without a word she motioned me inside and closed the big door. She led me to a study with blood-red velvet walls, heavy drawn curtains, and shelves of books along one wall. Flames crackled in a small fireplace. There was a low coffee table surrounded by a couch and three chairs. The maid motioned for me to sit, and left.

I took a place on the couch and spent the next few minutes adjusting to the sudden quiet after my windy, sunlit drive up the canyon road. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. The overhead lights were dimmed, and most of the light in the room came from warm halogen spots targeting various features: a painting, sculptures on a shelf, the art books arranged neatly on the table before me. The room had the same ambiance as an art museum, a kind of reverent hush.

“Hello, Koishi,” said Val as she strode in; hair up again, wearing a heather-gray turtleneck sweater and slacks. She stood near the couch and regarded me with pleasure.

I stood up. “Hi, Val.”

“Well. I expect you found my test memorable. And I see you brought the video. Let’s have it, then, that’s a good girl."

I surrendered the disk, bursting inside but unsure whether to speak, or what I could possibly say. She hadn’t yet said anything requiring a response, and I was still gun-shy from our first game of yes or no.

Without a word, the maid brought tea and bustled off. I was too nervous to touch it.

Val opened a large entertainment kiosk and slid the disk into a player, nestled among a stack of various playback devices. The wide-screen TV came to life. And together—as I sat on the couch, she on the chair opposite—we watched what the camera had recorded just yesterday, so recently my nerves still jangled from the experience.

The video began with a simple title of white letters over black:

Koishi’s First Jump—01/05/2008

It was a strange, out-of-body experience seeing myself in the goofy-looking nylon suit, being strapped with my back against the belly of the jump instructor. Climbing aboard the aging but spry Cessna with a growly engine and no seats for passengers. Jumping out of the plane. Screaming my head off, features registering emotions with unpronounceable names. Landing. Releasing the buckles and rolling around on the ground, punch-drunk from adrenaline and laughing a song of pure, nameless joy. Panting “Again!” and going up a second time.

“Oh,” she said. “You jumped twice. How interesting."

“I had to, Val. I couldn’t stop myself. And you gave me way more than the cost of the one jump. I figured that’s what you wanted."

She raised an eyebrow at this. “Oh you did, hmm?"

“If you didn’t mean for me to use all the money I’ll pay you back. I’m sorry…the instructions weren’t clear on whether I was supposed to…”

She let me to flounder a moment. “Hush. You did well, and I’m pleased. The instructions were intentionally vague. Jumping twice tells me you’re a brave girl, and you crave rich experiences.”

She aimed the remote and ejected the disk. When it was done, she put it back in its case and and set it on the table beside my purse.

Val sat in the chair once more. “You’ve shown the necessary commitment.” She paused a moment. “And now we come to the moment of decision, little Koishi. Are you ready to accept me as your Keeper, and permit me to make of you what I will?"

I thought it over. I’d worked hard to reach this point. Jumping out of the plane was the scariest thing I’d ever done, yet I’d managed it because I had a goal. Having someone to push me beyond my comfort zone might actually be a good thing.

And I can stop any time I want to.

I looked her squarely in the eyes and said, “Yes."

“Beg me.” She said, unmoved.

I blinked.

Beg her? I had to process that. It wasn’t that the idea of begging troubled me. In this game I rather expected such things. No, the problem was that in all my life, my relationships, my jobs, I had never, ever begged for anything. I didn’t know how to beg.

I found myself mentally reviewing movies randomly in my head, searching for an example of the kind of begging she wanted. And came up empty. The grandfather clocked ticked away the seconds.

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Hmph. Perhaps you’re not as committed as I thought,” she said icily, sitting back and crossing her arms.

Panic swelled in me. Dammit, do something, I thought. But what? I forced words out of my mouth.

“Val, I beg you.” The words came out like dead fish; lifeless, unappetizing. Her features grew more impassive.

“Please, may I be your doll?” When this didn’t elicit a reaction I stood and walked closer, to kneel carefully before her chair. I didn’t know how to sit, what posture to adopt, so I simply folded my hands in my lap and lowered my head. Her stony expression was a little frightening.

“Val, I don’t know what to say or do. But I want this. I’ll learn anything you care to teach me. You’ve already given me a gift, and…and I’d like to repay you in kind. Whatever you ask.” I felt stupid for doing this, but part of me wanted to get it right, even if it was crazy. “I want…” I had to stop. I was humiliated and couldn’t scrap together words to finish the sentence. I prayed the maid wasn’t watching.

Tick tick tick tick tick, went the clock. I was just beginning to think about standing up and leaving, when Val said:

“Clumsily worded, but heartfelt. Look at me."

I raised my eyes and didn’t speak.

“Koishi, you will be my doll until you ask to end this relationship, or I release you. Is this what you truly want?”

I nodded, light-headed. “Yes."

“Yes, Ma’am,” she corrected.

“Yes, Ma’am, I accept."

“Good doll. You are now Mine." I actually heard the capital letter, and it made me shiver.

She leaned forward and kissed me on the top of my head, a powerfully maternal gesture that felt like the signing of a contract.

4     training

VAL STOOD, COMMANDING me to stay. She left and returned with several pages of forms, told me to kneel beside the low coffee table, and gave me a pencil.

“Fill these out. Follow the instructions carefully. Take your time, but answer the questions accurately and fully."

The first part was a long questionnaire involving my likes, dislikes, experience, and level of interest in an absolutely exhaustive list of fetishes and activities. I hadn’t heard of eighty percent of them, and while some of the unknown fetishes could be guessed, others were a complete mystery. (TENS unit? Violet wand?) Some, like scarification and fire play, sounded terrifying. Absolutely no way, I wrote beside these entries. I was humbled by the narrow limits of my experience and willingness to experiment, when reduced to tabular form. But Val wanted honesty, and that’s what she got.

She wasn’t really into all that stuff, right? This was simply a complete list of everything under the sun.

Right?

Twenty minutes passed while I completed that checklist. It took another thirty minutes to finish the second part: essay answers to direct questions about my personality, my expectations regarding submissive training, my hard limits.

Had I been given these forms at work, or the coffee shop, I’d have blown a fuse. But in this bizarre setting it didn’t seem as crazy.

Alone in the room, I poured myself onto the page. When I was done, I set down the pencil and waited.

A few minutes later Val checked on my progress. She took the completed forms and asked, “Have you thought deeply about this? Answered the questions truthfully?"

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied.

To my astonishment she threw all those pages of soul-searching into the fireplace without so much as a glance, where they burst into flame. I made no sound, but she saw the outrage in my eyes.

“Good. That exercise was for your benefit, so you can begin to think objectively about this relationship. Remember what you wrote today. Weeks from now you may be surprised by how different your answers may be. However, I have my own ways of learning what’s inside you.” And that was that.

Next, she sat and motioned me to kneel beside her feet, where I answered questions about preexisting medical conditions, prescriptions, allergies, of which I had none.

Then she gave me The Rules.

A doll has certain obligations that, if not met, will result in the severance of the contract. They are as follows:

A doll must obey, and learn.

A doll must trust the Keeper.

A doll must anticipate the Keeper’s will, or at least try.

A doll must take care of itself.

In addition, a doll should comport itself with grace, courtesy, and intelligence. If it does not, it will become familiar with the tools and methods of punishment.

A doll should expect the Keeper to be courteous. But she is difficult to please, and often seemingly arbitrary.

The Keeper does not coddle dolls, nor heap affection on them.

Dolls should expect to be challenged.

But if they do well, dolls can also expect to receive diligent interest, lessons, and a continued desire to see them grow.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked, as she handed me the hard copy for my review.

“No, Ma’am.” I knew I would later, but at the moment my mind was a blank.

“Then we’ll begin. Stand and undress."

I’d been half-expecting this, but it was still scary. I felt the same terror I’d known as a young girl, with my toes hanging off the end of the high-dive board. After a moment’s hesitation, I stood on unexpectedly numb legs, stumbling a bit. Val’s expression was completely unreadable, which I took as a sign to hurry.

Could I actually go through with this?

It’s like going to the doctor, I thought.

I took off my pumps, unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off my shoulders, then unhooked my bra and dropped it on the floor along with everything else. Unzipped my jeans and stepped out of them. Panties last of all. The air was cool on my skin.

I stood, not knowing what to do with my hands, or whether to kneel again. I kept my head lowered and hands at my side, and was powerfully tempted to fidget.

A long moment passed, and another, and still no response from Val. Tick tick tick tick.

A door closed somewhere else in the house. The maid going about her duties.

“Ma’am?” I ventured, after a minute of agonizing silence. What had I done wrong?

“It throws its clothes in a heap on the floor? It had better dress and try again.” It? Oh, she meant me. Her measured words dripped acid.

This is just a game, I told myself. She’s play-acting. I put my clothes back on and started over, taking great pains to make sure everything was folded neatly. Jeans, blouse, underthings, shoes, arranged in that order from bottom to top.

“Now it puts its clothes on the bare floor, and not the rug. Perhaps it wants to anger me? Dress and try again. Faster.” Val’s voice was controlled, menacing.

And yet I had to laugh, mostly from nervousness, but also because of the Keystone Cops nature of this game.

“Oh, the doll is amused?” She swooped close, grabbed my right ear and twisted hard, just like my mom did when I talked back. I cried out from pain, but also from the shock of those long-forgotten childhood memories being wrenched free. The body remembers, even if the mind does not.

Val’s face was inches away, eyes hard as drill bits.

“No, Ma’am!” I squealed, with a racing heart.

“Did I just hear the doll laugh?” Another twist.

“Yes, Ma’am!” My eyes watered from the pain.

“Doll is a liar, then?"

“No, Ma—” I began to think she might actually injure me, with her twisting. The word frogspawn flashed in my mind, begging to be spoken. This was happening too fast, it was too scary, but capitulation seemed a shorter path than rebellion.

“Yes, Ma’am! Yes, Ma’am! Doll is lying!”

“Look at me,” she hissed. “I do not tolerate lying dolls. Is that crystal clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” I said, with watering eyes.

She released me and stepped back a pace. “The doll will dress again, and undress properly. Quickly.”

Shaking, I did everything again, and arranged the small pile of clothing on the rug under the coffee table.

“Hmph,” she said, indicating her lingering displeasure. “Arms out at the sides. No, higher. Legs spread, back straight. Chin up, eyes down.”

I did as I was told, the pose recalling da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. And that poor hooded Iraqi in Abu Ghraib, standing on a box with electrical wires on his out-flung hands. The memory gave me gooseflesh.

After putting on supple, expensive-looking leather gloves, she began a thorough, humiliating inspection of my body. She scrutinized my ears, my teeth, under my arms.

“From now on, it will shave more closely. And between its legs, too; I can’t abide poor hygiene.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Arms down. There’s a bathroom in the main hall, on the right.” She indicated the direction with a tilt of her head. “It will find the shaving cream and razor, and make itself tidy. Remember to clean up when finished. Go. Quickly, now."

I did as she instructed, and returned fifteen minutes later to suffer another inspection.

She sighed dramatically. “That will have to do, I suppose. From now on the doll will attend to these things on its own, and not waste my time. Does it understand?"

“Yes, Ma’am."

“Then kneel on the rug, and attend. Back straight, chin up, eyes down. Hands on its thighs."

I obeyed.

She walked around behind me, out of my sight, and I knew better than to break position. My eyes found a framed reproduction of Bruegel’s Hell on the wall before me, lit by a halogen spotlight. The painting showed a tableau of rioting people and impossible monsters, under a layer of sulfurous haze. The unsettling image did nothing to lessen my apprehension.

A hissing voice, close in my still-burning ear. “Is the doll nervous?”

I twitched. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She tucked my hair out of the way and traced a gloved finger around the curve of my ear. “Good.” Goosebumps rose all over my body.

“Now you will learn the basics of poise, and movement. Most dolls come to me knowing these things. Because you’re a complete innocent, I suppose we’ll have to start at square one.” She grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me close, twisting my head to face her. She was strong, and it hurt. “Pay attention now; I don’t like to repeat myself. It vexes me.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I mewed. Held thus, an electric current of emotion sliced through me: not quite terror, not quite lust, but something akin to both. It grounded deep in my belly, sparked a spreading warmth, and I knew with absolute certainty I would grow to crave this woman’s touch, and yet fear it.

She released me roughly, and walked a couple of paces before turning to face me again.

“This is ‘front’, meaning ‘come here’,” Val said, snapping the fingers of her left hand. “And this is ‘kneel’,” she said, pointing to the floor before her. “These two signals tell the doll to approach and kneel before me, where indicated."

I did this, not quite sure if I was supposed to. But she didn’t complain, so I must have guessed correctly.

“This is the sign for ‘heel’.” She patted her left hand against her thigh firmly enough to make a sound. “The doll will come stand behind me, half a pace to my left. Here.” I stood where she was looking. When she pointed downward, I knelt.

“There will be other signs to learn, but this will serve for now. Would it like to see the rest of the house?” Val asked.

“Yes, Ma’am."

§

Being shown someone’s house is a very different thing when you’re completely naked (for one thing), and busy concentrating on your guide’s left hand. I wanted to gawk, but didn’t dare miss Val’s signals. After a while I began to anticipate her rhythms, however, and was able to look around more freely.

Val’s house was quite large. There were four bedrooms, and the downstairs pair were for her dolls’ use. She had the nicest bathrooms I’ve ever seen. I envied her kitchen; all stainless steel, marble, and glowing wood. Everywhere I looked, the house was expertly and tastefully decorated, and spotless. Her maid—whose name was Yolanda, I learned—was one hell of a duster.

Val loved art. Paintings and photographs decorated almost every wall. Her taste in art, however, was unusual. For while it was all beautiful, the imagery was also slightly disturbing in its single-minded depiction of the relentless advance of entropy. The Bruegel painting of Hell was entirely consistent with the rest of her collection. Whether the subject was a still life, or nude, or landscape, the images reminded me of those online galleries of photographs taken in abandoned asylums and decaying factories. She loved that texture of apocalypse, of hopeless ruin. It made a shocking and quite deliberate counterpoint to the obsessively tidy spaces she lived in.

Val then unlocked a stout door, and showed me into, incredibly, a dungeon. It was a medium-sized room—medium-sized for this house, which meant it was still twice as big as my living room—containing several pieces of furniture which were clearly designed to restrain a person, though in most cases I couldn’t guess their exact purpose. The big, brushed aluminum X-shaped cross with attachment points along its sides was obvious. So, too, were the rings set firmly in the walls, the floor, and hanging on the ends of chains from the ceiling. The padded saw-horse thing, a little less so. Other items were simply enigmas.

There was a rack on the wall from which hung various things: cuffs, whips, crops, chains, clamps, gags, tidy bundles of rope of varying diameters and materials. She had me explore all of these things unhurriedly, and I did so, touching the various surfaces, fascinated and afraid at the same time. I was not eager to experience their intended functions. Little scuff marks on the rack, the pegs, told me this was not merely a display case. These implements had been used.

But it was not like any dungeon I’d ever seen in movies or fetish photographs. For one, it was just as immaculate as the rest of the house. For another thing, it lacked the usual Gothic clichés such as stone walls or big wooden beams; it was all very modern. The room was unnervingly quiet, like a recording studio, probably because of the black, sound-sucking anechoic padding mounted in big squares on the walls and ceiling. Attached to the wall opposite the big X-cross was a sleek, expensive sound system.

“The room is completely soundproof,” Val told me. “You can scream and scream and no one will hear a whisper outside these walls, while the door is shut."

I hoped she was simply being dramatic.

Unlike all the other rooms of the house, however, there was not a single painting or photograph on the wall.

I was relieved when she ushered me from the room and locked the door again.

§

Val led me back through the aromatic kitchen, where Yolanda was cooking dinner. I might have been invisible for all the attention she paid me.

I was apprehensive when Val slid open the big glass door leading to the back yard, unsure about neighbors seeing me naked. But I kept pace with her, maintaining the proper distance.

I needn’t have worried. The back yard was ringed by tall, dense hedges and shielded by a curved hillside. There weren’t any houses near or high enough to see onto the property. Beyond the covered patio was a swimming pool with an attached hot tub on the right side. On the left was a small but well-landscaped area with a few trees and a gazebo. Nearby, a small waterfall tumbled over an artistic rock wall to fill a pretty koi pond. In the early evening light, with the yard lights on and crickets starting to chirp, the scene was unreal, dreamlike in the manner of a Maxfield Parrish painting.

The air was still warm, the light breeze delicious on my bare skin. Far overhead, a hawk circled on the last thermals of the day. A hush lay upon the scene. Val led me around the yard, allowing me to see everything. Her mood was more serene, contemplative, but I didn’t know how long that would last.

She sat on a bench beside the koi pond and pointed to the grass beside her feet. I knelt.

“Do you like my fish?"

“Very much, Ma’am.” She had at least a dozen, of different colors. I watched an especially large orange and white one moving slowly among water lilies with its delicate fins trailing like a dancer’s veil.

“Yes, I should think so, little Koi. You are not so different, are you? A small creature, kept for my pleasure. Pretty, and sometimes graceful. But thoroughly ridiculous and completely subject to my whims.” Her words were hypnotic, seductive, yet tinged with calculated condescension.

I said nothing, feeling small.

She tossed a handful of fish food into the pond, and the quicksilver surface erupted in a frenzy of fins and sucking, toothless mouths.

The clink of silverware told us Yolanda was setting the patio table. “Ah, dinner,” Val said with a smile. “Are you hungry, my pretty fish?"

§

Dinner with Val was an incredibly strange experience, with me being the only one not wearing clothing. She’d told me to sit opposite her, and because of the glass tabletop I was completely exposed to her scrutiny. The seat cushion stuck to my bare thighs in an uncomfortable, squeaky way. Yolanda’s comings and goings added to my sense of humiliation, but apparently she saw this kind of thing often, for she never once registered the least reaction to my condition.

And yet, here on the other side of that magic door which Val had opened for me, the rules were completely unlike the real world. Had I been told to strip naked at a business lunch with my visual effects supervisor, I’d have slapped him and filed a sexual harassment suit. With Val it was quite a different thing. Yes, I was humiliated, but somehow it was part of the game. The feelings it evoked were…silken, impossible to describe. Which, I guessed, was the whole point.

“I would like to know why you have basically thrown yourself to me, a total stranger,” she demanded. I didn’t really have an answer, much as I tried. “All right then, I’m going to suggest a task for you, to help focus your thinking. Do you trust me?” Her question was laced with a hint of menace.

“Yes, Ma’am, I trust you."

“Very well. I want you to pick someone in your life. I don’t care who, so long as you’ve known them for at least a few years. I want you to tell them that you have become my doll. I want you to be able to tell them about anything we do, if I require it. And once you have informed this person, I am going to want to meet them, to verify that you have indeed fulfilled your task. I don’t have a specific deadline for the assignment, but I won’t wait forever. Certainly a month at the most. Will you do this for me?"

Thinking no no no I mumbled, “Yes, Ma’am.” To whom could I possibly make such a confession? Trish? No, it was unthinkable.

“Good. Now I want to watch you touch yourself as we eat."

Oh my god. I blushed deeply.

I had never, ever, done that in the presence of another person. But my first fumbling attempt only irritated her.

“Stop that,” she barked. “Forget I’m here. Pretend you’re alone. And you’d better make me believe it, or else."

I thought of those whips hanging in the soundproof room, and struggled to put Val and the maid out of mind. It was one of the most difficult things I’d ever done in my life.

§

After dinner, she told me to fetch my clothes from the study and dress.

“At ease,” she said, after I dressed.

I stood, unsure of how to behave.

“You can relax. ‘At ease’ means the scene is over and we’re just friends, chatting.” She gave a warm smile. “I choose my dolls carefully. I prefer to spend my time with interesting people I care to know inside and out. Being a doll is only part of that process. However,” she added somewhat darkly, “the better I know you, the deeper we can go spelunking later. So I do have an ulterior motive."

I nodded, “Should I call you Ma’am, then, when I’m at ease…er, Ma’am?"

“Not if you don’t want to. ‘Val’ is fine in such cases. Let me warn you, though: I might return to Keeper mode if I smell blood in the water."

“Blood in the water?” With an effort, I stopped myself from adding the ‘Ma’am’.

“My way of saying you’ve done something to provoke me, such as willful disobedience, or acting submissively when you’re at ease. Of course, I’m capricious, too. I might simply do it because the mood strikes me."

“How will I know which mode we’re in?” It felt strange to not use the honorific after the events of tonight.

“Don’t worry, you’ll know.” Then she tilted her head slightly and asked, “Do you like wine?"

“Yeah, but I don’t know the first thing about it."

“I’ll teach you. Come,” she said, and led me inside.

5     tasting

FOR THE NEXT few weeks I led two separate lives.

On weekdays I was the same person as before. I still went to work dressed in jeans and tee shirt, spent long hours in a dim office bathed in the glow from three big computer monitors. I still ate lunch with a book under a tree, or with coworkers at the studio’s cafeteria. No one had the faintest clue there was anything unusual about me. Perhaps I seemed a bit more preoccupied, nothing more.

But two or three nights a week I drove to Val’s place after work, with a change of clothes packed in an overnight bag. I didn’t always spend the night, but I liked the option of going straight to work the next morning. And during all this time, Val was never once intimate with me. In fact, aside from that first day, she rarely asked me to undress.

My education as a doll was stranger and more difficult than I could have imagined. I came to think of it as Mutant Geisha Boot Camp, though I never shared that notion with Val.

Protocol, a doll’s strict rules of conduct, was the meat of my education.

But above all, I learned the importance of reading Val’s mood, as a ship carefully makes its way through coral reefs. It was hard, and I often guessed wrong. Her silence, for example, could signify either contentedness or rising displeasure, whereas her playful banter might mean the laying of a trap, or simply a relaxed, chatty mood. I learned to look for her tells: a gleam in the eye, the angle of a grin…precisely what the signs were, I could not have said, but I learned to sense them.

Once I’d guessed her mood, the next step was to determine proper position. Sometimes this was easy; Val would simply point to a spot on the floor, or wave me close. But usually she’d make me figure it out, and that could be fiendishly complicated. Like a cat, Val was mercurial and could be cuddly or cruel. When seated, she might have me sit by her feet, the better to stroke my hair or twist my ear. Conversely, she might keep me at a distance, to savor me with hungry eyes. If she was vexed, that same separation became a punishing exile.

There were similar complexities involved when Val was standing, or walking. It was like conjugating verbs in Latin.

After placement, there was the question of posture. Should I stand, sit, or kneel? Head up or down? Hands behind my back, or resting lightly on my folded legs?

Protocol also involved speech. As a rule I was expected to be quiet, to answer promptly and respectfully when spoken to, and to address her as Ma’am (never Miss or Mistress!). But Val didn’t want mindless automatons, and I was punished more than once for being too docile. She expected to be entertained, which meant I must speak up and be witty, yet avoid blunders which could trigger her wrath.

Unless, of course, she was intent on punishment. In that case, there was nothing to do but suffer, and bask later in the embraces and affection which always followed such torments. That was sweet, so sweet.

She was a master of the trick question. For example:

“Tell me, doll, do I spoil you?”

Such questions set my brain afire. If I answered ‘no’, she’d accuse me of failing to appreciate her kindness. But saying ‘yes’ could be even worse; I might just as well call her a pushover. In such cases there was no way to win.

I judged my situation akin that of entertainers to royalty, whose very lives depended on being found pleasing. There is nothing like fear, and disaster averted, to sweeten a successful performance.

I suspected she’d trained many girls in this way. She never faltered, and seemed to follow a plan. Curiously, I found that comforting.

My training involved other things beside protocol.

For example, she took detailed, precise measurements of my body.

She made me fill out questionnaires and write essays about my likes, dislikes, personal experiences.

And she delighted in ordering me to compose haiku on the spur of the moment. I grew to dread that, even as I got better at it.

§

We also communicated by email during this time. Her address was clarity.dagger@ something called bathypelagic.com, which gave me a chance to play private investigator on the internet.

The only real reference I found for ‘clarity dagger’ was an item in an obscure MMORPG—but she didn’t strike me as online gamer. The name fit her, though, with its connotations of clear sight, deep penetration, implied violence.

As for the domain name ‘bathypelagic’, it wasn’t any company or organization I could find. Most likely it was just something she’d registered herself. But the word was unusual, and when I looked it up online, I found it meant “of, relating to, or living in the depths of the ocean, especially between about 1,000 and 4,000 meters (3,280 and 13,120 feet).”

I had a feeling these were clues to the inner workings of Valeria Stregazzi, if I were clever enough to assemble the pieces.

§

Sometimes Val would send me assignments by email. Here’s one example:

Koi,

I’ll be away on business for the next three days. I’m taking a client to dinner on Wednesday night, and I’d like you to find the best possible French restaurant in San Francisco, in or near downtown. Price is no object. Traditional or fusion, I don’t care, but I expect you to knock his socks off. You have until Tuesday night to send your choice, as I’ll need time to make reservations.

—Val

I loved this kind of challenge. I did a ton of research and sent her my recommendations along with maps and reviews, as well as alternates, just in case. But my stomach tied itself in knots on those nights, wondering how things went, praying to god the service was good.

§

As it turned out, my pick for the French restaurant was a success. When I saw her on the night of her return, she positively glowed. Which, in Val’s case, meant an almost-smile and casual manner, as we relaxed before her lighted hearth.

Val was in her stuffed chair, enjoying a glass of red wine. I sat clothed on the rug by her feet, legs bent to the side, my cheek resting against her leg. Usually I wasn’t allowed to touch her, but tonight she was feeling magnanimous.

It was pleasant to sit there, catlike, and simply watch the fire crackle in the hearth as she toyed with my hair.

“I think I want to mention something fairly personal,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am?” I purred.

“You’ve been a delight to me. My client was impressed with your restaurant choice. I’ll likely get a lucrative contract as a result."

When she talked like that I couldn’t help but wonder—again—what she did for a living. I really hoped it didn’t have anything to do with organized crime. Especially with a last name like Stregazzi. But she never said anything about her work, so it could just as easily have been programming malware that stole user data for bulk-emailer lists.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said, proud of myself.

“I feel like rewarding you. I’ll have to think of something appropriate…”

I didn’t reply to that.

“You do deserve to be rewarded, don’t you?” she pressed.

“I’m just happy I pleased you, Ma’am. I don’t need anything more,” I said carefully, as my brain began to smoke again.

“That’s not quite an answer. Don’t spoil this by dodging me. Do you deserve to be rewarded?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am."

Her voice was ice-cold now. “I’ll take that into consideration.” I could sense her glowering, like a developing thunderhead. The silence dragged on.

I turned slightly to look at her. “Can I change my mind, Ma’am?”

“On what?"

“Whether I deserve a reward,” I said.

“I don’t like indecision.” A weary sigh, and then: “Very well, what is your answer now?"

“I do deserve a reward.” Tick tick tick tick tick; her only response was a painful silence. I added, “You gave me a test, Ma’am, and I passed it. I should have accepted the reward without questioning your judgment.”

“It’s a little late for that realization.”

“Yes, Ma’am."

She put the wine glass down. “That should have been foremost in your mind from the second you knelt to me.” I felt tears start in my eyes. “I’m sorry, was the thought of a reward too much for you? Were you overcome by selfish pleasure? Or was it the smug satisfaction of passing a test?"

“I’m…bad with receiving gifts, Ma’am.”

“Oh, I daresay you are. This would have been quite simple if you’d remembered how to behave."

She pointed to the floor where I sat, and I promptly knelt. She reached to the table beside her chair and picked up her leather gloves, put them on.

“Drop your pants,” she snapped.

With fumbling hands I unfastened them and pushed them down around my thighs, lifting myself off my heels to do so. I waited. After a few anxious heartbeats I was quickly thrown over her legs, on my stomach. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. She trapped me in a painful arm-lock, then used her other hand to yank down my panties with a sound of annoyance.

My clenched heart squirted cold, black fear, like squid ink. When she rubbed my behind with the other hand, the textured leather was cool and snake-like on my bare skin.

“You’ll learn to accept my gifts with the proper gratitude. Count, and thank me."

“Yes, Ma—” Smack. I jerked at the sudden stinging pain, and gasped. “…One, Ma’am. Thank you.”

Smack. A little harder. “Two, Ma’am! Thank you."

Three and four weren’t quite as bad, but number five was much harder, hard enough to make me cry out against my will. That’s when I really did start to struggle.

“Five! Ma’am. Thank you!” Goddamn, this sucked. She had a way of pulling her hand away just as it hit that made her fingertips sting like whips. I think the leather glove made it hurt worse, too.

By the time she got to twenty I was crying, writhing in her arm-hold, begging her to stop.

At twenty-two I twisted so hard I slipped off her legs and caught myself with my free hand. She still held my other wrist in a tight grip, bent back now at an angle, forcing my head down.

“The doll will take her place again, or leave,” Val warned icily.

Frogspawn, I thought. Say it. But the word would not come.

I considered leaving then, truly. I imagined standing, pulling up my pants and storming out, away from this madness. But in that direction was nothing but a cold, lonely void.

My ass burned. I gasped like a fish, my heart hammering in my chest. The rug felt scratchy against my cheek.

And as I took the measure of these sensations, something like liquid sunlight flowed through my body, starting between my legs and spreading outward. I should have been angry, or frightened, but what I really felt was alive, truly alive as I hadn’t in years. And that feeling became a warm surrender, a hungry gravity bending me toward this fierce, crazy woman.

I tried to rise, and she relaxed her lock on my arm enough to permit it. Gently I lay my torso across her legs and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I said in a small voice.

She stopped at twenty-five. The last three blows were especially hard, but the cries they tore from me were more release than outrage. Then Val’s gloved hand stroked gently where I burned, and I couldn’t help but moan at the sensation. She did this for a minute as my breathing slowed and my sight cleared. The fear which had gripped my heart now flipped inside out, to become pride at having survived. And with it came a deep yearning.

“Has the doll learned to accept my gifts without complaint?” She prompted.

“Yes, Ma’am. I have,” I assured her.

“Then it is time for doll’s reward. I expect her to show the proper gratitude."

She unhesitatingly thrust her hand between my legs, and began to touch me there. The textured leather of her glove felt alien against such tender flesh. This wasn’t at all how I’d imagined our first truly intimate contact: thrown head down over her legs, my arm wrenched behind my back. It was clinical, and humiliating, and utterly insane, and, and, and…and I thanked her again and again, and cried anew as she woke golden sunlight in my belly.

§

When at last she grew bored with that game, Val released my arm and commanded me to dress. I wiped my eyes and wondered how awful I must look. Now that I could see her face, her expression was calm, a bit amused. Tender, even.

“Doll has learned something about gifts, I trust?”

I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” I whispered meekly.

She motioned me to a spot beside her legs, and pulled my head to her lap, where she stroked my hair. A storm of emotions whirled within me.

And then Val said, “Are you free on Saturday? I’ve arranged for a photographer friend of mine to take pictures of you.”

§

I spent the next few days anxiously tracking the progress of the bruises on my ass, praying they’d fade before Saturday. I had no idea what Val planned for the photo shoot; she wouldn’t tell me. But knowing her, the bruises might very well prove an issue.

As it was, they didn’t completely fade in time.

6     elements

IT WAS BREEZY that Saturday morning—Groundhog Day, actually—but not so hot as the last few days had been. The trees in Val’s front yard rustled and swayed as I parked and rang the doorbell. As usual, the maid did not speak, but only motioned me to follow. She’d spoken fewer than a dozen words to me in all the time I’d known her.

The entire morning I’d fretted over how to tell Val about Trish’s unexpected phone call last night. She was flying in for a couple of days to celebrate her mother’s birthday, but the friend who agreed to pick her up at the airport had suddenly canceled because of an emergency. Trish asked if I could step in, and offered to buy me dinner on the way to her mother’s house. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year and I was eager to catch up. On impulse I agreed to give her the ride, being reasonably sure Val’s photography session would be over by then. Now however, I had the nasty detail of informing Val of these events. Suddenly I wasn’t quite as sure she’d approve of my change in schedule.

I found Val reading the paper on her rear patio, finishing her omelet, served with tea and a croissant. Having delivered me, the maid removed Val’s plate and returned to the kitchen to tidy up.

I walked to a point two paces from Val’s chair and knelt, saying, “I’m here for you, Ma’am."

She regarded me over her narrow glasses. “And so you are. Good morning. Are you ready for your photo shoot, Koishi?” I told her I was. “Splendid,” she said, putting the paper down and rising to her feet. She touched my hair and gazed into my eyes for a moment before tapping her left thigh, heel. I stood and moved to the proper place, a half pace behind and to her left.

Val led me to one of the guest bedrooms. “Undress,” she said casually, and I did so, folding my clothes in a neat pile on the bed. “Turn about,” she commanded. My heart began to race as she inspected my body, and my lingering bruises elicited a chuckle. “I guess you’ll need some makeup there, too. Or perhaps not. We’ll see."

I turned back to face her but kept my eyes lowered. From a pretty Art Nouveau-style vanity she picked up a black scarf and folded it a few times, then placed it over my eyes and tied it in back. When she was done I could see nothing. The loss of sight left me unsteady on my feet. I experienced the bizarre sensation of being naked yet clothed in darkness, and it made me shiver. I heard her pick up something that sounded like cloth.

Val took my hand and said, “Come with me.” I was guided carefully through the hallway to the main entry, where she left me standing for a moment as she retrieved her bag. I heard its catch, and the sound of keys.

She opened the door and led me outside into the warm, swirling air. Palm trees rustled overhead and the tiled porch was smooth under my feet, except for the occasional bit of leaf or gravel. There, she helped me down the low steps to the driveway. I wondered if any of Val’s neighbors would see me here, and hoped the eucalyptus windbreaks on either side of the property gave enough cover. We stopped beside her car, which made me jump when its alarm deactivated with a double-whoop.

We were driving somewhere. With me naked and blindfolded? The enormity of these new unknowns forced me to blurt out, “But, Ma’am…”

“The doll has a question?” she said, testily. A car door opened.

“No, Ma’am."

“Careful now,” she said, guiding me down, down, into the too-low passenger side of her sports car, the seat hard and cool against my body. Val buckled me in, smoothed the wide strap where it crossed my bare chest, and fluffed a light sheet over my body, tucking it in under my legs, behind my back, shoulders, and neck. In my mind’s eye, I imagined the sheet as being robin’s egg blue. “You’d better pray this doesn’t slip off. I’m not stopping to fix you,” she warned. Then she opened the glove compartment and slipped a pair of bulky sunglasses over my blindfold. They didn’t sit quite right with the blindfold covering my nose, but it was snug enough. She withdrew, closed the door, and walked smartly around to her side and got in. The wind rocked the car slightly. In this small space, the air felt close.

The car beeped as it woke up, and then we were off, gliding in her strangely quiet electric car down the winding road that lead to the freeway, with only the sound of tires on roadway and airflow over the canopy. I hoped the tinting on her windows was darker than I remembered it.

This time there was no stopping, the safeword could not halt this scene; I was committed. My clothes, my very identity, had been left behind. For the very first time I’d let Val maneuver me into total vulnerability, which was terrifying, yet shockingly erotic. Could I trust her?

I prayed Val wouldn’t have an accident, that she wouldn’t get pulled over by the highway patrol, that no busybody housewife in a passing SUV would see down into our car and phone in a kidnapping. I mentally pictured the Amber Alert sign at the White Oak exit glowing with the urgent message:

ABDUCTION IN PROGRESS
BLK SPORTSCAR LIC#7PYJ643

I clutched the thin sheet tightly and tried not to think about the million ways this could go horribly wrong.

Usually Val played music while driving, but not this time. I think she she wanted me to hear every car we passed.

§

By the time we pulled into a sloped, curving driveway, twenty minutes later, I was slightly motion-sick from the blind ride. I knew we were near the ocean from the sound of gulls and the breaking of waves to my right. I could smell it, too, and the air was cooler. I guessed we were somewhere in Malibu.

She stopped the car and got out. My stomach fluttered with the knowledge that whatever Val had in mind, it began now. She opened my door and took the sheet and sunglasses from me, but left the blindfold as it was. After putting the things in the trunk she helped me rise from the car, apologizing when I bumped my my head lightly on the roof. The sensation of warm sunlight and cool wind swirling over my bare body was delicious, made sweeter by my lack of vision.

The concrete driveway was almost too hot for my bare feet. But it was only about twenty paces before she brought me into shadow, up a couple of steps. A door opened, and I was led inside. Here I heard voices and the sounds of activity in another room. The door closed behind me.

Val untied the blindfold, and my dark-adapted eyes took a moment to adjust. I stood in the foyer of a large house at least as large as Val’s, and saw open crates stacked against the wall as if equipment had been brought in and set up. She explained: “This is a friend’s house. She was kind enough to lend its use while she’s away in Europe. Isn’t it lovely?"

As I looked around, taking it all in, she had eyes only for me. Presently she said, “Doll will stay here,” and walked down the hall. Left there by myself I felt small and lost, unsure of what to do with my hands. Presently she returned with a man, saying, “Stephan, this is my doll Koishi; she’ll be our model today.” She pronounced it Steh-FAHN, accent on the second syllable, making it sound Continental, or maybe just pretentious. I noticed, also, that she made no counter introduction, him to me.

“Hello, Koishi.” His handshake was light, pleasant. He was younger than Val, about my age, but I could easily imagine them existing in the same social spaces. He also had a slightly vampiric flavor about him, though more tan and dark-haired. He wore dark slacks and a sky-blue buttoned shirt that complimented his blue-gray eyes.

“Give us a nice little turn, pet,” Val told me, and I obeyed self-consciously.

Apparently Stephan was not at all put off by meeting one of Val’s naked, shivering dolls. He regarded me with a photographer’s jaded eye, yet I thought a trace of prurience flickered there.

“Delicious,” he said, studying me the way Val did, like a CAT scan. “How long have you had her?”

“Almost a month. She’s been very pleasing, so far."

“She must not have been entirely pleasing,” he laughed. “I see we’ll need some makeup on that pretty little behind." He touched me there, circling the bruises with a fingertip.

I would never get used to being discussed and handled in this way, like an object, a non-person.

“Let’s get started, hmm?” Stephan said, after glancing at his expensive wristwatch. He called out, “Jenn!” A mousy-looking woman came over. “Jennifer, this is Koishi. She’s all yours."

“Hi. I love your name,” she gushed. “Come on over here and we’ll start on your makeup."

Did none of these people feel the least bit awkward talking to a bruised, naked girl? What planet were they from?

Jennifer led me down a hallway, into a bedroom that had become a temporary makeup facility.

There was something alien-looking on a plastic sheet on the bed. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but had the impression of a giant, filleted koi fish. When I poked at it, it proved to be made of fabric and rubber, covered in white, orange, and black scales, with a big fin at the end. “What’s this?” I asked, somewhat sheepishly.

“Your costume, sweetie. You’re going to be a mermaid. Didn’t Miss Stregazzi tell you?"

I shook my head, no.

I sat patiently at the vanity while she applied makeup to my face, my body, then glued scales here and there from my shoulders to just below my ribs.

“You’d better use the little girl’s room before we put the tail on. You’ll be stuck in it for a while,” Jennifer told me. She pointed to the bathroom door.

I took her advice. After, it felt exceedingly strange to emerge from the bathroom without having covered myself first, and my hands were acutely aware of that ritual’s absence.

Putting on the tail took forever. As I lay on the bed she loosely bound my legs together with elastic bandage, from ankle to knee. The big tail fluke was actually a diver’s monofin, with the feet covered in false fish skin. Jen zipped up the tail, then painstakingly painted scales around my waist where the costume ended, creating a subtle fade with my natural flesh tone. She glued a few more scales over the painted parts. The final result was stunning; the most elaborate mermaid costume I’d ever seen, with its hand-sewn scales, tiny pelvic fins, and a frilly dorsal ridge hiding the zipper in back. I looked exactly like a koi-mermaid. Val must have had it specially made for me, and now I knew why she’d taken those measurements of my body, weeks ago.

Jennifer helped me to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, and I learned just how helpless I was with my legs bound thus. She left, and returned a moment later with a wheelchair.

Val came with her, and stood a few paces off to appraise Jennifer’s handiwork. “She’s lovely, Jen, thank you.”

Jennifer beamed.

They lifted me into the wheelchair, and rolled me out to a long deck overlooking the glittering, wind-tossed waves behind the house. I saw homes on either side, but they were quite a distance away, and no one was gawking.

Val called to Stephan, who came up the stairs, two at a time, from the short beach below the deck. He was barefoot, with his pants rolled up to his calves. The two of them gently carried me down the stairs to the short, sloped beach between two large stands of weathered rocks. There we met a pair of men dressed as fishermen, and another male assistant; their attempt to not stare was largely unsuccessful. I was lowered gently to the dry sand, after which Val and Jennifer removed their shoes.

That done, they picked me up and carried me to the water’s edge, where the sand was smooth and wet. Stephen and Jennifer carefully placed me on a net they’d spread out and arranged with damp seaweed and a couple of lifeless fish. They placed me on my side, artfully positioned a few strands of seaweed, and pulled the net over me. I hated to get that beautiful costume sandy and wet, but apparently it was part of the plan.

Freezing waves washed around me and I squealed, to Val’s delight.

Stephan squatted beside me to give his direction. “Now, dear, you’ve just been snatched out of the sea. You’ll never see home again. These two men look hungry. Or worse! Maybe they want a bit of fun before they eat you,” he said dramatically, for Val’s amusement.

At his direction, the fishermen gripped the net and dragged me up the beach while I struggled vainly. Stephen danced around us with his camera, clicking furiously. Jennifer and the other assistant used reflectors to help light the shots as needed.

When the fishermen were told to open the net, I’m sure I looked helpless and humiliated, because that’s exactly how I felt.

The last shots were the hardest. Val tied my ankles with several turns of rope, and used a winch to suspend me from the deck’s overhang, high enough that my dangling hands could not touch the sand. As I slowly spun, Stephan directed the two men to fondle me. During the shoot my left pelvic fin had been slightly ripped and it was at a awkward angle, but Val didn’t let Jennifer fix it. I’m sure the added entropy heightened my aura of despair; it was the sort of detail Val loved. The tug of the rope also pulled the top of the tail free, exposing some of my unpainted waist, but Stephan assured Val he could fix the problem digitally, later.

I didn’t hang there long, perhaps five minutes. The final shots were of the two men giving the camera a thumb-up as they flanked my limp, suspended body.

By the time I was lowered and the costume removed I was shivering, from the wind on my wet body, and the fact of my being miles from anywhere, stark naked, surrounded by strangers.

Jennifer handed me a fluffy towel to huddle within. I smelled of decaying seaweed. There was sand in my hair. And it broke my heart to see that lovely tail lying on the sand, a ruin after such hard use. I wondered how much Val had paid for it, and how long it had taken to create. Could it be salvaged somehow, or would it simply end up in the trash? Such a waste.

Val paid the two actors and they left, after saying very nice goodbyes to me.

§

It was a bit past noon when Val brought me back to the house to clean up. She used a cream to remove the scales and makeup Jennifer had applied, then watched me shower the sand and seaweed smell from my body. I stood still as she toweled me dry. Passively receiving her brisk, maternal attentions was curiously affecting. The energy of that quiet moment thrust me into a truly new mental space, almost like being a child again.

Are we done? I wondered. But then Jennifer came in and laid out another costume and I realized there was another set of photos ahead of us. I did some math in my head: another hour to shoot this second set, and it’d be close to two o’clock. And if there was another set beyond that….

I started to worry about the schedule.

“Ma’am,” I said meekly.

“Yes,” Val asked. “What is it?”

“Um, I’m supposed to pick up my friend Trish at the airport today. She’s flying in from Phoenix at five. Will we be done in time?”

Val gave no outward sign other than a slight pause before answering, but I knew this did not sit well with her. “Doll assured me she would free today.”

“I know, Ma’am, but it was a last minute thing, she just called last night.” I was still whispering. “I meant to tell you about it this morning but the time didn’t seem right.”

“The proper time to announce a change of plans was last night, when doll first learned of it. A good deal of money and effort has gone into this shoot. We’ll press on. You have only yourself to blame."

Jennifer sensed the tension, but kept working as Val seemed to put the matter from her mind, and I stewed with growing worry.

§

The second set of pictures involved my lying on the rocks at the north end of the property’s beach, wearing nothing but a pair of angel wings made with turkey feathers, according to Jennifer. They glowed magnificently in the sunlight, fully five feet from wingtip to wingtip. The wings were held in place by a plain-looking pair of backpack straps, but Stephan assured Val he’d paint them out digitally after the fact. (As well as the faint bruises that showed through the makeup, Stephen added.)

Before shooting began Val twisted the left wing into an obviously broken angle, and they applied bright red stage blood to the site of the damage. Her deliberate ruin of another beautiful costume, and my pressing time issues, put me in a growing funk. It was easy to give Stephan the anguished look of a downed angel. His assistants flooded me with extra sunlight from reflectors. By the end of that shoot my vision was dazzled, being filled with blobby purple afterimages.

We finished around a quarter-to-two, to break for a late lunch of gyros pitas and Greek salad. Stephan’s people ate on the deck. Val, however, brought me to the carpeted living room and made me kneel before her as she sat in a chair. I stayed very still, hands resting palms-down on my thighs, while she fed me as she would a pet. Each time a crumb or bit of yogurt sauce caught on my lip, she savored the image a moment before wiping my mouth with a napkin.

My constant exposure to the eyes of unfamiliar people, and her insistence upon utter passivity had left me profoundly disoriented. I was so far into her alternate world now that I gave up any notion of normality. It was a kind of brainwashing, but a velvet, seductive sort. And while I didn’t exactly like it, neither did I hate it.

But the thought of Trish being stranded at the airport burned like acid. With 2:20 showing on the wall clock, and more shooting yet ahead of us, I couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Ma’am, I can’t just leave Trish stranded at the airport.”

She pretended not to hear me, and offered a sip of ginger ale from a can. She knew I hated ginger ale.

Quietly, ever so meekly, I urged, “You can do anything you want to me, but this is different. I made a promise.”

She pushed her glasses up and focused on my eyes. After a moment she said, “What am I?”

“My Keeper, Ma’am.” My answer was automatic, and it sounded hollow.

“Then let’s have no more fussing.”

Of course this did nothing to placate me, and my face must have shown it.

“Is there a problem, doll?”

“No, Ma’am,” I moped.

By now the crew was done eating and I heard Stephan giving orders in another room as they prepared for the next shoot.

A new knot of worry twisted my gut and I bowed to her in desperation. “Please Ma’am, I’ll do anything. Just please take me home.” My vision blurred with sudden tears.

“A moment, doll,” she relented with a sigh. “Let me discuss our options with Stephan.” She rose and went into the other room. I heard their conversation faintly, but couldn’t make out the words. A few moments later she returned. I looked up and wiped my eyes.

But Val’s face was hard, and she grabbed my ear, twisting it savagely, forcing me to bend over. I cried out in surprise and pain. And then I saw she held a riding crop in her other hand, and it quickly painted lines of fire across my ass and the backs of my thighs. I screamed and tried to get away, but could only scramble in circles as I was still held tightly by the ear. After about twenty blows I sank to the ground, where she gave another four or five for good measure. Having lost all orientation, I simply tried to twist away from the crop.

She released my ear with a disgusted push. I sobbed, propped on my arms with legs folded beneath me, devastated. The house was stone-quiet after my outburst.

Val let me collect myself for a few moments. “What am I?”

“My Keeper,” I blubbered. This time I meant it.

She strode away and returned with a towel, then pulled me up and dried my eyes with sudden tenderness. “Now be a good doll.”

I nodded, beaten. I tried not to notice the many pairs of eyes watching from the doorway, transfixed by my complete submission to this pale, terrible woman.

§

From that moment on, time became a dreamlike, viscous fluid. I stopped watching the clock because the Trish situation was beyond repair. I simply did as I was told with mute passivity.

If the photographer’s crew had been respectful of my vulnerability before, they now treated me with outright reverence. Or perhaps it was simply pity. Whatever the motivation, the atmosphere of the shoot following my punishment was hushed, church-like. Val did not ask Jennifer to hide my new stripes with makeup.

The theme of the shoot, I learned, was the four elements. Water and Air were the first two sets, obviously. The next was Earth, which involved my being tangled in rope-like vines in an elaborate subterranean set built in another room.

The final shoot was Fire, of course, with a wall of the previous cave set as background, now lit with infernally red lights. I was strapped with my belly against an imposing wooden cross, a pair of crossed timbers festooned with rings for restraints at regular intervals. For those pictures, a real brazier with a branding iron was brought in. The iron’s tip was red-hot, and my fear was utterly real when Val gripped my hair and held the brand a few inches from my face. By this time I was so utterly broken I found myself crying quietly at the drop of a hat. The hot iron terrified me, but I was fairly sure Val had no intention of actually using it on me.

That’s why, when she actually did press it to my squirming flank, I screamed in pain and fainted.

§

“Hello, doll,” Val said, smiling tenderly as she came into focus before my uncomprehending eyes. I was lying on a couch, naked under a blanket. There was no one else in the room, but I heard the sounds of people working, talking elsewhere.

Suddenly everything came into sharp relief, and I sat up with the force of it. The cross, the brand, my fainting. But she shushed me and sat on the couch, lowering my head to her lap. I felt for my thigh, needing to touch the wound that must surely have been left by the brand. She caught my hand and smiled.

“You’re unmarked,” she said.

She explained how she’d switched brands while I was distracted. The one that touched my flesh had been chilled in an ice bucket, causing my overwrought brain to interpret the sensation as burning. “You were magnificent. The pictures turned out splendidly.”

Relief flowed through me, and a vague indignation that put me in a bizarre state of mind. I loved and hated this woman. But mostly I felt enveloped by her, trapped, yet at the same time protected, even transformed.

Then I remembered the other matter. “Trish,” I croaked. The clock showed 5:30 pm.

“Safely in a cab, on her way to her mother’s.”

“But how…”

“I’m quite skilled at finding things out and making things happen, doll. You should know this by now. What am I?”

“My Keeper,” I said with real awe.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Now let’s go home.”

7     tangled

IT WAS A Wednesday night, and everyone was on edge. Val had been sorely vexed when she found ants invading her kitchen pantry, and blew up on the maid for not dealing with the matter before she got home. “I loathe ants,” she hissed at me over dinner, by way of explanation. This didn’t surprise me, considering her obsessively fastidious nature. And with the unusually hot weather, the ants were in overdrive. The maid took her chastening stoically, but I knew even she was shaken by the force of her employer’s wrath. Maybe Val was venting some of her unimaginable pressure from work.

After dinner, Val made popcorn while she had me select a movie for us to watch. I stumbled upon Some Like It Hot in her large DVD collection and realized I’d never actually seen that film. I judged it a safe bet for softening her mood.

And so I found myself sitting naked on the rug beside her legs, puppy-like, letting the film anesthetize us both as we delicately munched on popcorn. I knew better than to grab a handful at a time, as I did at home alone. Val disapproved of such uncouth behavior.

The hi-def TV was the sole illumination for the room. There is something soothing about old black and white movies, a gentle unreality that immediately puts me in an altered state of consciousness, a floaty, nostalgic feeling. I envy the characters’ simple world, their exaggerated emotions, the tidy plot resolutions. For me, the muted sounds and simple editing of old movies is synonymous with staying up late and growing drowsy, drifting in and out of both realities—mine and theirs—as they blend together on the shore of unconsciousness.

But then Val spotted a couple of ants in the entertainment room, too, and blew up a second time before attacking them with bug spray. On the television, Spats Columbo’s men were gunning down Toothpick Charlie’s gang. I did my best to stay out of her way. Finally satisfied with her efforts, she stood defiantly and glowered at me.

“I’m going to take a shower,” was her curt pronouncement. “Afterward, the doll will comb my hair. Carefully."

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said to her retreating back, and waited while the movie played. And watched for ants.

§

Marilyn Monroe was sneaking into Jack Lemmon’s train berth when Val returned with her hair wrapped in a towel and wearing nothing but a black bathrobe. It was more open in front than it needed to be, the soft curve of her breasts glowing in the blue-gray television light, and I knew this was a deliberate choice on her part. She rarely exposed more of herself than was strictly necessary. Was she teasing, or establishing dominance? Hinting at more than a simple hair combing? The woman was an enigma. I decided to wait for a more overt gesture before deviating from her original plan.

After I helped her move a chair in front of the television, Val said, “The doll will comb out my hair now." She leaned forward slightly, eyes invading mine. "I would be very angry if my hair were pulled." Her words were sufficiently menacing to frighten me, and I nodded with lowered eyes. So far this evening I’d been spared any part of her abundant wrath; I had no wish to become its focus now. She continued:

"Doll opens the door to the whip room now, then fetches my comb." This indicated how close I was to danger. I had not yet felt the touch of a whip, nor did I wish to. I did as commanded, on quiet bare feet.

Comb in hand, I stood directly behind Val and started at the tips of her hair, moving down, beginning a little higher with each pass. Slowly I worked my way through her nearly luminous white hair.

At the first snag I froze and held my breath, waiting for her to go off like a bomb. I felt her tense, ready to strike. But I’d caught myself before pulling very hard, and was able to work the tangle out. When the comb could move freely again, Val relaxed.

Combing long hair is slow, careful work, especially if you fear a whipping. I hadn’t done this to anyone in years, but the act dredged up memories of childhood slumber parties where we did each others’ hair while watching horror flicks. Of course, this situation was charged with such a different energy it might as well have been an alien planet. But my arms and hands remembered their old rhythms and I fell into a gentle, zen-like state of mindfulness.

Eventually I was able run the comb the full length of her hair. With the points of its teeth I gently massaged her scalp, and Val let out a lizard hiss of exquisite pleasure. I knew her eyes were closed, lips parted. She sat very still, lost in the sensation, while I did this many more times than was really necessary.

“Enough,” she said at last. “Doll will braid my hair now, with care. It would be a shame to spoil such a wonderful performance."

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, and proceeded to braid her hair, starting from just below the crown of her head, in back. I was careful not to pull too tight.

Once the braid was about twelve inches long, I bound the end with a hair band and let the remaining foot fall free. Then I tied the whole thing in a knot at the back of her head, pinned it, leaving the loose end as a pony tail.

When I was done, she had me fetch a hand mirror with which to inspect my handiwork.

“The last time Millie did this, I gave her five lashes.” She paused, and my heart pounded. “But the doll is much better at it than Millie.” Usually her use of the word doll was psychologically distancing. But this time it had a different feeling; a kind of tenderness, as if speaking of a cherished toy.

“Yes,” she said approvingly. Her half-smile, in the TV’s soft glow, was a huge relief. I received the mirror from her and put it away.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said. She stood, and we moved the chair back to its original place.

“Sit on the couch,” she told me, pointing. I obeyed. Cool leather on my skin, a soft scrunch as my weight settled there.

Val stood before me, rimmed in TV light like a ghost. She studied me a moment before parting her robe and draping it over the chair. She stood, arms at her sides, allowing me to study her.

This was my first full view of Val’s body, I realized with some surprise. It was more boyish than I imagined, taut but not overly muscular. Only her hips and breasts were distinctly feminine, creating an uneven androgyny. Standing thus, she wasn’t naked but simply unclothed, the way a Goddess needs no garments. Powerful, alive, unashamed…and yet, there was something else: Val’s soul wore her body like a vehicle, rather than filling it as water does a glass.

I stared, trying to reconcile this view with the other things I knew of Valeria Stregazzi. For some reason, I couldn’t.

There was a complicated mark on her left leg, running from above the iliac crest to just below mid-thigh. In the faint light I thought it was a tattoo, but it proved to be a vertical strip about three inches wide, filled with zigzag dagger shapes, tapered on the ends.

She came closer and bent for a kiss before moving me to a reclining position, on my right side. She lay down before me in a similar manner, and we fit together like spoons. “Doll may touch her Keeper,” Val said.

I was unsure how much freedom I had been given, so I started simply, with my left hand on her arm. I found a scar on her left shoulder as if from an ancient, long-healed cut.

When my hand roamed down to her hip, however, I was astonished. The pattern I’d seen wasn’t a tattoo but deliberate scarification. It was a raised lattice, resembling a tire tread pattern. My mind reeled at what she must have gone through, to get that and I gasped. “Ma’am…you…” I didn’t know how to ask, or even what to ask.

She didn’t speak immediately. “It is my design, done at my request. A kind of purification.” But she would say no more of it, and simply pulled my hand to her breast. For the first time, I was given leave to caress her freely, and her sudden hunger for my touch was intoxicating.

During the intimacies which flowed from that moment, I encountered other marks upon her body, including two thin parallel scars on her right mid-thigh and three long, faded marks in the middle of her back, thin as wire. She was a living map of some unknown, hostile territory, a land I would not have survived. Her refusal to speak of these marks only made them more compelling. I felt awe, fear, sadness, and a great compassion for this fierce creature.

As Marilyn Monroe sang “I Wanna Be Loved By You” in the Seminole-Ritz hotel, I discovered Val tasted a bit like raw potato. I shed a tear when she climaxed quietly, dying the Little Death beneath my tongue.

And later we slept there, entangled within a comforter, until the steel gray of dawn colored the windows.

God, I loved this woman.

8     brunch

THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY Val drove me to an expensive brunch in Santa Monica, a block from the beach. The restaurant was attached to one of the fancier hotels, and offered both poolside and interior seating. As it was a warm, clear February morning, Val chose an outside table.

There were to be no Ma’ams for me on this visit. When Val picked me up she greeted me as Koishi, not doll, indicating the different mode. At first it was hard to fight my training and not speak as a doll, but the champagne helped put me at ease. Still, I was wary. Any serious blunder would snap Val into Keeper mode, and that would be that. So I tried very hard to be good.

Had I known our destination beforehand, I’d have dressed better than jeans and t-shirt, but some of the other diners were dressed in kind, so I didn’t feel entirely out of place. Val looked sharp as always, in a gray sweater, white blouse, and charcoal-colored slacks. Her shoes were amazing, and I’d asked to admire them before we got in the car: glossy designer pumps with black toes fading to white covered heels, like little killer whales. They must have cost a fortune.

As we ate I dug my cell phone from my purse.

“I want to show you something,” I said.

“Oh?” Val smiled, and put down her Bloody Mary. The bright red drink was a stark contrast with her gray clothes and pale skin, making her seem especially vampiric.

My phone had a big touch-display you could watch movies on, but this time I wanted to show a still image. I brought it up and handed her the device.

“Yesterday I felt creative and threw this together.”

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and held the display close enough to see.

It had begun as an old reference photo I kept with others in a folder: a medium-shot of a dark-haired nude woman sitting with her back to the camera, facing away and to the left. The swell of her left hip could be seen at the bottom of the frame. She was looking back over her shoulder, eyes firmly locked onto the camera.

The key light came from behind the camera’s right, illuminating the woman’s back and side-lighting her face. A rim light traced front of her body, just bright enough to round out the smooth curves of flesh. A bit of bounce light from her left arm softly illuminated her ribcage and the side of her breast. She seemed to calmly regard the viewer from out of a warm murk.

I’d replaced the woman’s face with that of an outrageous sculpture based on a monster found in Hieronymus Bosch’s Temptation of Saint Anthony, another framed print in Val’s house. The original image had shown a frightening, armless creature with the hind legs of a calf, two winglike ears, and the face of a catfish. An improbable, knobby horn protruded from its forehead. From its open mouth hung a blade-like tongue, serpentine and lewd. I’d only kept the face, and blended it seamlessly onto the woman’s head.

But I’d retained the woman’s eye, to preserve her underlying humanity and direct visual lock with the viewer.

Behind this alarming creature I’d placed Bruegel’s The Triumph of Death, a wide panorama showing a skeleton army laying waste to a bucolic landscape. Bodies littered the ground. I had darkened the smoky background in order to make the creature appear as if she were caught in a stray beam of guttering sunlight. Finally I ran it through an image filter to give it an engraved appearance.

The final result was a series of unfolding impressions. First horror, upon seeing that monstrous face. Then, surprise at the sensual perfection of her body. Melancholy, as the death and decay of the background came into view. And finally compassion for the soul trapped in that doomed, yet strangely beautiful beast. I found the image haunting, poignant.

“How curious,” she commented finally. “What does it represent?”

“It’s a portrait of you,” I said, and waited as she studied it. “Not literally, of course. A metaphor.”

“I see you still have a keen eye for glowing garbage, Miss Paz,” she said, handing the phone back to me. “You’re a continuing delight.”

I savored her praise. “Thanks, Val.”

“Is the resolution high enough to be printed and framed?” she wanted to know. I nodded. “Then I have a commission for you. I’d like you to create four more images like this one, of any style you choose, but they must all represent various aspects of me. I need them to be ready for framing within three weeks, which I’ll take care of. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for all five images, and you retain the rights. Will you do it?”

“Sure. Of course,” I said, suddenly inspired by the challenge. I put the phone back in my purse.

“Excellent. Now there are a couple of matters we should discuss.”

I waited for her to continue.

She said, “You’ve been mine for a month now. Your training’s gone very well. In four weeks, then, I’ll give a party where you can make your public debut as my doll. How do you feel about that?"

My stomach went into free fall. Public debut? As her doll? “Um, I don’t know, exactly. What does that involve?"

“What does any debut involve? Showing you off. It will be a black tie affair, of course. All you have to do is look pretty and behave yourself. Surely you can manage that."

I nodded as I picked at my Belgian waffle and got my head around the idea. I did know one thing: nothing was ever that simple with Val. I was just beginning to fret about the consequences of such a debut when Val said:

“And now I’m wondering how you’re coming along with your assignment, Koishi.”

Assignment. What assignment? I searched my memory and came up empty. Val smiled. She’d expected this reaction, and let me twist in the wind before explaining.

“It was the very first task I assigned you, dear. I gave no firm deadline and you assured me you’d work on it. Have you forgotten already?”

“I’m sorry, M—” I almost said Ma’am. I desperately wanted to say it now, because I’d clearly screwed up. My earlier prideful glow withered and died. “I guess I did forget."

She sipped her drink, relishing this moment and the power it gave her. “It seems I expected too much of an empty-headed koi-fish.”

I could only bow my head, and await my doom.

Val leaned forward. “I asked you to choose a close friend to whom you would divulge our relationship, so I might meet them and discuss what we do together. Do you recall it now?”

I did. Christ, I’d forgotten that task almost immediately. And she’d known I would, and waited a whole month to pluck the heavy, ripened fruit of my failure. My shame was so great I could scarcely breathe. I lowered my head and fought the urge to kneel at her feet, right there in the restaurant.

“And have you selected anyone yet?” She prompted.

“No, Ma’am,” I confessed dully. She noticed the honorific. Blood in the water.

“I’m disappointed, doll, but not angry. I’ll just have to lower my expectations of you.” That stung. “Very well. You’re released from that task, but mark this well as your first serious blunder. There will be serious consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Appetite gone, I put my fork down and waited silently as Val paid the bill. She rose and made a point of taking my purse. Then she tapped her left thigh: heel. I followed just behind and to her left, beaten.

She stopped by the vacant pool and stood at its edge, as if to admire the still water. A man and woman were dining and talking quietly a few yards to Val’s right, under a large umbrella sprouting from the center of their table.

My anxiety grew for several moments, until Val snapped her fingers and pointed to the gently undulating water before her. Front. Kneel.

Oh Jesus.

I don’t have to do this. I can say no if I want to.

I stepped forward and tumbled into the pool.

§

“She’s such a clumsy girl,” Val assured the staff, and liberally bribed them into letting me dry off in a vacant hotel room. I sat alone, wrapped in hotel towels, watching television while they ran my clothes through the dryer. Val, of course, didn’t wait around for me, but went shopping until I called to say my clothes were dry.

It was a very humble, quiet doll who finally got back into Val’s car.

I spent the trip home wondering what it was about this woman that made me endure such bizarre trials. It wasn’t the sex, which had only happened twice so far. No, it was the way she enveloped me, defined and restricted me. Valeria amplified my sense of being, of existing in a tactile, physical, unpredictable world. Each day was an adventure beyond anything I could have imagined. With her, the simplest objects or situations took on wholly new meanings. A single word from her could mean bliss, or despair. And as dreadful as they were, my plunges into darkness were always, always followed by the sweetest attentions later. I knew it was classic Pavlovian conditioning, yet I learned to welcome her punishments for what was sure to come after. She touched something deep within me which no one, not even I, had known was there, and it made me brave. Because whatever I did, or was made to do, Val was there to assume all responsibility. With Val I felt cherished, and fully alive.

She parked by the gate outside my condo.

“Thank you for a most enjoyable brunch,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “Do have a lovely Sunday. I expect you’ll be working on your commissions, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, climbing out of the car. I bent down to look at her through the open passenger window and waited for her farewell.

She studied me for a long moment, as if searching for something in my eyes. But then she smiled and released me from her penetrating gaze.

“I’ll be out of town for about a week and a half,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Ta,” she said, and zipped away.

9     commission

FAILING VAL’S FIRST task, that of choosing a confidant from among my long-time acquaintances, troubled me. Of course my initial shock at the brunch stung, but even worse was the guilt that gnawed at me after. The dip in the pool wasn’t the end of the matter. There will be serious consequences, she’d warned.

My guilt, and her absence, made it easy to apply myself to my new task of creating four more portraits of Val. And over the next two weeks they slowly took shape.

I called the first one Benthic. It started with a photo I’d taken of Val a couple weeks earlier, when she’d worn nearly the same outfit as at our meeting at the jazz club, but with her hair up. My camera had been handy, and she’d permitted me to snap a few pictures. I’d posed her in one of the chairs in her study, in the style of those stiff, long-exposure Victorian portraits with murky lighting. In this photo she presented a nearly head-on angle, sitting up straight with an expression of detached amusement.

The twist, as in the first piece, was the image I used as a replacement head, this time a great white shark. Seen almost head-on, the creature had been photographed with its entire head above water, its blood-smeared mouth ringed with teeth, some of them broken. The perspective blunted the shark’s fighter-jet shape into something more box-like. The eyes were so far around the sides as to be almost hidden, but the nasal openings were in full view, bridged by an arc of wrinkled white flesh beneath the pointed nose. It was more demon than fish, all mouth and expressionless snout.

Blending the two images required clever morphing and paint fixes around the neck, but the resulting join was perfect. I added horizontal motion blur to the head, creating a frenzied violence in an otherwise static pose. With a little vignetting and color-adjustment, the finished piece felt both claustrophobic and menacing.

The next one, Auto-Matron, started with some random browsing for pale, naked goth girls. I would have used a nude photo of Val, but she hadn’t yet allowed such a thing, so I had to make do. Fortunately I only needed the torso, from waist to neck, so it didn’t have to be an exact match. What I found was an image of a slim, slightly muscular goth girl with light blue veins crisscrossing her arms and chest. She stood facing the camera with one arm behind her back. The other hand clutched a long pendant, pulling it slightly to the side.

I painted out the pendant and gave her hand a new purpose: peeling open her skin to revel an outlandish bio-mechanical clockwork mechanism. Within that milky flesh were cogs of gristle and bone bound by sinew in a grotesque analog of a pocket watch’s innards. The largest gear, seen partially from behind the curtain of epidermis, had several broken teeth. Fluid the color of oil ran thickly from her nipples.

Tiny, indecipherable call-outs pointed to various features inside the woman, in a style recalling the mysterious Voynich Manuscript. The final result was a exploded view of an impossible living machine.

Doll, the third image, took the longest. I couldn’t find the right base images, so I was forced to do more actual painting, from scratch. I borrowed liberally from the style of Mark Ryden, an artist Val adored, whose unsettling paintings corrupted the innocence of children’s picture-books with darkly sexual, morbid undercurrents.

Of the three pieces, this image was the clearest in my mind. I saw a little girl in a black dress, huddled in a dirty corner of her untidy bedroom. The bruise on her cheek suggested she was a victim of abuse. In one hand she held a small doll, dressed much like herself. The doll’s left arm had been torn off, but her right was extended to wipe a tear from the little girl’s cheek. The girl did not seem to notice this gesture, as she stared directly at the viewer with a sullen, hostile expression.

I worked on that image for a week, only to start again entirely from scratch. I hadn’t done any real painting in a decade and found I was painfully rusty. But the second try came out better. Not as good as Ryden, not by a long shot, but good enough to show.

When I finished the third piece I put all three on a spare flash drive and tucked it in my purse, ready for the next time I saw Val.

§

Meanwhile, in the real world…

During the first week of Val’s absence I received only one email from her. The time-stamp said 4am, her time, and I knew she was working late.

I still had no clue what Val did for a living, but it was obviously stressful. More than once she hinted that mistakes on her part could put other people’s lives in jeopardy, but I took that to be exaggeration. Still, she sometimes worked as long as 72 hours at a stretch, with only catnaps for sleep. During such crunches she’d call in the wee hours of the morning, and I’d help her stay awake as she pounded on an unseen keyboard. In such times, the stress and lack of sleep made her uncharacteristically silly and random, which only made Val scarier.

Anyway, this particular email read:

Koishi,

Rejoice in your happy, simple life. On days like today, nothing would please me more than seeing the world in flames. Humans are idiots, especially the ones I must deal with. But enough of my complaining.

I am pleased to report that Millie will be flying back to Los Angeles soon. Expect to see her again.

Paint.

—Val

I felt a stab of anxiety. My one encounter with Millie at the party had been difficult, competitive. Now that I was officially a doll, I couldn’t imagine how we’d interact.

Valentine’s Day came and went. I didn’t send Val anything, not even a greeting, because that holiday didn’t seem to apply to whatever it was we shared. I prayed she wouldn’t take offense at the lack, but I needn’t have worried. She never mentioned it.

Val returned home on the second week as promised. To my surprise, she didn’t summon me. I’d expected her to step up my training in preparation for my impending debut. Should I call and ask to see her? Would that incur her wrath? Another source of anxiety.

I wondered if Val’s trip and subsequent aloofness were work-related, or whether she’d grown bored with me and found other amusements. This was our longest separation, and I was shocked by the size of the hole it left in my life.

Millie, however, was the biggest unknown.

§

Val called at 8 o’clock on Wednesday, the 20th.

“I hope you had a pleasant trip?” I said. It was as close to asking what she’d been up to as I dared.

“It was productive. Is doll making progress on her artwork?” she asked. No small talk, just straight to business.

“I am,” I replied. “Well, three of them anyway. I haven’t started the last one. I can’t seem to come up with anything.”

“I’m confident you’ll find your inspiration.”

“Thank you.”

“And you still have eleven days before it’s due. I look forward to the fruits of your labor. Now…are you free Thursday? Say at nine pm?"

Yes! I thought, but forced myself to sound nonchalant. “I’m supposed to go bowling with a few friends from work. But I can ditch that.”

“Are you quite sure? I wouldn’t want to deprive my doll such exquisite pleasures. I imagine the beer is quite good."

I laughed, even as her words stung.

“No, they won’t mind,” I assured her before blurting, “I do miss you, Ma’am."

She heard the honorific, but didn’t take the bait.

“Nine o’clock on Thursday then, my place. Bring whatever art you’ve finished, so I can send the files to the printers."

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Ta."

“Should I also bri—” I began, but the line was already dead.

§

Thursday night was windy, cold, a little drizzly. I wore a gray long-sleeved turtleneck sweater dress which came down to my knees, and Val seemed to approve when she greeted me at the door. I was surprised to find her there, not the maid, and knelt reflexively on the tiles.

“I’m here for you, Ma’am,” I said. The chill wind swirled about my legs.

“Good doll.” She stroked my hair for a moment, and I studied her pretty black wedge pumps as I kept my head lowered. “Do come in.”

She took my purse and brought me to the study, where she sat in her stuffed plum-colored armchair. I knelt on the throw rug before her.

“Yolanda’s away for a couple of days, visiting family out of the country,” she explained, anticipating my question. “It’s convenient to have dolls, at such times."

I nodded, unsure if she was referring specifically to me, or her dolls in general. However deeply I craved Val’s attentions, the thought of doing her housework did not appeal to me in the least. I nearly laughed aloud at this realization. Spanking? Check. Standing nude in the presence of strangers? Sure. Dusting and laundry? No way. I didn’t mention my strong aversion to house chores, however, as I knew Val would find a use for that knowledge, in the most dreadful way.

“I apologize for being rather more busy than I expected. Work has been unusually demanding.” She smiled. “But here you are, and I’m eager to see your creations. Have you made good use of your time?”

“Yes, Ma’am, though I’m still stuck on the last piece.” She nodded. “My phone is in the purse, if you want to see them.”

Rather than puzzle out how to use my phone, Val simply handed it to me. I brought up the first image, the shark, and passed it back to her.

After donning her glasses she studied it for a long time, completely absorbed. “How odd,” she said, with a touch of concern. “I’m quite certain I brushed my teeth that morning, but perhaps I am mistaken.” Because of her grave tone it took a moment to realize she was joking. Now I knew what she’d meant, the many times she’d warned me: I’m not very funny. True, her delivery left much to be desired.

I laughed anyway, relieved she hadn’t taken offense at the image.

“It’s well done. I’m sure the large version is even more splendid. Now, how do I…”

She figured out how to flip to the next image with a finger swipe, and came to the cut-away view of the organic machine. I waited anxiously as she scrutinized it.

“I like this one very much,” was her eventual response, and I thanked her.

She swiped to the doll painting. This was the work I’d hoped would please her best.

Like a cloud covering the sun, her face darkened. Gone was her relaxed, somewhat chatty aura; in its place slammed something alien, unreadable, frighteningly intense. She turned to regard me, lips tight and eyes like gunsights. My heart stopped; I had never seen this expression before. Something had gone horribly wrong.

Val said evenly, “What is this.” When I couldn’t answer, she pressed, “Why did you do this. What does it mean. Answer. Me. Right. Now."

I struggled to find words. “Ma’am, I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad by it…”

She leaned close. I could smell tea on her breath as she hissed, “Do you want me to hurt you?”

I felt dizzy from panic. “I don’t know anything about you. You never talk about your childhood…I thought maybe…”

“Doll is a therapist now? Hoping to cast out my inner demons?”

I shook my head, no no no.

Val leaned back with a sneer, and then slapped me hard across the mouth.

I cried out automatically and the room spun. In the last ten seconds my world had turned upside down and I was falling, falling, with nothing solid to grasp.

Her face was a kabuki mask of rage. She stood and walked briskly out of the room to return a moment later with her red whip, the one that looked like a fer-de-lance. She’d never yet used that one on me, and I found it terrifying.

“You think you understand me? You think you know the first thing about my pain? Well, you don’t!” She let the whip uncoil, with a shake. “But you will.”

Frogspawn. Frogspawn. Frog—

I wanted to run. I began to gather the energy to stand and flee from the room, but stopped cold when I realized: this was my fault. I had done this. I had stupidly tried to bring comfort to a little girl with an emotional time machine. But instead of giving succor, my painting had broken the seal on a long-suppressed, white-hot inner rage.

The shock of this realization pinned me to the floor. I sobbed at the pain I’d unwittingly caused Val, the very last thing I’d intended with the painting.

Her arm raised. My vision contracted to a point.

Five strokes, ten; I didn’t count, couldn’t have. The whip struck my curled legs, my shielding arms, and my back, as my body cried out and struggled to get away. But my soul accepted her attack as proper penance for my stupid attempt to connect with that vulnerable thing I guessed was hiding inside the pale, armored monster I’d come to adore.

When the whipping stopped, I was huddled in the corner, shaking uncontrollably and weeping.

“What did you say?” Val demanded.

“…I love you,” I blubbered, staggered by my own admission.

She considered my words as if trying to understand the punchline to a failed joke.

“I don’t know what that means. Explain it to me."

And that voice, I knew, came from the little girl in the painting, grown up and daring to peek out from her hiding place, possibly for the first time in decades. I heard suspicion, but also a hint of desperate hope. Val looked suddenly smaller, unsure, as her rage faded.

I crawled to Val and hugged her legs, half lying on the floor. Now I shed new tears, out of compassion for her unknown trials and what they must have cost her. But lacking the proper words, I simply held her. After a minute she tossed the whip aside and sat, pulling me close to stroke my hair and look at me with wonder.

Val examined the angry welts on my exposed legs. “No real damage. No broken skin,” she said almost tenderly. “But they will hurt for a while."

I didn’t care. I had finally broken through Val’s armor and touched something fragile within. I didn’t know how long it would last, but it had been worth it.

It occurred to me, then, we had just acted out the scene in that last painting. And transcended it.

“I’ll do a different picture, Ma’am.”

“No, Koishi, it’s quite all right.” She paused. “You simply caught me…unprepared. Some memories are not entirely pleasant or comfortable."

I didn’t press for more detail. We cuddled in silence.

The drizzle had turned to rain, and it beat at the window as the wind picked up. Val got up and fetched a small bottle of pungent liquid, from another room. “Witch hazel,” she said as she sprayed some on the whip marks, after I’d removed the sweater dress. “It’ll reduce the bruising, later.” She worked it delicately into the skin with her hands, and it felt good even as the pressure of her touch hurt terribly.

Later, she wrapped me in a blanket and served me cocoa before putting on a pretty, baffling fantasy movie from a French director I’d never heard of. We watched it without subtitles, and when I grew drowsy, she helped me upstairs to her bedroom. The last thing I remember was Val curled naked against my back, gliding her hands over my body, gentle as night-mist.

§

And then I was adrift on the ocean of dream, where I met a frightened snake who bit my arm. I remained calm, gently stroking its tensed body, until it released the bite and let me hold its cool, smooth body coiled against my breast. From its unblinking reptilian eyes, I could not tell if it now trusted me, or simply craved my warmth.

10     millie

I WOKE SLOWLY, as if emerging from a deep hole, disoriented by finding myself in a strange bed. Val had pulled back the covers and was kneeling beside me, making a survey of the marks on on my body, which still hurt when I moved. Her pale flesh seemed to shine in the gray predawn light from the window. An unusual weariness, and the pain of movement, rendered me passive, immobile.

Satisfied, Val slipped off the bed and drew the covers back over me. I thought I heard the shower running before passing back into unconsciousness.

I was roused, briefly, by her kiss before she left for work.

§

The growl of lawnmowers roused me from sleep, as her gardeners made their weekly rounds. 8:30 read the clock on the nightstand, so I reluctantly got up and made the bed. I probably would have done so even if the maid were on duty; my mother was a stickler about such things and it was a well-established habit.

According to the full-length bathroom mirror there were no actual cuts on my body, only angry raised welts. I counted twelve stripes. But I was forced to take a lukewarm shower because hot water made the marks feel exactly like cuts from a knife.

Wincing, I put on last night’s clothes, which Val must have folded and placed on the vanity before climbing into bed with me. I hadn’t noticed that, then. It was a good thing I’d changed before coming to Val’s the night before, because I could drive straight to work instead of rushing home for fresh clothes.

Standing in the slanted morning sunlight, I realized this was the first time Val had left me alone in her house. I looked about, wondering what might I find in her drawers and closets. After a moment’s indecision, I quietly slid open the top drawer on Val’s large minimalist dresser.

Inside were precise rows of neatly folded panties and bras. But on the side was a small open box containing strange items that gave me pause.

It held a stout pair of chrome handcuffs and a matching stubby key. What really caught my attention, though, was the taser. It looked like an oversized black flashlight, a smooth, sculpted shape ending in a claw-like business end with two metallic contacts. I might not have been able to identify it, but the word TASER embossed on the grip removed all doubt. It was unexpectedly heavy.

These were expensive, professional-grade items. The sort a cop would own. Why did this discovery unnerve me so? After all, she had a dungeon filled with all manner of horrid devices. But those existed in a narrow context, a fetishistic bubble. The cuffs and taser, on the other hand, sat squarely in the real world with intimidating authority, a kind of brute efficiency.

With a throb of guilt I carefully put the weapon back in the box, exactly as I’d found it. What other surprises might be scattered about the house?

As I closed the drawer, something moved at the edge of my vision. I jumped with a gasp, thinking it was Val. But it was only Millie, peeking around the frame of the bedroom door. She must have just arrived, as she hadn’t yet removed the heather-gray scarf from around her neck, or the soft matching knitted gloves. She stepped into the room.

“My god, Millie, you scared me half to death!”

She’d seen what I’d been doing.

“Oh, she doesn’t keep anything important in there,” Millie said brightly, looking toward the dresser drawer. Then she gave me a curiously strong hug, making me wince. The gesture felt controlling. “It’s good to see you again, Koishi.”

Lying bitch.

Her appearance was so utterly unexpected it rendered me speechless. If Millie ever wanted to get me in trouble with Val, she certainly had the goods on me now. Yet her conspiratorial tone implied several things all at once: she wasn’t surprised to catch me in the act, she had probably done far worse herself, and knew even greater secrets.

“How did you…” I began.

“I have a key, silly.” she laughed, and sat with a flump on the edge of the bed I’d just made, marring its perfection. “Val lets me come and go as I like."

I could only stare. She removed her scarf and gloves before preening herself in the mirror opposite the bed.

“Come on, I’ll make you breakfast. Waffles and sausage,” she offered, with a tempting, singsong melody.

“I really can’t stay, Millie. I’m going to be late for work as it is.”

“Awww,” she pouted dramatically.

How I detested that girl.

§

My purse was on the table in the entrance beside the door, and I remembered the pen-sized flash drive with my art stored on it. I’d meant to give it to Val last night, but forgot when things got crazy.

It wasn’t inside my purse. Had I lost it somewhere? No big deal: flash drives were cheap, and I still had the original files at home. But I was sure I’d brought it along.

Then I realized Val must have taken it from my purse on her way out. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. How strange, I thought. While I was mortified to have been caught snooping around in Val’s things, no one seemed to have the least issue with her rooting around in mine.

I said a polite goodbye to Millie and sped off to work, only to sit in traffic and stew in my misgivings.

§

Bad traffic and a late start made me an hour late to work.

“Morning, Sunshine,” said the new security guard when I pulled up to the front gate and lowered my window.

“I forgot my badge at home, can you let me in?” It was still sitting on my dining room counter. I hadn’t planned to stay overnight at Val’s and didn’t have time this morning to fetch it.

He looked down from his chair in the gatehouse, through mirrored cop sunglasses. “I’ll need to see some identification,” he said, rising from his chair to stand beside my car.

With a quiet grr, I found my wallet and flipped it open to my driver’s license. He took it into the guardhouse and began to copy my information onto a clipboard.

He’d only been here a couple of weeks and I disliked him already. The heavyset man appeared fortyish, and the pink flesh of his neck formed a muffin-top over that collar. He actually looked a bit like the dog image on his jacket, snarling above the words BULLDOG SECURITY SERVICES.

Once he’d finished logging my information, he called the number for Lucid Dreams. I knew it would be Shelley, our receptionist, who answered the call.

“Good morning. This is Tyler from Security at the front gate. I have a Miss, um…Kioshi Paz here without her card, shall I let her in?” Christ, he even mispronounced my name as kee-OH-shee, the word for quiet. By now two cars waited behind mine, and one of them tapped their horn during the three minutes it took him to issue me a temporary badge and raise the gate. Arriving this late in the morning I was forced to park all the way on the roof of the parking structure, and take the stairs down. By the time I reached my desk I was out of breath.

“You’re late, Miss Paz,” scolded Carl, my boss. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue, but this morning our client had raised the priority of some of my shots. “I need your shots from the AN_103 sequence for the temp screening next week.”

“You’ll have them by the end of the day,” I replied, wincing as I sat to log onto my workstation. Two months ago I’d have been wrecked by his hostile greeting, but my time with Val provided a new perspective on stress. And today I felt bigger than Carl. I just survived an actual whipping, how about you?

I did, however, worry about Millie and the taser. She’d seem unfazed by my actions but I didn’t trust her, not one inch. Yet she’d admitted worse crimes, by implication. I might have to use that admission as a counter stroke, in case of betrayal.

§

That afternoon the receptionist buzzed me on the speaker phone. “Hey Koishi. There’s a delivery for you at my desk.”

It turned out to be a single red rose, a small box, and a note. Within the box was a beautiful gold herringbone necklace with an amber pendant. When I held it up to the light I saw a spider trapped within the polished, irregular orb. The note was a haiku, saying only:

inexorable
a golden suffocation
no longer fragile

—V

Shelley brimmed with questions, which I deflected by saying it was just a gift from a friend. How could I possibly explain Val to her? Or to anyone?

The gifts were an apology of sorts. I was unaccustomed to such tenderness from Val, and it only sharpened my lingering guilt. But I wore the necklace proudly, having definitely earned it. And all afternoon the words haunted me: no longer fragile. Was that true?

Before I left work that evening I received an email from Val. Are you free for dinner tomorrow night? We’ll leave my house at 8pm. Dress nicely. PS Millie says hello.

I was suddenly filled with dread.

§

By Saturday night the whip marks had turned to bruises and posed a real wardrobe challenge. Stockings weren’t enough to mask the marks on my legs, and the one on my left forearm demanded sleeves. Ultimately, I was forced to wear all black, an ankle-length skirt and a matching turtleneck sweater blouse with long sleeves. I hoped an up-hair do and the amber necklace was enough to put me in “dress nicely” territory, because I hadn’t any other options.

Too dark? Too withdrawn? I fretted, as I evaluated my quasi-Goth eye makeup in the bathroom mirror. But I remembered Millie’s makeup at the Christmas party, and had no intention of letting her beat me in the game for Val’s attention, now that we were outright rivals. Fortune favors the bold, or so they say.

§

It was Millie who greeted me at Val’s door.

We couldn’t have dressed any more differently. Where I was dark and covered, she was gossamer and sunshine in a warm-hued paisley cocktail dress with a plunging V neckline. Her cheerful three-tiered skirt stopped at mid-thigh.

“Hi, Koishi,” she said with a predatory smile, sizing me up. She fussed a bit over my attire, adjusting the turtleneck, smoothing my sleeves, before lifting the amber pendant for inspection. “Oh, how pretty!”

“It’s a gift from Val,” I said, and watched her carefully. She was my rival and a serious threat, but I couldn’t resist that small jab.

Millie gently lowered the pendant and met my gaze. “You must have been very good,” she said, her face betraying nothing. “Come on in.”

I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me.

“Val worried you might be late,” Millie lied, trying to put me off-balance. It didn’t work, I knew very well I was ten minutes early. I was always early.

I followed her through the house. Because of the open back of her dress, I saw she had a small tattoo on her right shoulder blade, a little dagger with a drop of blood at the tip. I assumed the =V= on its hilt meant ‘Val’. I hadn’t seen it at the party, so she must have gotten it afterward.

We met our Keeper in the library, where she was returning a book to its place on the shelf.

“There you are,” she said.

Val was elegant but conservative in charcoal gray slacks and a gabardine jacket over a light gray sweater. Her hair was up loosely, with a few locks allowed to fall gently upon her smooth forehead.

She turned to face us. Millie and I both knelt reflexively, whereupon I discovered that kneeling in a long skirt is no simple matter. Stupid me, I hadn’t considered that.

“I’m here for you, Ma’am,” I said with my head bowed.

After a moment, Val spoke.

“Millie has done this before, and you haven’t. I plan on a long, pleasant dinner. You two are there to please me, and see that I want for nothing. I expect you to be courteous, well-behaved, and attentive. You do not want to arouse my displeasure tonight."

She let me digest that threat.

“This will be difficult for you, Koishi, because I am not in the habit of commanding when enjoying myself this way. You must anticipate my needs. But I’m confident you’ll learn.”

Here in Val’s world, even mundane things like dining became perilous, full of dread. Especially dining. I understood what a soldier must feel as he prepares to join a battle.

“Marines, we are leaving,” she said, and chuckled. Millie rose to fetch Val’s coat and purse before the thought even crossed my mind. This promised to be a long, difficult evening.

§

Millie, I learned, was very good at this.

My only chance to participate was by luck, as I stood nearest the valet when he gave us the ticket for Val’s car (her other one, a gray Audi RS4). I placed the ticket carefully into my purse. But in every other case it was Millie who took charge of things: greeting the hostess, taking Val’s coat, and so on. Millie was always there first, moving with grace and purpose, anticipating Val’s needs. Shaming me in the process.

The restaurant was called Wabi-Sabi, an upscale Japanese place in West Hollywood, with a good line of people waiting to be seated. But the hostess smiled at seeing us, and showed us to a table without hesitation. I wondered what Millie had done, ahead of time, to secure our VIP treatment.

The restaurant was gorgeous, softly lit by recessed lighting, a perfect example of the tasteful minimalism that is so uniquely Japanese. The clientele was of mixed ethnicity, but all came from the higher strata of society, at least from my perspective. I even thought I saw Bruce Willis sitting at one of the tables, looking older and balder than I expected. There was no time to gawk, however, as my attention was tightly focused on Val.

Our group made an unusual spectacle. We were not simply three women meeting for dinner; there was no disguising our obeisance to Val. She was clearly the planet, and we her two close-orbiting moons. I felt many eyes on me as we were led to our table, but it was nothing compared to my fear of Val, should I misstep.

Once seated, Val took a small notepad and pen from her purse and placed them on the table, then opened the notepad to a blank page. When she wrote M and K at the top, separated by a space, I felt a sense of dread.

“Millie tells me you two met Friday morning, after I left for work,” Val said, her gray-green eyes locked to mine.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “It was quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure it was."

I said nothing, and hoped my face did not betray panic.

“I’m going to freshen up,” Val said. “Please order me a drink.” She was looking squarely at me, so I knew the responsibility was mine. She stood and walked to the restroom.

I studied the beverage menu and frowned over the bewildering array of choices as if my life depended on it.

“It’s got to be sake, I think,” I said aloud, hoping that even while Millie was my enemy, her reaction might give clues to Val’s preferences: a sneer, perhaps, or a frown. But she only smiled in a way that said you’re on your own, bitch. Still, when in Rome…. It had to be sake.

Except I didn’t know which to choose. There were at least twenty different brands, and their names were absolutely no help. The biggest distinction seemed to be that of dry or sweet. “Something dry, I think,” I hazarded, watching Millie.

“Perfect,” she said, so eagerly I smelled a trap. Had I blundered with that choice? Should I choose sweet?

When the waiter came to ask about drinks, I was so unsure that I picked one almost at random. “We’ll have a bottle of Sato no Homare, please.” It was one of the sweeter, not dry, varieties. He nodded and left.

Millie’s smile broadened. “You’re part Japanese, right? So you must know a lot about sake.”

Which was untrue, because I’d never really absorbed any culture from Mom, especially after we moved stateside.

“Was that Bruce Willis back there?” she asked, turning to look. I shrugged, too nervous about the drinks to manage light banter with my enemy. We both studied the menu.

Val didn’t ask what I’d ordered when she returned. When it arrived, Millie poured a cup of the warm sake and deferentially offered it to Val. There was that smile, again.

The look on Val’s face, upon tasting the sake, told me it had been a poor choice. Her cold regard was withering, and my heart froze as she made a little mark under the K in her notepad.

“Millie,” Val said with a chillingly light tone, “Perhaps you can select a drinkable sake. This one is quite unsuitable.”

I despised Millie in that moment. She’d deliberately steered me into the blunder with her subtle miscues.

After the waiter announced the daily specials, Millie asked him for a few minutes to decide. She picked a different sake, too, and he departed. Val did not open her menu, but said:

“Koishi, you will choose my appetizer, and later, dessert. Millie will select my main course items. When you order for yourself, get at least three items. The portions are rather small.”

Perhaps if my next choices were pleasing I could avoid a new mark under my initial. But I had no idea what Japanese dishes Val liked, or even what was recommended here. The consequences for failure were sure to be dire. I’d never studied a menu with so much concentration, and the strain was exhausting.

When the new bottle of sake arrived it proved far more to Val’s liking.

I took several minutes to decide on Val’s appetizers. I’m sure the waiter thought we were quite bizarre when he took our order. It went like this:

He asked, “Have you decided?”

Val looked to me, and I realized I was to begin. “Ma’am,” I told him, gracefully indicating Val with my outstretched hand, palm up (rather than pointing, a crime for which she’d once slapped me), “will have the Seafood Miso soup and Lobster Avocado salad."

He didn’t write anything down, simply nodded. “And for yourself, Miss?”

“Um, the regular miso, and the Seaweed Medley,” I said.

Millie ordered her own appetizers next, then three items each for Val and herself. I’d chosen my dishes almost at random, being far too anxious to care.

I don’t know how the waiter kept so many items straight in his head without taking notes, but he did. During all of this Val said nothing, watching with a detachment that gave no clue as to the suitability of our choices.

Once we’d ordered and the waiter gone, I faced the next minefield of the evening: conversation. Fear tied my stomach in knots as I worried how to proceed.

“Ma’am showed me your artwork,” Millie said brightly. “It’s nice."

“Thank you,” I said, secretly annoyed. Nice was not a word used in any meaningful discussion of art, especially when Val was the subject. Millie might as well have said my work was tidy. Clearly she knew nothing about art, so I endeavored to make her squirm. “Do you have a favorite artist?"

She thought for a moment. “Boris Vallejo maybe, or Royo."

Oh brother. I smiled, vindicated by Millie’s pedestrian tastes. “Yes, they’re quite nice."

Without the slightest change in her pleasant expression, Val put another mark under the K. Jesus.

After a pregnant silence, Val said, “I believe I’m in the mood for some haiku. Wouldn’t that be lovely?"

“Yes, Ma’am,” Millie and I said in unison, with equal dread.

“I want each of you to take a moment to compose a haiku about the other doll,” Val said.

I can’t imagine what the waiter thought as he brought our appetizers, to find Millie and I staring quietly at the table, counting syllables upon our fingers, desperately seeking inspiration.

I’m sure Millie hated the task as much as I. Val sipped at her soup, delicately ate her salad, and enjoyed our struggle. My mind was a jumble, and I found myself focusing on the memory of Millie’s new tattoo.

“Why don’t you give us yours first, Koishi?” Val prompted.

I prayed I’d counted the syllables correctly in my head. She’d slapped me in public once, when my haiku was a syllable too long. I sat up straight and said:

small inky needles,
not Cupid’s arrow, have pierced
her flesh, tasted blood

“Acceptable,” Val said. I tried not to sigh with relief. “Millie?"

Millie took a breath and recited:

what is for dinner?
she twists back and forth, our koi,
dancing on a hook

My heart clenched as Val picked up the pen. But when she drew a mark under the letter M, I barely suppressed a victory grin. Millie wasn’t perfect, after all. I might just survive this night.

That chance, however, grew slimmer as the meal progressed. When I splashed a drop of sake on the table in my eagerness to serve Val before Millie, I received a mark. Another mark for being too quiet, I think. The next mark was a complete mystery: Val simply looked at me for several seconds until I was forced to look away. She drew a slash across my earlier strokes, bringing my total to five.

As I ate, I tried not to think about what punishment might be forthcoming. But slowly, inexorably, a band of apprehension tightened about my heart.

I learned that Millie worked in the Marketing department of a new, up-and-coming apparel company which catered to the edgy, demanding Generation Y cohort.

“Cohort?” I asked out of curiosity. “Is that a technical term? I thought it meant someone in league with a bad guy.”

“Well, yeah, but in this case it means a generational group,” Millie said. “Gen Y’s are a tough market. You have to find ways to channel their rebellion into consumerism.”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know anything about sales.”

“I do marketing, not sales,” she said with a frown. A sore point for her, apparently. But the outburst displeased Val, and she added a second mark to the M column.

That gave Millie pause, but she pressed on, compelled to make her point: “They’re completely different. Marketing is the front end, it’s all about making a connection with potential customers. Sales is just sealing the deal. Who’s more important, the head chef, or the waiter who brings the food?”

I expected Val to give another demerit for that, but no.

Millie turned to Val. “Oh, a friend sent me a funny email about that, Ma’am.” She sat up straighter. “So let’s say you’re at a party with some friends, and you see a really hunky guy. You go to him and say, ‘I’m great in bed’, that’s direct marketing. But if one of your friends points you out to him and says ‘she’s great in bed’, that’s advertising. If you get the guy’s phone number and call him up the next day to tell him how good you are in bed, that’s telemarketing.”

Val smiled, vaguely. Millie took that as approval, and continued:

“Suppose you see him across the room. You stand up, arrange your dress, then walk over and pour him a drink. You straighten his tie and accidentally rub your boob against his arm while whispering, ‘I’m really good in bed, too’…that’s public relations.”

This did manage to make Val laugh, quietly.

“If you get the guy to go home with one of your girlfriends, that’s sales. But if he calls you up later because she didn’t satisfy him, that’s tech support.”

This was more than just a casual story. Millie had actually memorized it, rehearsed it, ready to entertain Val at the right moment. Like a good doll, I realized. And I hated her all the more for my own lack of preparation.

“If the guy walks up to you and says, ‘I hear you’re amazing in bed’, that’s brand recognition. And if you shout, ‘I’m great in bed!’ with a megaphone in the middle of the dance floor…?” Millie looked at me, expecting me to provide the punchline.

I shrugged, unable to think of a suitable answer.

“It’s junk mail,” Val said, providing the correct response. Surprisingly, she put two additional marks under the M. Millie’s eyes flashed, though she held her tongue. “Mildly amusing, but I’ve read that email before, dear. More than once. Computer security is my primary responsibility and I see every joke email under the sun. If you’re going to entertain me, I expect better material."

The score stood at 4 to 5, in Millie’s favor.

§

When the time came, I took a risk with Val’s dessert: Molten Chocolate Volcano Cake, served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. Despite the sake disaster, I had a strong intuition she loved chocolate, even though I’d never seen her partake of it. And of course her face gave no hint of the accuracy of my choice—neither when I ordered, nor when it arrived.

But Val had a way of focusing on a thing, be it a painting, a doll, or a dessert, and I saw that concentration on her face as she savored the first bites. I’d chosen well.

Despite this small triumph I was so disheartened by my five marks (to Millie’s four) that the meal held little joy for me. And I barely sipped at my sake. I didn’t dare become even a tiny bit drunk.

It is difficult to engage in cheerful banter when one fears harsh punishment. But I did manage to avoid any further marks.

Finally Millie handled the paying of the bill with Val’s credit card. Val put the notebook away, and we left.

That’s when disaster struck.

I couldn’t find the ticket for the car. It wasn’t in my purse. I ran back inside to see if I’d left it on the table, but found nothing. By the time I gave up in defeat, I was nearly in tears. Val grew distant, implacable.

“My girl seems to have gotten drunk and misplaced our ticket,” she told the valet with disappointment. After a brief discussion and display of identification the man went to fetch our car.

Val regarded us sternly. “Even simple tasks are apparently beyond your capacity. Follow, and be quiet.” She tapped her thigh, and Millie and I took our positions on either side, slightly behind.

It was a quiet, stomach-knotting ride back.

§

Of course Val knew I wasn’t drunk; the fact that she’d lied to save face meant I was in deep trouble. It is hard to cry silently, but I tried, so as not to add to Millie’s complete victory this evening.

I was trapped. Every bend in the road leading to Val’s house filled me with rising terror. I imagined myself getting out of the car and saying frogspawn, telling Val I wasn’t her doll anymore, and driving home. Home, and a return to…what? Defeat? Solitude? As much as I feared punishment, I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my boring, lonely life before Val. If only I hadn’t lost that stupid ticket, I lamented, things would be completely different. This was all my fault. All I had to do was ride out the rest of the night, and never make that kind of mistake again…

When the car stopped in Val’s garage I got out, feeling numb, not knowing whether to flee or brave Val’s wrath. I can stop any time I want, I reminded myself, hollowly.

But if Val was furious—as I knew she must be—it did not show in her features, or her voice. In the foyer she put down her purse and turned to face us, as Millie and I knelt with bowed heads. My eyes were drawn to the accidental calligraphy of my purse strap as it curved artfully on the floor beside me. I saw that it was beginning to fray where it joined the body of the purse. Funny, what one notices on the edge of doom.

“What am I?” she asked bemusedly, as she removed her jacket.

“The Keeper,” Millie and I said in near-unison.

“And what are you?” This was a familiar exchange.

“Your dolls,” I said.

“Your doll,” was Millie’s answer. I had included us both in my reply; she had not. Bitch.

“What are a doll’s responsibilities? Number two.” By number two she meant me, as Millie had seniority.

“Um, uh,” I stammered, “Obey and learn. Trust the Keeper. Take care of itself. A doll must…” I struggled to remember the litany.

“Number one?"

Millie knew I was the one in the hot seat, so her reply was much more confident. “A doll must anticipate the Keeper’s will. A doll must be graceful, courteous, and intelli—“

“And what was my will tonight? Number one.”

“To enjoy your dinner, Ma’am. To be entertained by your dolls and have your needs attended to."

Val bent to take Millie’s purse and rifled through it, then dropped it back to the floor. “Then explain what you are doing with this,” Val hissed with volcanic intensity.

I could not resist the temptation to look at what Val held in her hand. I nearly fell over in disbelief.

It was the valet ticket.

Millie did not answer, nor did she look up. She only lowered her head further.

“Whip,” Val growled. Millie dropped to hands and knees and crawled out of the room to fetch it, as quickly as she could.

I can scarcely describe my roller-coaster emotions at that moment. I was elated. Furious. And terrified. I now realized a bigger game had been played tonight, invisible to me until this turn.

Millie returned promptly, still on hands and knees, with the red whip between her teeth and a lock of hair over one eye. Her expression was difficult to read. There was fear, oh yes, but also a flush of anticipation I couldn’t fathom.

Val took the whip and stood over Millie. “Clothes.” She undressed without rising and prostrated herself before Val. “Number one comes with me,” Val said. “Number two will clean itself up before joining us.” She led Millie out of the foyer by a handful of hair, as if on a leash.

I studied myself in the hallway mirror. My eyeliner and mascara had run during the ride home, and it looked dreadful. I hurried upstairs to Val’s dressing room, where she kept tissue and cleansers.

That done, I fearfully descended the staircase again, followed the sounds coming from the still-open door to the dungeon. By the time I arrived, Val had fastened Millie to the big upright X, her arms and legs splayed, back exposed.

“Close the door and fetch that flogger, there,” Val said, and I complied. But when she pushed the flogger’s handle back into my hand, I could only stare at her in disbelief. “Ma’am?”

“Is there a problem?”

She actually wanted me to punish Millie. “I…I don’t know how to use this, Ma’am. What if I injure her?”

Val chuckled darkly. “Extremely unlikely. The flogger is really just a warm-up. A doll can take so much more if you build up to it, as you’ll see.”

I moved the flogger experimentally. It was fairly heavy, and each move of my hand caused its dozen leather straps to wriggle as if eager to strike. There seemed little risk of hurting myself with it, unlike a whip.

Mentally, however, I was wholly unprepared for this turn of events. My training had been entirely concerned with the submission of my will, not its projection. As much as I enjoyed the idea of punishing Millie, the prospect was frightening. I looked to Val pleadingly.

“Do it,” Val said, with menace.

“But Ma’am—”

“Do not vex me further,” she hissed.

I turned back to Millie, who adjusted her position slightly. Muscles moved under her smooth pink skin, the dagger-tattoo rippled. She projected an attitude of impatience which annoyed me greatly.

My first tentative blow, on her right buttock, landed with a strappy thud but elicited no reaction.

“Again,” Val said.

Left buttock, better-aimed, more force. Still nothing.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, put some back into it, unless you want to trade places.”

I swung harder and harder, ranging over her shoulders and back. With each stroke, the amber pendant bounced lightly against my sternum. Though her skin reddened beneath my blows, Millie mocked me with her silence.

“The inner thighs are a good deal more sensitive,” said Val, pointing to the area in question. “Try there.”

I did, and after many hits was rewarded by a slight moan. Then a musky scent rose from her which broadcast, incredibly, that Millie was aroused. It infuriated me to think she enjoyed this at some level, and even now used me for her own twisted pleasure.

Well, no longer.

I laid a volley of heavy blows over her entire body. I began to vocalize the blows, grunting as if pushing a heavy object. What I wanted was to extract a completely unrestrained cry from the wretched girl. She owed me at that at least, for all the pain she’d caused. But in the end, the flogger was not sufficient to break her.

“Enough,” Val said, and I stopped, panting from the workout. “She’s warming up, but we need something stronger now. Try the wooden paddle, over there. The black one with the holes.”

I switched implements.

“This paddle gives more of a sting, because of the holes. Less air resistance, less surface area.” Val extended her hand to trace an ellipse just above the fullest part of Millie’s rump. “The kidneys are here. Stay below this line to avoid serious injury, but don’t strike the tail bone.”

The paddle was indeed more effective. It left distinct marks from the solid part between the holes. Eventually I began to wrest different sounds from Millie: little squeaks and yelps rather than the soft moans I’d gotten with the flogger. Yet it was still not the complete surrender I craved.

In a bored voice Val said, “I wonder if you’re taking this exercise seriously, Koi.”

“I am!” I said, forgetting protocol in my indignation.

“Convince me. Now.”

This was all wrong. Millie was in trouble, not me. Val was responsible for my lack of experience with floggers and paddles and punishments, not me. I had always done everything Val asked—and still it was not enough. Now she expected me to unlearn everything and act like a Keeper? I hated her. Hated them both.

My anger flared. I struck Millie in the same spot several times, very hard. She gave a rising cry and tried to twist out of the way.

And then something dark and powerful stirred within me, at once frightening and seductive. I savored Millie’s reaction to my smacks with the paddle, watching her twist, hearing her yelp.

I win, dammit.

“Enough,” Val said. “Well done.”

It was hard to stop. I wanted more. But I lowered the paddle and stood gasping, partly from the effort, but mostly from the psychological power of the act.

Val told me to return the paddle to its hook. When that was done, she pointed to a spot about eight feet away, where I knelt.

“Now that you are properly warmed up, I believe you still have some demerits to account for,” Val said to Millie, who by now was perspiring freely. “Both yours and number two’s. Prepare.”

Millie shifted slightly, but it did no good. First, Val swung the whip in loud swooshing arcs that missed, close enough to move Millie’s hair by wind alone. Next she unleashed a volley of explosive whip cracks into the empty air, gunshot-loud despite the room’s thick acoustic panels. I flinched, but the effect on Millie was even more devastating. Her entire body quaked with fear, and she mewed like a kitten. If I was terrified, I could scarcely imagine what she felt.

Val knew exactly where, and how hard, to place each cut for maximum effect. These were far nastier blows than I’d dealt, and they ripped raw animal screams from the poor girl. After five strokes I cried out and begged Val to stop. But her stabbing gaze froze me into silence. I did not wish to anger her, not now.

Soon there were nine new lines across her back and thighs as Millie hung sobbing upon the cross. My own face was wet with tears. Val’s attack had been merciless, harsher by far than my own experience.

Val waved me closer and gave me the coiled red whip, still warm from her hand. “Put this away,” she said. As I did so, Val gripped Millie by the hair and whispered something in her ear, to which the girl nodded feebly. I couldn’t make out Val’s words, but I saw her lick a tear from Millie’s cheek as I returned to my earlier place. She carefully undid Millie’s bonds and helped her down.

“You may thank me now,” Val said. Millie offered a tearful profusion of thanks while kissing Val’s shoes. When she was satisfied, Val said, “Now apologize to number two.”

Millie crawled to me and made herself very low. Her hair stuck to her face, damp with sweat and tears, but she didn’t brush it aside. Her expression was childlike in its purity, like a wounded angel. I stroked her cheek in sympathy and awe, despite my earlier anger.

“Koishi, I’ve been horrible to you. I beg your forgiveness.” No guile in her words now, nothing but complete surrender.

“Yes,” I said, quavering. She kissed my hand tenderly several times, and I was deeply moved.

Val snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor in front of her. We took our places. “I trust this has this been instructive,” she demanded, and we assured her that it had.

She commanded me to run a bath for Millie—not too warm—and gave the girl a thorough check for lasting harm.

§

Later, I sat on the rug by Val’s feet as she and a bathrobed Millie cuddled on the leather couch, the girl’s head in her lap. Millie was crying again, but this time her tears were cleansing, like spring rain.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am,” Millie said, over and over again. “I don’t deserve to be your doll.”

“No, you don’t. But I’ll keep you. Hush now,” Val replied. She stroked her hair and let her cry. Eventually Val bent to give her a lingering kiss, and Millie surrendered to it, completely.

I should have been insanely jealous. In a sense, Millie had won our game, by losing. But the violent and contradictory emotions of the evening gave me a curious dispassion, the calm after a shock. This was a sacred moment and I had played an important part. I leaned against Val’s leg and watched them kiss, in a kind of trance.

They cuddled for some time before Val stood up.

“The doll is spent. Let’s put it to bed,” she said. We helped Millie up the stairs and into the bedroom kept for visiting dolls, when they didn’t sleep with Val. After she was put down and covered we watched over her for a time. When Val bent to kiss her forehead Millie was already asleep.

Val took me out into the hall, and stopped me from kneeling.

“Are you okay?” she asked with unusual informality.

“I…I guess I’m all right.” Though I wasn’t sure if that was true or not.

“Do you understand what just happened?”

“No, Ma’am. But it seemed important to Millie.”

“Every doll has their own reason for submitting. Do you know what yours is? Don’t answer, you can’t possibly know yet. But Millie is a very strong, selfish woman. A part of her yearns to be to be broken, cherished, after her ego’s been stripped away. I daresay very few people can provide what she needs. That is why she is my doll. She adores the whip, by the way. Even though it terrifies her.”

I nodded, not really processing this information. I would never learn to crave that.

“You’ve had quite a night, my little koi. You’re free to drive home or stay, as you like. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t think I want to be alone tonight, Ma’am.”

She smiled. “Understandable. Very well, then.” The Keeper voice was back. She brought me into Millie’s room, saying, “You will sleep here. Undress.”

After removing the pendant, I stripped and carefully placed everything into an empty dresser drawer.

Val tucked me in beside Millie and kissed my cheek. “Rest well,” she said, and left.

But sleep eluded me. The evening replayed endlessly in my mind. And that night Millie never once moved or made a sound, she had crashed that hard.

Not until the sky outside began to glow steely blue with the approaching dawn did I finally drop into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

11     details

SUNDAY MORNING WAS a fragile, uncertain affair.

I woke late, just after ten, to an empty bed and a feeling of disorientation, as if the magnetic poles had changed places in the night. Being a morning person, oversleeping leaves me feeling out-of-sorts the rest of the day. And the echoes of last night’s extremities still rang in my head.

An unhurried shower helped a little. I dressed in last night’s clothes and made my way downstairs.

The two women were in the bright kitchen, Val cooking omelets while Millie read the comics in pajamas. I knelt on the hard tiles two paces from Val. “I’m here for you Ma’am."

“At ease,” she said, with a wave of her spatula. “You’re just in time to set the table.” I stood up and set out three places before sitting at the table. Millie was quiet but cheerful, though she winced with every movement. I didn’t ask if she was okay. She was a veteran in such things compared to me.

Val, I discovered, made excellent spinach and cheese omelets, and fizzy mimosas added a touch of decadence to the brunch. But the champagne’s buzz did not diminish my sense of dislocation.

Thankfully the conversation was light and undemanding. Val had an air of complete satiety, a reptilian contentment which left her on the quiet side. Millie, too, was unusually reserved. How long that would last before her old haughty self returned?

“I’ve some things to attend to, shortly,” Val said to us. “Millie, you have no duties today beyond resting. Koishi, on the other hand…I believe you still owe me a painting. Your deadline is exactly one week from today.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I’ll go home and work on it. After I wash the dishes.”

Val grinned. “Good girl."

“When do you fly back to New York, Millie?” I asked.

“Tuesday morning,” she answered.

“Back to your cohort?”

She grinned. I might not ever like the woman, but I understood her better now.

§

Later, when I dug out the car keys, I discovered the flash drive had been returned to my purse. So very Val.

§

Once home, I did some long-neglected laundry and fell asleep while the dryer ran. It was a fitful nap, filled with jumbled scenes wrapped in a sense of crisis…no, just urgency. At one point I had a vivid impression of stone cracking, and something soft moving within. I thought about that as I shook out my clothes, wrinkled from being left too long in the dryer.

I had my first glimmer of inspiration for the final portrait.

§

The approach of my debut in two weeks began to fill me with dread. Val had never once sought my opinion or consent on the matter; my compliance was simply assumed. Though exactly what she expected of me was a big unknown, for Val had not spoken of it after her first pronouncement. All you have to do is look pretty and behave yourself, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. But if I knew anything, it was that with Val the simple things were often the most perilous.

For example, there was the matter of a what to wear. When I phoned her about it the following night, she gave me the responsibility of choosing the dress.

“When will you want to see it?” I asked.

“Unnecessary. I’m confident you’ll find something pleasing. It should be red, but I leave the rest to you. I will reimburse any expenses, as always. If it’s above what you can comfortably float, have the salesperson call me.”

This new task only heightened my apprehension, and I spent two frantic days searching for a dress to satisfy a Keeper. Should it be long, or short? Frilly or conservative? But now that I’d been charged with the task, further questions would only vex her.

It was often quite difficult to know Val’s taste in a given matter. She was usually conservative, tasteful…unless she felt like breaking convention, which she could do quite shockingly. I often guessed wrong. But in this case I judged it her option, not mine, to break the rules, and opted for a traditional style. I’d find something strapless, form-fitting, not too revealing.

Tuesday night I stopped at the mall on the way home from work, and spent ninety minutes searching in vain. I hadn’t shopped for a dress in a couple of years and styles had changed. The current choices didn’t thrill me: babydolls, empire waists and rucking had replaced the sleeker look I preferred.

My irritation showed when a salesgirl in Splendiferous approached me. It was my fifth store of the evening.

“Don’t you have anything less…poofy?” I grumped, waving my hand in disgust at the racks of dresses.

“We have some specials over here,” she offered, and showed the way.

They weren’t much better. “This all looks like sleepwear. I’m going to an important party and I need something slimmer. Classy. You know, Marlene Dietrich. Ava Gardner. That sort of thing. Marilyn, even.”

The girl was clueless. She’d probably never seen a black and white movie in her life. The store did have one dress that wasn’t too bad, a silk strapless thing with good lines. The only problem: It was pink.

“Don’t you have this in red? I need a red dress.”

“No, Ma’am. Just the pink.”

Her use of the word Ma’am triggered something deep in my brain. Because of my time with Val, the term had a taken a profound meaning, swarming with associations that would strike most people as utterly alien, even frightening. For me, however, it stirred desire, a coiled energy waiting to strike with a sharp word, a bite, or the slap of a gloved hand. Followed by liquid caresses.

My irritation with the girl, the fruitless search, the tantalizing near-miss of a dress the wrong color put me on edge. Being addressed as Ma’am gave that negative energy an unexpected focus. The girl saw something of it in my face.

“The pink would be gorgeous on you,” she said lamely, hoping to turn my displeasure into a sale.

I looked at her nametag, which read CALLA DEY.

“Yes, but it’s not red, now is it, Calla?” I said, sharp as Val’s red whip.

“Well, the only red dresses we have are back over there,” she said, meekly pointing to the rack of babydolls.

I left then, not bothering to thank her.

§

I hadn’t expected to waste almost two hours in the mall that night, so rather than cook a late dinner I walked to the food court. As I endured a bowl of very mediocre udon, a man of about twenty-five stopped before my table with his tray in hand. There might have been a touch of the Mediterranean in his blood, given the cut of his features and faintly olive cast.

“Did you work on that?” he said, pointing at my chest. Outrage began to warm my cheeks until I realized he was referring to the graphics on my tee shirt, which read:

EARTH ANGEL
[ vfx crew - lucid dreams studio ]

It was a gift from two years ago, after we wrapped up the visual effects work on that movie, and my boss had the shirts printed for the crew. It had simply been the topmost shirt in my drawer when I dressed this morning.

I nodded meekly, with a noodle hanging out of my mouth.

“I loved that movie,” he said. “What did you do on it?”

I covered my mouth with a napkin and slurped the noodle in, then wiped away a drop of broth. “I’m a compositor,” I said, feeling a little guilty for my initial reaction to his innocent question.

“Very cool…I think. Wait. What exactly does a compositor do?”

A point in his favor. Most people just give a wan smile and say that’s great.

“It’s a computer thing,” I said dismissively, but when he displayed genuine interest, I elaborated. “Like how a DJ uses software to mix music. Only I do it with film pixels, adding effects onto original footage to make them appear as if they belong together. ”

“Wow, you must enjoy your work.”

“Mostly. There’s some really tedious aspects to it. Roto, match-moving, paint fixes. A lot of time pressure, too.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Have you worked on many other movies?”

I saw where this was going and didn’t feel like being courted. “Yeah,” I said unhelpfully. “Your food’s getting cold.”

“Mind if I join you? I’m Paul,” he said, offering a hand. I shook it carefully, so as not to make him drop the tray held precariously in his other hand.

I don’t know why I motioned for him to sit, then. Perhaps I wanted to make him squirm before he figured out I wasn’t interested. Still, he was attractive enough: short black hair, retro glasses, a vaguely East Coast accent. He had a casual, pleasantly bohemian look and a soulful spontaneity I didn’t hate. And a lot of tattoos.

He’d ordered from Delhi Princess, the sad-looking Indian fast food place. I pointed to his plate and asked, “Is that actually any good? I’m afraid to try that place. No one ever buys their food, no matter how many samples they give out.”

“The Chicken Tikka Masala isn’t bad. Just stay away from the Saag Paneer, it sucks.”

It turned out that Paul was a tattoo artist. I asked him what kinds of tats he did the most.

“These days? Butterflies and tribal stuff,” he said. “Back at my shop in Philly, it seemed like all I did was RIPs. The gangs were bad there. Every week somebody lost a loved one, and they’d get a tattoo to remember them by.” He gave a sad chuckle. “I got tired of making tombstones out of people, you know? So I came west to get away from all that. I still do a few RIPs here, too, but at least the weather’s nicer.”

“How many tattoos do you have?” I asked.

Eight, as it happened. And the one on his upper left arm was based on that famous scene from Earth Angel, where Angie kneels on the sidewalk beside her gunshot friend, kissing him tearfully as they wait for an ambulance that arrives too late. Dying gives him the gift of true seeing, and he marvels at the luminous wings with which she shields him from the icy rain. It’s a devastating moment, one that unfailingly makes people cry.

I had been the lead compositor on that effects sequence, and was struck by the coincidence.

Paul, in turn, expressed surprise at my complete lack of tattoos.

“A pretty girl like you should definitely have one. But not a butterfly. You need something different.”

“Oh, really. What, then?”

He thought for a moment, studying me intently. His gaze was gentler than Val’s penetrating inspections, but I still blushed.

“A lotus flower. No, wait…one of those gold Japanese fish. The spotted ones ones people keep in pools.”

That hit me like an electric shock. “What?”

“Oh yeah. On the nape of your neck, hiding under your hair. Because I can tell you’re a woman with secrets.”

I laughed, darkly. “Why do you say that?”

“I can tell by the way you sit. The look on your face when I said hi,” he leaned a closer, whispering, “Plus I’m psychic, a little.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed.

“No, really. Not like my mom, though, God bless her soul. She was amazing. But yeah, I get glimpses now and then.”

“All right, what’s my big secret?” It was a challenge.

“Ah, so you do have one.” Laughter. “But it doesn’t work like that. Stuff just comes to me.”

We ate in silence for a moment.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Paul said.

I considered this, decided to give a little. “Koishi. But a good friend of mine calls me Koi.”

“What’s a koi?”

“The fish you wanted to tattoo on my neck, silly.”

“Really? You’re shitting me,” he said in disbelief.

“No, she really does call me that. So I guess you are a bit psychic after all.”

I found I liked Paul, despite my initially sour mood.

When we parted, he gave me his card and offered to do a tattoo for half price. “Just as long as it’s not an RIP,” he said. Nice of him, but I’d never take him up on it.

“What I really need right now is a killer red dress,” I said. “Know where I can find one?”

Predictably, he did not.

§

“The last portrait’s done, Ma’am,” I lied, over the phone. I felt there was still another day’s work left on it, but it was Sunday evening, my absolute deadline. “I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“That’s for me to decide,” she said. “Is the file the same size as the others?”

“Yes, Ma’am, about a hundred megs. But I also made a jpeg.”

“Very well, upload it to my ftp server. And stay on the line.” She gave me the address and log-on information. I started the transfer, which would take about five minutes, according to the progress bar. “Have you found your dress, Koishi?”

“No, Ma’am, not yet. I’ve been too busy working on this.” I was tempted to ask for a store recommendation, but held my tongue. This was my responsibility.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. I thought perhaps she was annoyed, but then she said, “Pardon my silence, I’m working at home tonight.” I heard a short burst of typing.

“On a Sunday night, Ma’am?”

“My work is extremely time-sensitive.” But she said nothing more.

I played computer solitaire as the file loaded. Finally it was done, and in a second she had it open. Here is what she saw:

A large, dark chrysalis rests on an operating table. It is four feet long with a glistening, mottled surface. Spiky ridges trace two seams arranged in a T, one around its upper circumference, like a cap, the other running down its length.

Beside the table stands a woman in a surgeon’s gown, whom we see from above and behind as she faces the chrysalis. We know it is a woman because of her slender gloved hands and long white hair. She is not wearing a surgical cap.

Bloody scalpels on a nearby tray were obviously used to begin the operation, but now the woman wields a frightening, Gigeresque spreading device to open the chrysalis further. And we see a slight, luminous fairy—as developed as a teenage girl—with still-damp wings weakly struggling to emerge from her metamorphic prison.

It is an uncomfortable image, filled with all the pain of birth without a mother to hold the newborn fairy afterward, and melt trauma into bliss.

The amount of work required to create this image had been nearly as painful. I’d spent a couple of sleepless nights finding the right images on the internet and making them work. When I looked at the piece, all I saw were problems, things I could have done better. But time had run out.

I waited for Val to say something. The silence lasted a full minute. Finally she said:

“Who is the real subject of this painting, I wonder? Me, or you?”

My heart raced. I hadn’t expected this particular challenge. “Ma’am, I’m not really satisfied with how it turned out. If you want me to do another—”

“Hush. It was a rhetorical question.” I heard the hint of a smile in her voice. “It is acceptable, doll. Not your best work, but it complements the other images. And you have finished your task on time…just barely. I would have been very upset had you missed my deadline for the printer.”

My relief was enormous. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“I am satisfied with your efforts. I’ll mail your check in the morning. Well done.”

I had actually forgotten about the money, I realized with a shock.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

She cut me off. “Yes?”

“…Nothing, Ma’am.”

“Good doll.”

Now to find a dress.

12     debut

I RODE MEEKLY in Val’s electric black car as it glided down the eastbound 101 to an unknown destination. Without saying a word Val made it clear she found the dress entirely unsatisfactory. So I sat with my hands in my lap, wilting in the heat of her silent displeasure as she drove.

Outside my window the dusty brown hills slid past, pale masses in the twilight. I feared to look at her.

My dress had cost five hundred dollars. It wasn’t exactly what I’d wanted, only the best I could do in the time I had. It was satin, ankle-length with gathered straps, and it wrapped around the waist, letting the extra material hang from the left hip. To my eye it seemed an interesting hybrid of Sixties-era Jackie Kennedy and ancient Greece. But Val’s face had curdled at the sight of it, devastating me.

Traffic slowed as we entered the San Fernando Valley proper. The thought of wearing this object of loathing for an entire evening was more than I could bear. I pulled a tissue from my clutch purse and wiped away tears, sniffing loudly in the quiet car.

“I’ll pay you back for the dress, Ma’am,” I offered.

“Do you think this is about money?” she said coolly.

“No, Ma’am.”

And then Val slowed, changed lanes to the right, finally coming to a stop on the emergency lane. She activated the hazard lights, and I was afraid. Without looking at me she said, “I took the liberty of ensuring a doll could not disgrace her Keeper on the night of her debut. Check the trunk.” She gave me the keys then, because the car lacked an inside trunk release.

I swiftly opened my door and walked to the rear of the car. Within the narrow trunk I found a gold garment box, which I brought back inside the car with me.

“Ma’am?” I said, as I returned the keys.

“Open it.”

Between crisp white sheets of tissue was another red dress. I held it up; it was stretchy and much shorter than mine, with crossed spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline.

“It’s beautiful, Ma’am.”

“Put it on.”

“Here, Ma’am?”

“Outside, you fool. There isn’t room in the car.”

I was paralyzed, felt myself contracting, shrinking.

“Now,” she said.

“But Ma’am—”

“You can get out and change, or you can get out and walk home. Either way, you’re getting out of the car this instant.”

I clambered out, box in hand. The car was very small; the roof was lower than my waist and offered no protection. In the freeway’s rushing, chill wind I turned away from the oncoming cars and reached back to pull the zipper down.

Please, god, don’t send a highway patrol car.

I couldn’t bring myself to let the dress touch the filthy concrete, so I slipped the whole thing over my head rather than stepping out of it. A passing car honked and flashed its lights.

Now wearing only panties and heels, I ducked down to toss the dress back into the car, one arm covering my chest.

Another car slowed and honked as it approached, and the passenger window opened to let a young man wolf-howl at me. I saw the flash of a camera, and knew that photo would end up on the internet. From somewhere upstream there came the screech of tires and angry honks, but thankfully no impact. I began to fear for our lives.

After quickly orienting Val’s replacement dress, I pulled it down over myself with a desperate shimmy, then leaped back in the car before the next rubbernecker could trigger a massive pileup, and take us both out.

I sat trembling with the first dress gathered in my lap. The whole change of clothes had lasted maybe forty-five seconds, though it seemed an eternity. I smoothed and arranged the new dress as well as I could, in the confines of the car.

“Seat belt,” she reminded me, and we rocketed back onto the freeway as if nothing had happened. “And fix your hair.”

§

Val took the White Oak exit and drove south to Ventura Boulevard, turned left, and then left again onto Encino. It was an unlighted residential area with few entry points; this particular street was lined with million-dollar mansions hidden behind walls and hedges. I knew this place; Brent’s mansion was on this exact street, just a mile up the road. But then, a lot of other celebrities lived here as well. I wondered if we’d drive past his gate.

But as we drew near, Val slowed and turned up to the very gate I’d been watching for.

My disbelief was sudden, and total.

She reached out to press the buzzer on the intercom, mounted on a post beside the driver’s window.

“Hello?” came a man’s voice from the intercom. It sounded like Brent’s assistant of the last few years.

“It’s Val and Koishi,” she answered. The gate unlocked and swung open, silently.

I made an inarticulate sound. My debut was taking place at Brent’s house?

There was no mistaking the pleasure in Val’s voice as she said to me, “I wonder if you recall the task I released you from, at the brunch?”

She’d commanded that I choose a friend to whom I might disclose my relationship with Val and all its details. And I promptly forgot, and ended up in a hotel pool for it.

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” I whispered.

“I simply took the matter into my own hands and chose for you. Your friend Brent was quite intrigued. He was even gracious enough to offer the use of his home for the occasion. I expect you to show the proper gratitude.”

The sudden collision of my two formerly separate worlds left me reeling. I felt my soul cast off its moorings to drift far, far out on unfamiliar seas. None of this was real. It couldn’t be.

I had trouble getting out of the vehicle, even when steadying myself on the car door. Val passed her keys to the valet and circled the car to assist me.

We ascended the steps to the huge front door, and passed into the house, where chamber music gently floated in the air. Brent was standing in the foyer, talking to an older couple, and excused himself to greet us.

“Valerie. Koishi. It’s good to see you,” he said warmly. His smile spoke volumes. I felt naked before my old friend and former lover.

“How do you do, Brent?” said Val.

“Hi, Brent,” I said, hands clasped primly before me.

Brent took us in with a long look.

Tonight Val, in a modest gray dress, was more feminine than usual. But as we stood together, there was no mistaking who was in charge, and who was being shown off.

“You must be thrilled,” Brent told me. “I’m looking forward to seeing your work.”

My work? I turned to face Val with questioning eyes, but held my tongue. My paintings?

“Now, Brent, you’ve gone and spoiled my surprise,” Val scolded playfully. “Please don’t breathe another word.”

Brent was instantly apologetic, but in truth Val didn’t seem to mind his slip of the tongue. Rather, she delighted in my struggle to deal with tonight’s unending surprises.

Brent took my arm (how long had it been since he’d last touched me that way?) and slowly led us down a hallway, introducing us to the guests who chatted in small groups along the way. They were either friends of Val’s or Brent’s, but all were strangers to me, and exactly the sort of upper-crust people I disdained at his Christmas parties: producers, a doctor, actors, writers, a lawyer or two, among others.

Tonight I had been released from the strict protocol Val usually demanded. No hand signals, no commands. When I quietly asked about it, she replied, “This night is for you, not me. It is enough that you be charming and pretty. But give a good account of yourself, and remember I’m watching you closely.”

Of that I had no doubt, nor the consequences a blunder would bring, later.

We entered a large hall, full of people. I saw five framed pictures hanging on the wall, four in a line, and one centered above the rest. But each was draped with a cloth, hidden from sight.

“Are those mine, Ma’am?” I asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” she grinned.

I wondered which of the paintings had been given the singular upper position. It was wider than it was tall, which meant it had to be either the doll, or the chrysalis. She hadn’t liked the last one as much, so I guessed it was the doll. It had certainly provoked the strongest reaction from Val.

But I was not to find out just then, as Val introduced me to an old friend of hers.

“Milton, I’d like you to meet my latest discovery, Koishi.”

Milton was a man of perhaps fifty. He was dressed very sharply, and while he wasn’t especially handsome, I detected an energy about him that commanded respect. He made no attempt to be discreet; rather, he studied me with the same scrutiny a judge might give a show dog.

“You’re a pretty one. How do you do, Koishi?” He spoke unhurriedly, with a slight Southern accent.

“I’m well, thank you, sir.” I said, with a curtsy.

“Where did you find such a creature?” Milton asked Val, as we took champagne from the tray of one of the girls circulating about the room.

“At this very house, last Christmas,” Val told him. “She has many talents.”

“Hmm, indeed.”

“Milton is an artist,” Val said, by way of introduction. “And also something of a mentor to me, many years ago.”

“A mentor, Ma’am?”

Milton seemed to gaze back across the years. “I met Valeria in ’95, I believe. At the time we both worked for Pala—”

Val cut him off. “I recall you liked my shoulders, Milton.”

“Ah, yes, you were such a muscular girl.”

“And one day he asked if I beat people up on a regular basis,” Val said with a shark grin. “When I told him no, he asked if that bothered me. And soon after he offered to teach me what he knew.”

“I had an instinct about you,” Milton said with a raised finger. His hands were large, callused, strong.

This was a bit of news, but I had no time to mull it over because Brent called for everyone’s attention. The ambient chatter slowly faded, leaving the Bach piece to shimmer unmolested in the hush. Val took my half-full champagne glass and placed it on a passing tray of empties. The action annoyed me vaguely.

“I hope everyone’s had the chance to meet the star of this evening, my good friend Koishi Paz,” Brent said with a gesture in my direction. All eyes turned to me, and there was some light applause. I smiled shyly. “She has always been artistic but I am told these new works chart a brave new direction for her. I haven’t seen them yet either, so this will be a surprise for all of us. But first, let me introduce you to another friend of mine who has been intimately involved in helping Koishi find her new artistic voice. Valeria?”

More applause.

“Thank you, Brent.” Val paused briefly, then assumed a more pedagogical tone.

“Art, at its most basic level, is the visual embodiment of Myth. Just as a mythology is the interface between the known and unknown, so art seeks to represent things which cannot be seen directly. Myth and Art, you see, are both a kind of lie. Beautiful lies which illuminate the mystery of being. Lies based on truths which transcend our mundane reality.

“One of the greatest mysteries of all is that of our own identity. Who am I?” she asked, “Or you, or any of us, for that matter? We cannot say because we are enigmas, even to ourselves. Yet we desperately wish to know.

“And so we enlist the help of others to see past the masks, into ourselves. How might this be done? Can photographs or videos alone capture our essence? No. For that, we need the hand and eye of a true artist, guided by the inspiration which flows from that place where Truth dwells.

“There were primitive people who believed a camera could steal their soul. I wonder what they would make of today’s digital technologies, with which an artist can tell bigger lies, build stronger cages for the soul—and in so doing help us to discover the core of our individual mysteries.”

As she spoke hypnotically, Val slowly walked to the leftmost of the veiled paintings. She gripped the satin and pulled away the covering.

It was the photograph of me, wearing nothing but a mermaid tail, tangled in a net between the feet of two fishermen.

Oh my god.

These weren’t my paintings, as I had been allowed to believe. They were Val’s photographs of me, taken two months earlier. And I was going to be stripped and displayed before all these people, Val’s prize butterfly.

Had Val not taken my champagne glass earlier, I would have dropped it now, as my hands clutched defensively before my chest. The room lurched. The guests gave a quiet murmur, but I scarcely heard it over the pounding of my heart.

“Here we see the essence of the model, represented in the metaphor of the classical elements. First Water, and now Earth.”

She walked to the next piece. Beneath the second shroud was another photograph of me, naked and bound in roots, writhing in an effort to struggle free. The brown smudges of dirt on my skin appeared almost black in the cool blue-green subterranean lighting. Hair had fallen to cover my eyes, but my visible mouth was open with a despairing cry. It seemed far more erotic from the camera’s perspective than it had been from mine, at the time.

“The aspect of Air,” Val said, exposing one of the fallen angel images. It was shot from chest height, looking down upon my limp body. The straps had been completely painted out and the wings now appeared an integral part of me. I lay twisted on the rocks, left wing broken with a scarlet splash staining its glowing white feathers. Blood trickled from my nose and mouth, and an arrow pierced my bare breast, a digital enhancement which hadn’t been part of the original shoot.

The tragedy and pathos of the image evoked sounds of sympathy.

“The trial of Fire,” Val said as she revealed a shot from the branding sequence. Oh, no. It had been snapped just before the touch of the iron, when I had believed it to be searing hot. In the photograph I was looking over my shoulder, screaming, really screaming, muscles taut as I vainly struggled to pull away. My back and thighs were slick with sweat (in reality, vegetable oil) and glistened in the hellish red light. At the far left side of the photograph, Val’s hand gripped the glowing brand. An orange glow had been added digitally, as well as a wisp of smoke.

Upon seeing this, a plump woman in front of me whispered something to her male companion.

“But beyond these known elements lies the quintessence, the Fifth Element, immanent within the other four. This, then, is the fundamental Truth we seek.”

Val pulled the cover from the upper picture.

I didn’t recognize it immediately, as it wasn’t part of any of the four setups. Then I remembered: the cropping I received for whining about Trish being stranded at the airport.

It was a black and white photo, very crisp, but with an asymmetric framing that gave it a kind of documentary immediacy. I lay on the hardwood floor, freshly beaten, propped up on weak arms. My anguished face was raised to Val, who stood over me with crop in hand. One could make out faint lines upon my arms, back, and legs.

The photo was raw, unrehearsed, utterly real, and the audience knew it to be of an entirely different nature from the elaborately staged elemental images.

I remembered the exchange:

“What am I?”

“My Keeper.”

It was profoundly disorienting to see that private moment laid bare, rendered from a wholly unexpected vantage point. Val must have warned Stephan to be ready for what was about to happen, so as to capture the ordeal from the kitchen doorway.

All in preparation for this precise moment, months later. I wanted to bolt, to run out of that place, but I couldn’t move.

There were gasps of astonishment from the guests. Val drank in the audience’s reaction with vast satisfaction. And gradually, all those eyes came to rest upon me, connecting the dots, filled with an x-ray view of my total surrender to Valeria Stregazzi. A red flower of hatred bloomed within my breast.

Val came to stand beside me like a proud mother, with her arm around my waist.

“You lied to me,” I hissed quietly.

“No, in fact I did not,” she whispered back. When I tried to shrug away she held tight. “This is for you, little koi. Enjoy it.”

Milton was the first to cross no-man’s land and approach us. “Wonderful, powerful images, Koishi. You are indeed an artist,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear. He shook my hand gently, and his callouses felt like warm leather.

Milton’s gesture was a calculated mercy, for the pretense of art was enough to take the edge off the guests’ discomfort. In art, anything is permissible so long as it stirs the soul.

Yet in the minutes which followed, that secret x-ray knowledge still brightened the eyes of everyone who came to congratulate me. Us, rather, for it was clear Val had been the driving force behind these images, that she was the other woman partially glimpsed in some of them, holding the branding iron, standing over me in the fifth picture.

After the shock of the photos, this prolonged display was the hardest part of the evening. Val had introduced me to everyone before the unveiling, knowing I’d be rendered that much more naked afterward. And it had worked perfectly. Even as I seethed, I could not leave her side, for outside the circle of her arm I would be alone to face the full power of my shame. Within, I was shielded.

“Such a talented girl,” a Botoxed older woman told Val. “I wonder…would you consider selling prints of these works?” The woman’s husband studied me lecherously. They both wore far too much jewelry.

“I’m sorry. The prints are not for sale.”

“Then maybe you could let her pose for us someday? My husband is a very good photographer, you know. Bill, dear, give her your card.”

Val took the card and promised to consider it. The couple made my skin crawl: I had no desire to learn what ridiculous kinks they practiced in their Beverly Hills mansion. If Val ever commanded me to pose for them, I’d refuse. A whipping was preferable to that.

But it was Brent’s visit I dreaded the most, and when he came forward I felt my soul shrivel like a dried leaf.

“Well, well, well,” he said to me. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased, indifferent, or shocked by the content of the photos. Humiliation chased words from my lips.

“Koishi, be a good girl and thank him for his hospitality,” Val prompted. I knew her well enough to recognize the razor-thin edge of danger under those warm tones.

“Tha…” My voice cracked. “Thank you, Brent.”

“You’ve caused quite a stir,” he said to us both. “I won’t be surprised to read about this in tomorrow’s gossip blogs. You might just be a celebrity after tonight, Koishi.” His bad-boy smile took me back to when we’d dated. He looked the same now, except for a hint of premature gray in his hair, and a few lines at the corners of his laughing eyes.

“I’m glad we didn’t disappoint,” said Val.

“I’m a little surprised at how things have turned out, though. You two seem to have hit it off since the Christmas party.”

“Oh, yes,” Val said, but I could only glower. She arranged my bangs in a motherly gesture. I fought the urge to turn my head away.

Brent sensed the dark, private energy flowing between Val and me. After another minute’s pleasantries, he blessed us and made a graceful exit. When he’d gone, Val looked at me sternly. “Someone is sulking.”

I simmered and said nothing.

She took my hand and pulled me to the hallway, under the massed gaze of the room. There, she found the hall bathroom and drew me inside before closing the door. As the motion-sensing light flickered on, she faced me and pressed close, forcing me hard against the edge of the marble sink.

“Why, I believe doll is shocked,” she purred, kissing my unyielding lips with rising heat. “Doll is angry.”

My vision distorted, and hot tears traced wet tracks down my cheeks, to be tasted by Val. When I tried to push her away she caught my wrists in an iron grip. I began to quietly cry with the evening’s accumulated rage and shame.

“I hate you,” I spat.

“For now, yes. But I know you, Koishi mine. Each outrage makes you crave me more, in the end.”

I tried to pull my hands free, and failed. The struggle only made us both breathe faster. Val’s pale face was flushed; her face bore a new expression, that of extreme, selfish pleasure. She pinned me with her eyes before yanking up my skirt and thrusting her hand roughly between my legs. I made a wordless growl of anger and…not lust, but something akin to it. When I made a stronger effort to get out from under her, she slapped me hard enough to briefly star my vision.

The shock of it unhinged me, and I wept. All my resistance had melted away.

“What am I?” she demanded, her lips and teeth at my neck.

I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t, this time.

She took me there, trapped in the close space of that bathroom, while my heart burned with too many emotions to name. I loved her. I wanted to kill her.

part two

13     milton

BEFORE THE DEBUT’S end, Val had extracted a promise from Milton to meet for dinner the following night, while he was still in town. She did not ask if I was free to join them both, it was simply assumed. Were it anyone but Milton I would have seethed, perhaps even rebelled; I was that upset. But he fascinated me, and he knew things about Val I ached to learn.

These were Val’s instructions, emailed the next morning:

Koishi,

You will wear a short skirt and buttoned blouse tonight. Don’t bother with underwear. Here is a link with directions to Le Grand Chateau; meet us there promptly at eight.

One more thing. This evening you will refer to yourself only in the third person, with terms such as “this doll”, “she”, or “her”. No “I”, “me”, etc.

—Val

The embedded link gave directions to an old French restaurant on Lankershim, in North Hollywood. To my surprise I knew the place, having previously worked for two different effects companies in the vicinity. I’d often driven past it, but never had occasion to eat there.

Just to be safe I studied the menu and picked out complete meals for all three of us in advance. If nothing else, I might impress Milton while also denying Val the small pleasure of seeing me struggle with a task.

As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.

§

I had forgotten it was the first day of Daylight Savings Time and very nearly left an hour late for dinner. Luckily, I saw a reminder on a web page just before it was really time for me to leave.

The evening was hot, much warmer than the night before. I discovered my car’s air conditioner had died since the last time I used it. Dammit.

I pulled up just as Milton relinquished his midnight-blue rental Jaguar to the valet; he smiled upon seeing me get out of my car. I thought he looked rather dashing.

“Good evening, Koishi,” he said warmly, his words sweetened by that soft southern accent I’d noticed last night. When he took my offered hand, it was like being caught between two gentle rocks.

“Hello…Sir,” I said, unsure of how to address him.

“Just call me Milton,” he said.

We entered the restaurant, where the air-conditioning felt cold after the warm ride here. Milton told the hostess we had a reservation under Val’s name, but that she hadn’t arrived yet. We were shown to a table beside a large, curtained window. I took the place on Milton’s right, reserving the seat opposite him for Val.

“It’s not like Vee to be late,” Milton said. “I’m sure she’ll have an interesting story to relate.”

“Vee?” I asked. Of course he meant Val, but I couldn’t tell if he used it in a cute, nicknamey sense of “Vee” or a more sinister-sounding initial “V”, as one might read in a French erotic novel filled with dark cars, stormy nights, and mysterious Châteaux run by a secret society. Each possibility lent a very different spin on their relationship.

Milton simply nodded.

Afraid to speak, I looked around. The room was half-full, and I saw half a dozen other dining parties at various tables. The restaurant was clean and well-kept, yet gave the impression of having long passed its heyday. Now that I’d had a chance to acclimate, the room still felt about five degrees too cool. I regretted not being allowed to wear a bra.

“You’ve been with Vee for some time now, yes?” Milton asked.

“About nine and a half weeks…” I stopped myself from saying “Sir.”

“What’s your impression of her so far?” His eyes twinkled.

How to answer? Was it a trap? He had been Val’s mentor, a fact which still boggled me, and she’d presumably learned some of her style from this suspciously affable man. Yet he radiated a disarming sincerity. I couldn’t imagine him whipping anyone.

“She’s, um, challenging,” I said evasively, recalling the events of the last evening, my humiliation, my rage.

“Vee is that. She’s always been something of a—”

But he was interrupted by a thin, haughty waiter who asked if we wanted anything to drink. We both declined, preferring to wait for Val.

“She’s quite proud of you, Koishi.”

I could only smile coyly, and avert my gaze downward.

“Val showed me your digital paintings. You’re a talented woman.”

I looked up. “Really?”

“I’m especially curious about the painting with the doll. Was it based on something she told you?”

“No, Si—um, no. More of a guess on my part. She doesn’t talk about herself at all.”

“And how did she respond?”

I shuddered, recalling the atomic fury it had caused.

“I thought so,” he said.

“I—I mean, this girl was a bit shocked by her reaction.”

He noticed my stumble over the pronoun but made no comment.

“At any rate, a girl with your abilities simply must consider a showing. I’ll be happy to make a few inquiries, if you could produce another three or four pieces.”

This was completely unexpected. “It’d be an honor…I mean, assuming Val lets me use the ones you’ve seen.”

“That’s three times now you’ve used first person,” he said gently. “Val is a stickler for rules, and I’m guessing this is a new one, hmm?”

I looked down and nodded guiltily. I’d heard a trace of Val in his chastening; maybe he really could whip people.

“Good girl. Now…as for getting permission to use the paintings, leave that to me. Vee is far too vain to pass up that kind of opportunity.”

I sensed my window of opportunity closing. Val was sure to appear at any moment, and put an end to any chance to learn more about her past from this charming, enigmatic man.

“Why did she react so badly to the doll painting?” I asked on sudden impulse, almost in a whisper.

He was preparing to answer just as Val arrived.

“Forgive me. There was a dreadful accident on the 101,” she explained with some annoyance, as we rose in greeting. I was surprised to see Val hug her old mentor with genuine warmth.

She appraised our seating, and turned to the hostess. “I’m afraid this table just won’t do. Have you something more private?”

“No, Madame, all the tables are reserved.”

But of course the restaurant was not even close to full. Val slipped the woman a fifty and said, “Perhaps if you were to check for a cancellation?”

The hostess nodded surreptitiously. “We may have an open table in the other room, Madame. Come this way.”

I no longer needed Val’s cue to heel, and did it naturally. We were taken to a smaller dining room, vacant but for two other parties who dined quietly. Evidently Val found it much more suitable, and we arranged ourselves with Milton and Val facing each other, and me on Val’s left, as before.

The accident, Val reported, had been a three-car pileup at the worst possible place: the three fast lanes at the 101-405 interchange. Emergency vehicles were just arriving as she squeaked past. One of the cars had actually flipped upside down to land resting on the guard rail. “It must have been quite a collision,” she said with bright eyes. “I expect you just missed it on your way here, Koi.” I was glad of that.

My time spent with the menu, earlier in the day, proved useless as Val ordered an array of items for both of us, and our wine. And for our appetizers…how did I know she’d order escargot? I shuddered. Meals with Val were always an adventure.

Once the waiter had gone Val took a moment to study me, and I was forced to lower my gaze, on the pretense of arranging the napkin upon my lap. At length she spoke:

“I trust my doll behaved herself, Milton.”

He assured her of my good conduct.

They spent the next few minutes engaged in the usual pleasantries while I listened, mouse-quiet. Val’s hair was up in a rather tight bun, and she looked elegant, if a bit severe, in smoke-gray slacks and vest over a white blouse.

Again I was struck by their easy friendship as they discussed current events in the Middle East. They both knew quite a bit on the subject, and seemed to share an unspoken set of political assumptions which left me utterly in the dark.

Then the wine arrived, and our appetizers. The snails, six of them to a plate, sat before me in a most revolting display. Earlier I had resigned myself to suffering through them, but now I quailed. Val used the tiny fork to pop one into her mouth and watched me with dark amusement.

“Is there a problem?” she prodded.

“No Ma’am,” I lied.

“They’re quite delicious. Do try one,” was her honeyed command.

I found no refuge in Milton’s kindly gaze. I fished one out of its shell with the tiny fork. Try as I might, I couldn’t force it closer to my lips.

“They grow cold quickly,” Val said.

As the fork rose, so did my bile, and it was all I could do to keep from gagging. It looked horrid, a small curl of unspeakably nasty mental associations, smelling faintly of garlic. It stopped about six inches before my mouth and would not go higher.

The people at the nearest table, about twenty feet away, observed my struggle with scarcely-concealed interest.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Val said in velvety black tones. “Shall I embarrass you further?”

“No, Ma’am, I—”

“Enough. Eat.”

It didn’t taste as bad as it looked, but gah, the texture! You might describe it as slimy portobello mushrooms, sautéed in a garlic-butter sauce. But the inescapable fact that I was eating slugs made it difficult to swallow. Somehow I managed.

“I see you’ve forgotten my rule about pronouns,” said Val.

“This girl is sorry,” I said with lowered eyes. My cheeks grew hot.

“Open the top button of your blouse,” she said quietly.

I set down the miniature fork and obeyed with unsteady hands.

“Now the second, for your rebellious behavior.”

There were only a dozen buttons on my blouse. I didn’t like this game.

“Are there any other infractions I should take into account?” she asked of Milton.

My heart froze.

“She did slip once into first-person,” Milton lied convincingly, and I felt a rush of gratitude. Losing only one button was far better than three. As it was, I still displayed a fair amount of skin—but not as much as I might have.

I tried not to think of the television show Face Your Fear during those five remaining bites. I was sweating by the last one, but finally the ordeal was over with no more buttons lost.

Surely she wouldn’t go further with it, and risk our ejection from the restaurant. Then again, Val had a fondness for extremity. And Milton seemed wholly unfazed by the whole affair. Perhaps he’d even taught her such things, I couldn’t guess.

The point of the evening was the reunion of these two friends. Unlike the dinner with Millie, I was not expected to wait upon Val tonight, only sit quietly and speak when spoken to. And aside from the peril of the blouse buttons, Val appeared to have laid no traps for me this time. That was worrisome.

They spoke briefly of old friends before diving into a discussion of books I’d never heard of, let alone read. I listened with a growing sense of inferiority and was glad they never asked my opinion.

Presently, however, the conversation turned to the subject of me.

“Has she met Millie?” Milton wondered.

“Yes, a few times,” Val answered. “They can be quite amusing.”

“I should think so,” he laughed. “This one is green, but better behaved. What’s her motivation?”

“She comes from a mixed marriage. Military American father, Japanese mother, each strict in different ways. Koishi learned to associate closeness and intimacy with discipline, but she also has a naturally submissive nature. She certainly took to me readily enough.”

“You gave her a task before taking her on?”

“You know me too well, my friend. Of course.” To me she said, “Tell him how you proved yourself.”

My voice was a bit hoarse as I answered quietly, remembering protocol. “This…this girl jumped out of a plane.”

Milton’s laugh was smooth as fine whiskey.

“I’d like to point out,” Val said, “Koishi jumped a second time of her own volition.”

“Did she now? Impressive.” But Milton looked squarely at his friend with a hint of concern. “Y’all be careful. Most people can’t go where you lead, Vee. Watch that temper of yours.”

“I’m well aware of my faults.” I heard irritation in her voice. “In any event, I have high hopes for this particular doll. She’s yet to refuse a request.”

(But oh, how close I’d come on several occasions.)

“Put your hand over that candle, dear,” said Val, a bit petulantly.

Her command triggered a riot of conflicting impulses within me. Obedience was nearly automatic, owing to the effectiveness of Val’s training. But I was still recovering from last night’s shocks, so when I extended my right hand two inches above the candle’s flame, it was to impress Milton, not Val.

The warmth on my palm quickly turned to pain. It was an effort to keep from snatching my hand back. My eyes fixed on Milton, as if to say look at me, see how well I receive my abuse.

He reached across and moved the candle to his side of the table, out from under my trembling hand. “This is pointless, Vee; she obviously loves you. And if you must hurt her, spare her hands. She’s an artist after all.”

The test over, I folded my hands on my lap and fought the urge to look at my stinging palm. It hurt, though it had only been there for a few seconds.

But Val was pleased despite Milton’s disapproval, and her petulance gave way to pride. After inspecting my hand and finding no sign of injury, she began to dote on me like a mother. I still hadn’t forgiven her for last night, yet I found myself relenting, against my will.

On his next visit, our waiter feigned indifference to my partially-opened blouse. But I grinned when I caught him sneaking peeks. That, the wine, and Val’s new maternal mood emboldened me. I made a game of it, sitting straighter and thrusting out my chest when I pouted and asked for more ice water. The poor fellow was forced to stand beside me, with a clear downward view. His hand shook as he poured, and an electric sense of power coursed through me.

This game did not escape my Keeper’s notice, of course.

“Shameless whore,” Val scolded when he was gone. “That little display will cost you another button.” But she was smiling, and I knew I’d pleased her.

By now my state of undress was beyond anything that could be called tasteful. When the couple at the nearest table paid their bill and stood to leave, they shot me disapproving glances. Later I spied the hostess in a hushed discussion with the waiter at the far end of the room, as if arguing over how to handle the situation. But they seemed intimidated by Val’s powerful indifference, and nothing came of it.

At length Milton raised the question of my having an art showing.

“Of course,” Val said. “I’m happy to promote her talents.”

“There’s an art exhibit in Houston, in June. I know the director, and I can probably get her work admitted, if she has another three or four pieces by the middle of May.”

When Val asked, I assured her this was a realistic deadline.

“Very well, then. But I should offer you something in return, Milton. Would you like to borrow her for a weekend? You can do anything you like with her.”

I gasped. Not at the boldness of her offer, but the thought of being loaned as casually as a book. It was frightening. And deeply, shockingly arousing.

“Come to think of it, I do have a use for her. Can you spare her in two weeks? That will be the twenty-second and twenty-third.”

“She’s yours.”

And that was that. I would just have to postpone the dental appointment I had scheduled for that weekend.

“We can discuss particulars later,” Milton said. “We wouldn’t want to spoil her surprises, don’t you agree? I promise to return her unmarked.”

The vast unknowns of this situation knotted my stomach. I didn’t even know what state he lived in.

We ate in silence for a few moments.

“Are you still domming that girl, Carly?” Val wanted to know.

Milton nodded. “Yes, though less often now. I’ve only seen her a handful of times this year.”

“I don’t know why you waste your time with her.”

“You were a bit hasty in passing judgment on that one, Vee. You shouldn’t have let her go.”

“I don’t have time to coddle dolls, Milton. Carly was a lazy, self-absorbed brat.”

“She required a different approach. A bit of patience. Perhaps if you listened to more Baroque and less Industrial…” Milton chided, gently.

But Val didn’t take the bait, and only gave a hmph.

“Promise you’ll take good care of this one,” he urged. “I don’t want to hear you’ve left her sobbing in a bathroom like that poor girl Ava. Koishi is a rare find.”

“So long as she behaves, I’ll keep her.”

§

The final surprise of the evening came after Val paid for the meal. The staff’s sour looks left no doubt as to their eagerness to see us gone, as several departing guests had evidently registered quiet complaints about my immodesty. I noted, however, that Val added a jaw-dropping tip to the bill, effectively silencing their objections. Still, she was not above a final parting shot as we stopped just inside the front door, on our way out.

“Good heavens,” Val exclaimed with feigned exasperation. “One might think you people had never seen a woman’s breasts before.”

And with that, she pulled open my half-unbuttoned blouse, giving the entire establishment a good view. I know I blushed deeply as hot blood sang in my ears.

“Vee, you’re about as subtle as a tactical nuke,” Milton laughed. “Let’s go before you flatten the place.”

She told me to button my blouse as we left.

The air outside was hot, and smelled of distant brush fires.

14 breach

I FELT JETLAGGED as I pulled up to the front gate, on the first Monday morning of Daylight Savings Time. And once again my security badge didn’t work. Two hundred and fifty pounds of Security Guard Tyler slithered out of the guardhouse to peer down through my open window. Under those mirrored eyes I unconsciously pulled the top of my blouse closed.

“How was your weekend, Sunshine?” he asked, with coffee breath. When I didn’t answer, Tyler held out his hand. “Lemme see your badge, hun.” According to the computer my access had expired, which I thought was preposterous. He phoned the front desk to verify my employment status, then fiddled on his computer and told me my card would be working again by tomorrow.

My skin crawled when he touched my hand overlong to give me another temporary badge. “Have a nice day, Sunshine!” he called as I sped away. Screw you, creep, I thought, as I thought about filing harassment. But what had he really done?

“I think the new guard likes you,” said Shelley as I staggered in the door.

“Oh god, I need coffee,” I moaned. But when I reached the coffee machine I found Shelley hadn’t made any yet. Irritated, I prepared it myself and imagined how Val might deal with such a lazy doll. The resulting mental drama brought a wicked smile to my lips and chased away the bad taste of Tyler.

I thought back on last night. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I actually knew less about Val than before our dinner with Milton. Sure, I had learned the names of a couple of past dolls—Carly, Ava—and heard tantalizing hints about past events. But these only heightened, rather than dispelled, the mysteries surrounding my Keeper.

I hoped I’d have a chance to tease some information out of Milton, in two weeks’ time. Oh, god. The trip was a yawning abyss of unknowns, filling me with apprehension. The man seemed equal parts gentleman and libertine. It was also unclear whether Val planned to accompany me, but I secretly hoped she wouldn’t.

I couldn’t concentrate on work, as I replayed the events of the weekend in my head. I recalled Brent’s comment about my debut making a splash in the gossip-blogs, but thankfully an internet search with the terms koishi photographs elements encino yielded no results.

About an hour before lunch, Carl summoned the crew to morning dailies, where we reviewed the latest versions of the shots we were working on. As we sat in the darkened screening room my cellphone vibrated silently in my pocket. I snuck a peek and found a text message from Val.

NE Corner of Sunset and Vine. 12:00pm sharp. Get in the car.

That was it. No explanation, just the brief, enigmatic instruction. The intersection in the message was about five minutes’ walk away. Fortunately the meeting broke up at 11:45, giving me time to decline a lunch invitation from a coworker and walk to my assigned destination with a few minutes to spare.

The massive bank building on the northeast corner of the intersection was fronted by a large circular water fountain with a tiled lip. That was where I sat to wait, as people and automobiles surged past in rhythm with the traffic lights. It was about 95 degrees in the blazing sunlight.

Val hadn’t said if it would be her car or not, so I didn’t know what to look for. But eventually a black car turned from Sunset onto Vine, and pulled to the curb before me with the hazard lights on. The passenger window rolled down, through which the driver called out, “Miss Paz?”

I went to the window. “Yes?”

“The rear door is unlocked, Miss.” The driver had a vaguely Eastern European accent. He wore a suit, and pilot-style sunglasses, dramatic against his mustache and thin, no-nonsense lips, square jaw.

A car honked behind us. This was a no-parking zone, and the lunch traffic was extremely heavy. I quickly got into the back seat, and once the door was closed we got underway. The interior of the car was quiet and cool, and dark from tinted windows.

“You’re to wear the sunglasses, please,” he told me, and I found a pair on the seat beside me. The big kind that fits over eyeglasses, but these had been spray painted black on the inside, making them completely opaque. I couldn’t see a thing, even around the sides.

He drove for about five minutes, turning this way and that until I had no idea where we were. I guessed we’d gone generally north.

My phone buzzed, creating a problem. With the glasses on I couldn’t see who was calling, though I was sure it would be Val. But I didn’t dare peek, because the driver might see me cheating. Blindly, then, I found the pick-up button and lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hello…?” I said tentatively, holding back the Ma’am.

“Hey Toots, are you at lunch?” To my complete surprise, it was Trish, not Val.

“Um, kind of. I’m a little busy at the moment.” To say the least. Talking to her under these circumstances was disorienting.

“That’s fine. I just wanted to tell you I’m flying into Burbank this weekend. I know, short notice, but do you wanna get together for dinner Saturday? I can’t wait to hear how things are going for you. We haven’t talked in ages.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I said, feigning a casual tone while dreading the prospect of trying to explain my recent adventures without freaking her out. “But let me call you back tonight, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll call you Friday from the airport. Be good!” she said, and hung up. I put the phone away, glad to have avoided saying anything the driver could report to Val.

Then the car made a right turn and stopped. I heard the driver’s power window open, and the rasp of a parking ticket being printed. We descended into an echoing, cavernous space where the car’s tires squeaked as the driver steered.

When the engine stopped the driver said, “One moment, Miss.”

He got out, opened my door, and helped me stand. But he did not release his grip on my hand. Rather, he led me a short distance to where I heard the sound of an elevator drawing near. As far as I could discern, we were alone. When the elevator door dinged open I was guided within, and we rode up in the closed space. He smelled of cologne, and I felt foolish and vulnerable there, holding his hand like a child. But it was that, or take off my sunglasses and risk Val’s displeasure.

I wondered how the driver had come into this role. How much he knew of Val? Was he a knowing friend, or simply a paid chauffeur, given a large tip and reassurances enough to guarantee his complicity and silence? I couldn’t guess.

My apprehension was immense. With only a single text message, and a brief car ride, I had crossed from my comfortable life into Val’s nether realm of unknown dangers. I shivered in the chill elevator and wondered what I’d find on the other side of those doors. I did not like the direction this game was taking.

We stopped. The elevator doors parted and I was helped into a carpeted hallway where we walked perhaps twenty paces before we stopped, and I heard the jangle of keys. A door opened; I was gently urged inside. The door shut again.

“Your glasses, Miss,” said the driver, and I handed them to him, squinting as my eyes adjusted to sudden light. The driver left the room without a word, exiting by the same door we had just entered. Now I was alone. I couldn’t hear whether he stood by the door, or actually walked back to the elevator.

It was an office, or at least the empty shell of one. The walls were still bare, but the wall opposite the door was made of plate glass windows covered by metal blinds. The high ceiling still lacked acoustic drop-down tiles, and the floor was bare, smooth concrete.

The only furnishings were obviously temporary. In the center of the room were a folding chair and card table, illuminated by a pair of opposing spotlights on stands. Between them, about twenty feet from the table, was another pole-like stand topped by a small white ball. It stood at about head height.

My cellphone buzzed, showing another text message from Val.

Lunch is on the table.

And so it was, in a paper bag, beside a bottle of water.

I sat, sheepish in the glare of the twin lights. I set the phone on the table, and extracted the napkin, plastic utensils, and a covered dish of Chinese chicken salad.

From my seat I could see the white ball was a webcam aimed at the chair, and thus at me. My skin crawled as I nibbled self-consciously at the salad, watched by that cold, unblinking eye. Val was at the other end of it, of course, but I felt utterly alone and yet violated at the same time.

Doll does not like her lunch?

I began to tap out a reply on the phone when she sent another message.

You may speak, I will hear you.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said, with a catch in my voice.

That’s better. Continue eating.

There was no microphone to be seen anywhere, so either it was hidden, or built into the web cam.

I ate self-consciously for about ten minutes, during which no further messages arrived. When done, I replaced the cover upon the plastic dish and put everything into the bag again. Still no message. So I sat quietly with hands folded in my lap for another five minutes; by this time it must surely be half past noon. I looked to my opened cell phone to check the clock, but the display had timed out and was dark. I began to worry about getting back to work on time, because I had—

The phone buzzed again, startling me. It was now 12:35. The message from Val read:

Is doll fed?

“Yes Ma’am.”

Yet doll is not thankful.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Thank you, it was delicious.” My voice was small, mouse-like. Cold fear dripped down my spine at the icy tones I imagined in those typed words. The silence begged for more fervent pleading, but I had learned Val’s dislike of melodrama. There was no surer way to her wrath than an overdone apology.

Kneel on the X.

What X? I searched the floor for a good twenty seconds before finding it right beneath my feet: two crossed lengths of masking tape each about 4” long. I stood and moved the table and chair a few feet away before taking my place as instructed, facing the camera. I held the phone in my lap and watched it expectantly.

12:40.

The sense of alienation was dreadful. After the trials of the weekend and Val’s apparent pleasure at their outcome, I would have expected anything but this unexplained dehumanization. A hundred times I thought of speaking out, to ask if she was displeased, but the words wouldn’t come. And so I waited as my knees and ankles began to hurt from the pressure of the smooth concrete.

12:45. Still nothing.

12:50. Finally I was forced shift position, for the bones in my feet were in agony from the unyielding floor, and my left foot was beginning to cramp. My movements did not elicit comment.

12:55. Now I felt a sense of panic at the lateness of the hour. If she did not send the driver back now, I’d be late getting back from lunch. In fact, I feared she didn’t intend to return me to work at all. I started to compose excuses for my late return from lunch, when the phone buzzed again, and the message I found read:

The driver will take you back now. See you tomorrow, same time.

I rose on cramped legs just before he opened the door. He offered the sunglasses again, then helped me down the elevator and into the car. The return trip was shorter but just as confusing with its unpredictable turns.

When he said, “We are here, Miss,” I placed the sunglasses on the seat beside me and got out of the car. I’d expected to find myself back at the fountain in front of the bank. But disorientation claimed me briefly, until I saw that he’d stopped at the corner nearest my workplace and saved me the long walk back from the original pickup spot. I thanked him for this kindness and watched him drive off. I arrived only three minutes late as if nothing unusual had happened.

§

That night I called Val.

“You’d better have a good reason for calling. I look forward to hearing your explanation.” And then a beep, indicating this was only a recorded message. But the challenge had been issued so forcefully I hung up and sent an email instead. I tried to begin a painting for Milton’s show but couldn’t focus. Val’s sudden inaccessibility left me disconsolate, paranoid. Fruitlessly I replayed the weekend in my mind, searching for any transgression that might have garnered such punishment. It was an utter mystery.

The impending debut had always seemed a critical rite of passage, and after surviving it I had expected a greater intimacy in our relationship; or at least a brief respite from its previous rigors. But with Val, nothing ever went as expected.

Television offered no solace and I went to bed early, seeking oblivion in sleep. But I could only toss and turn in the tangled sheets until exhaustion claimed me well after midnight. What few snatches of dream I could recall later were restless, melancholy, unsatisfying.

§

The next morning, Tuesday, I received no text messages from Val and thought perhaps she had abandoned the game. Even so, I dutifully walked to the appointed intersection at noon. And there was the car.

And the opaque sunglasses. I would have peeked out of them were that possible, but they fit snugly against my face. Instead I tried to memorize the driver’s turns and counted seconds for the straights. I thought he took a new path this time, probably to make such memorization difficult. This time I felt we had gone a little east as well as north.

The awful room was just as it had been the day before, with its table, lights, camera. I also found a manila envelope on the table, with a printed label on the front, which read Open After Eating.

Once seated, I extracted my lunch from the bag as before; today it was a Cobb salad and the same bottled water. The mystery of the envelope, and the enforced waiting, were torture. Yet I ate slowly, in delicate rebellion against my curiosity, and also to spite Val—with whom I was now quite upset.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said when done, far more sweetly than I felt.

The taped X was still on the floor, and without prompting I moved the furniture aside and knelt there, facing the camera with bowed head. The envelope and phone I placed on the floor beside me.

I took longer than necessary to open the envelope and extract its contents, even though I was desperate for the least bit of communication from Val. Would it finally explain the reason for the new rules and sudden gulf between us?

Within the envelope was a short stack of 3x5 index cards held together with a rubber band, which I removed. The top card contained a brief instruction printed with the same label-making machine used for the envelope. It said:

Read each question aloud, then give your answer.

I moved that card to the bottom of the stack, and read the question on the next.

What am I?

Of course I knew the expected answer, but gave it a moment’s thought before replying, “My Keeper.” Next card.

What are you?

“A doll.”

Not the doll, oh no. I had given that answer once and received a swift, painful strike with a cane. Dolls only merit the indefinite article; they are entirely replaceable and unremarkable. I placed that card at the bottom of the stack. The new one read:

Are you a proud doll?

This had the scent of a trap. Did she mean to ask if I was proud to belong to her, or if I was guilty of hubris? Val could easily twist any answer, no matter how innocent, into something punishable. I decided to err on the side of humility.

“No, Ma’am. I’m not prideful.” The slight change in the adjective was intended to make my interpretation clear. Would it be enough?

Do you deserve my attention?

“No, Ma’am.” There was no safe answer for this. Humility would have to suffice.

Then why are you here?

“I don’t kn—” I began, then decided it would be better to take a stab at an answer. “Because I have been proud.”

What is to be done?

These questions were cleverly designed to work with any responses I might give. It was a kind of Rorschach test. But their effect, and that of this cruel isolation, was extremely unnerving. Without seeing her reactions it was impossible to know whether my answers were pleasing or not. In truth I couldn’t be sure she was actually watching, though I believed she wouldn’t miss this show for the world.

What was to be done? I had no idea. Why should I be asked to devise a punishment? My hands shook with a sudden eruption of rage and indignation.

This was bullshit.

“Ma’am, if you’re unhappy with me, just say so,” I pleaded to the camera. “Why are you tormenting me? Don’t I do everything you ask? Is this the reward for my loyalty? Because it’s not working out. I need more, dammit!”

The cell phone, on the floor at my knees, remained silent. A minute passed. Two.

“Fuck this,” I said, and threw down the cards.

I grabbed my phone and rose, walking toward the door in a red rage. On the way I kicked the camera stand over, and heard the camera’s plastic housing crack against the floor. Then I left the room.

The driver was not in the hallway outside. I reached the elevator and pressed the button, but when it arrived I stopped myself from pressing the button for the parking level, and stabbed “L” instead. Once in the lobby I stomped out to the sidewalk and blinked against the bright noontime sun. I’d have to call a cab.

It’s a strange thing to emerge from a building you’ve never seen before, in an unknown location. I discovered I’d been inside a short, glass-fronted office building about five stories tall with no identifying signage, just the street number and a billboard for trendy vodka on its eastern side.

I walked to the nearest intersection to get my bearings, and was surprised by what I found. The street sign said Sunset and Schrader, which meant I was only about half a mile west of my work. The driver had done a good job of disorienting me, for I had thought he’d taken me much farther away, in a wholly different direction.

During the brisk walk back to work, I was tempted to shut off my phone in defiance should Val try to call me. But in my heart I knew she wouldn’t. Nor did she prove me wrong.

Back at work, I hid in the restroom and quietly wept.

§

At home I spent the entire night trying to puzzle out what had happened, and what was to come. I had absolutely no map for this territory. I couldn’t say it was over, but neither did I see how it could continue.

The most shocking aspect was the suddenness of my break, which surprised me utterly. The events of the last ten weeks had been strange, difficult, but somehow thrilling, too. Yet after only a brief exposure to Val’s bizarre lunchtime deprivations, less than ninety minutes total, everything had come undone. What I’d considered accomplishments now became grievances. Yearning curdled into frustration and resentment. The unexpected pole-shift of my psychology was disorienting, troubling.

Clearly this had festered for some time, awaiting the right trigger. And if I knew anything at all about Val, it was that she had watched the thing grow, exposed by her shamanic dagger of clarity. True to her nature, she’d used it to advantage.

Knowing that, however, helped not at all. There was only a burning, ragged hole in my heart. I was angry, lost, bitter at the evaporation of nearly three months’ emotional investment.

After crying sporadically, curled in a comma upon the couch, my eyes fell upon the fake ice cube I’d kept from the Christmas party. Dormant, it sat on the end table beside a trio of unwashed glasses. My vision blurred with fresh tears at the painful memories it evoked. With an inarticulate cry I hurled it across the room. It left a small dent in the wall and fell to the carpet, where it shone bright and blue, having been activated by the impact.

I stared at the thing for a few moments, then rose and threw it in the trash under the kitchen sink before going to bed.

§

Two hours later, however, regret compelled me to dig the still-glowing ice cube out of the garbage can. I got up, washed off wilted lettuce and carrot peelings, and turned it back off. For lack of a better option, I placed it on the top shelf of my bookshelf, where it would stay out of sight.

It was to be another long and sleepless night.

15     adrift

THE PROSPECT OF a post-Valeria life was unexpectedly disorienting. I once read that after the Civil War many slaves had profound difficulty adjusting to freedom, and I could well believe it. However bizarre, the structure given to my life by Val was now gone, and I became acutely aware of its lack.

Wednesday, the day after my revolt, the director of our current film project made a rush request which forced me to work through lunch. What would have been a scheduling crisis yesterday was now a welcome distraction. Also, without the excuse of an urgent deadline, I might have been tempted to sneak back to the pickup point and watch for the black car, perhaps from the safety of the large bookstore across the street. Just to see if Val would send for me again.

But I got no text messages, no emails, no phone calls that day, and that was the worst part. I craved to know what she was feeling. Was she angry? Amused? Patiently waiting? I could imagine all of these possibilities and more, all equally likely; her apparent lack of concern was maddening.

The day proved to be a long, tiring one. Despite the crush of work, I oscillated wildly between fury, despair, and desire—and, oddly, a sense of freedom—a mixture which did nothing for my productivity. When I finally left work at eight, I felt the sudden impulse to stop for a much-needed beer at a familiar pool hall on the way home. Pool and beer were two things Val despised, probably for being too common, too proletarian. It would be a fine first act of independence.

As I sipped a Stella Artois with exaggerated relish—for it had been weeks since my last—I tried not to think about the details of a disentanglement from Val. I wasn’t worried about finding scandalous pictures of myself on the internet, for Val was far too discreet for that. Nor did I really mind the thought of losing the few items I’d left at at her place. Some makeup, a few items of clothing, nothing irreplaceable.

But I was genuinely disappointed about losing my tenuous link to Milton. I had been excited about the promised art show, as well as the mystery of the weekend I’d been promised to him…as scary as that was.

Yet I couldn’t convince myself it was truly over. This was a hiatus, perhaps. A chance to catch my breath.

I can go back any time I want.

I might have believed that more if I didn’t feel so lost. The fact was, I ached for her.

I reached inside my purse for the tube of lip balm and felt something poke against my fingers, which turned out to be the business card given to me by Paul, the tattooist. And in another minute, as if on autopilot, I found myself tapping out his number on my cell phone.

“Hello?” He said after the fifth ring.

“Hi, Paul. Umm…this is Koishi. We met a couple of weeks ago, I’m the compos—”

“I remember. The girl who worked on Earth Angel. Have you decided to get that tattoo?”

“Actually…well, I hope this doesn’t sound too forward, but would you like to join me for a beer, maybe a game of pool?” Then it occurred to me I didn’t even know if he was single or not. “I mean, if it’s not a good time…”

“Hang on a sec,” he said, and I faintly heard him discuss something with another male voice. “I’d love to,” he said reassuringly. “You have a place in mind?”

“The Break, in Encino. Is that okay?”

“On Ventura Boulevard, right? Sure, I’ll see you there in about twenty minutes.”

He was true to his word. Paul arrived wearing slacks and a blue and fuchsia Hawaiian shirt over a white tee. The same glasses. And all those tattoos. He took the hand I offered in both of his and held it for several seconds. I thought he looked very handsome. Thankfully I wasn’t under-dressed by comparison, still dressed for work in my usual tee shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

He ordered an unremarkable American beer as we spent a few minutes in standard pleasantries.

“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” I said.

“Oh, god no,” he assured me. “I was just chilling at my friend’s place. A damsel in distress always trumps that. It’s sort of a guy rule we have.”

“Damsel in distress?” I laughed, wondering how literally he meant that. But the words had hit home.

He looked searchingly into my eyes and I glanced away, pretending to study the LED marquee above the bar. He didn’t speak, and the silence dragged on for a long beat. Two. Three.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

“Come on…what?” I pressed.

“Is everything okay, Koishi?”

That set me back. “Is it that obvious?”

“You forget. I’m—”

“Psychic. Yeah, I remember.”

“But seriously, I don’t have to be psychic to see something’s bugging you."

I nodded. “Well, it’s nothing serious or life-threatening, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You can help by playing some eight-ball with me. Do you know how to play?”

“You can’t grow up in the rough part of Philly without learning to play pool,” Paul chided.

He got us a table and racked the balls deftly, then let me break. He played well, far better than me, but I didn’t mind. I found myself enjoying his easy company, his knack for storytelling.

I learned, for example, he was one-quarter Hawaiian on his mother’s side, which explained the broadness of his features and not-quite olive complexion. Paul’s family had lived in the islands until he was eleven.

“Wow,” I said, surprised that his own story was so resonant with mine. “Do you ever want to go back?”

“Sometimes. I have lots of relatives back home, so I can visit anytime I like. But here is where I’m supposed to be, so here I stay.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s Tutu Wailani’s fault. My great-grandma.” He gathered himself for another story. His eyes took on a distant look. “‘Wailani’ means ‘heavenly waters’. She was incredibly old and kind of scary-looking when I knew her. A shaman and a healer too, not many of those left now. My mom was afraid of her, but I never found out why—probably because of her magic. Something must have happened between them before I was born.”

He told this as he made an impressive four-ball run before scratching. I lined up my shot as he went on:

“But I loved my Tutu. She had enormous energy. She could make crabs crawl out of the ocean, right into a bucket on the sand. Just by singing to them.”

I found this hard to believe.

“I swear to god I’m not making this up. I saw it myself. More than once,” he insisted. I missed my shot and watched him sink another three balls.

“I’ll never forget the last time I saw her. It was just before my family moved to the mainland. She took me to the beach at dawn, and pointed northeast, over the water. She said, ‘There is a great Change coming. It will begin there, in the city of angels. That is where you must go.’ She made me promise, too, I’ll never forget that. And here I am, after all these years.”

“What sort of change?” I asked.

“I have no idea. Of course it wasn’t the only reason I came to L.A. instead of San Francisco, but it was a factor. I guess I’m a sucker for angels.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I said as I finished my second beer, recalling the circumstances of our first meeting.

“I only wish she’d told me what I was supposed to do here. Hard to imagine a tattoo artist saving the world,” he said. “Man, that sounds really lame, huh? Eight ball, side pocket.”

“No, no, it doesn’t,” I said emphatically.

He sank the eight ball exactly as called.

“Another game?” he asked.

“Another trouncing, you mean. Nah. Actually I’m starved. I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

Over my protests Paul paid for our game, and we walked down the block to a trendy coffee house that sold trendy artisan sandwiches. We sat outside in the warm, still night air, sipping coffee while I ate a cranberry-pesto turkey wrap.

Paul said, “So far I’ve done all the talking. Your turn.”

I demurred, saying I had nothing remotely as interesting as his tale. “I’m boring,” I insisted, but he would have none of it.

“Okay,” I finally relented, “how’s this? My grandmother Akiko survived the bomb that fell on Hiroshima,” I offered, finally.

“Really? Damn.” His expression grew serious.

“She was a little girl then. About six, I think. Her mother was helping her dress for a walk to the park when she saw a bright light shine through the window behind her. She thought the sun had come up again, but it was so bright she had to cover her face. Then the explosion knocked the house down around them and set it on fire.”

“Oh my god.”

“They were trapped in the rubble for two days before someone found them. My grandma had a broken arm. Both of them had bits of glass stuck all over their bodies. Her mother was burned so badly she died a few days later.

“Grandma didn’t remember much about the next few days. She swears a spirit came to her and told her not to worry, that everything would be okay. She said the spirit felt very familiar, like a friend or a relative.”

“What about her father?”

“That’s the weird thing. He died in the war a couple of months earlier. Grandma always said he was the spirit who came to her under the house.”

“Orphaned, huh? Man, that sucks. Where’d she go?”

I explained that she’d been taken in by an aunt in Osaka. At nineteen she moved to Guam, where she eventually got married, bore two children, and lived to the end of her days.

There are some personal stories so heavy all you can do is let them flow past, and mark their passage with a moment of respectful silence. So it was now. Finally, Paul spoke:

“See? You’re not so boring after all,” he said. He leaned forward. “But I want to know more about you. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Calling you, out of the blue,” was my evasive answer.

“Nice try. Seriously.”

Oh, I had plenty of material that would have satisfied his question—my weeks with Val made it a certainty. But I didn’t know how to share any of that. Nor could I guess his reaction to such a disclosure. Best to keep my secrets for a while longer, and treat tonight as an entirely different universe.

The moment dragged on.

“I live in Tarzana, five miles west of here,” I said with my best Valeria-smile. “I wouldn’t mind company tonight.”

He hadn’t expected a Queen move so early in the game. Surprise showed in his eyes.

“Koishi,” he said delicately. “Don’t get me wrong—you’re a really desirable woman. And I’m all guy. But I can tell this isn’t a simple case of lust for yours truly, much as I want to believe that. I don’t know what’s going on in your life right now, but I’m not the sort of guy to take advantage of a damsel in distress.”

I had never heard such words from a man before.

“You’re right. It’s complicated. But I like you, and this would be very good for me right now. Last chance, Paul. Going, going—”

“All right,” he said, with a guilty smile.

“By the way, I don’t even know your last name. Mine’s Paz,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Paul Fuchs, at your service.” His last name rhymed with rebukes.

I laughed at that. “An auspicious last name.”

“It means ’fox’, not what you’re thinking,” he said automatically, which implied he said it a lot.

As seductions go, it had all the subtlety of a train wreck. I didn’t care.

§

We stepped into my condo and I closed the door, locking it with a double snick.

I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I turned and pressed myself against him, kissing hungrily, savoring the shape of his body, so unlike Val’s. He sensed a trap, perhaps, and held back. But his hesitation melted under the rain of my butterfly kisses.

I took off his two shirts and marveled at his tattoos, tracing them with my fingers and lips. In the blue light of the aquarium, the varicolored images were reduced to monochromes on his smooth, tanned skin. After studying those tattoos, I removed his pants and boxers in search of more, but in vain; the lower half of him was unmarked. He stood still during these investigations. I liked his body and was glad to find his pubic hair neatly trimmed. I wanted to take him in my hand then, but didn’t.

By then he’d regained some of his initiative. He took my hand and pulled me up to stand beside him. Then he undressed me in turn, with surprising grace. He’d done this before.

I caught sight of our mingled clothes, piled in a heap on the carpet. Val would certainly have punished such sloppiness. It was an effort to keep from kneeling to fold the garments neatly.

But I could not have done so. Emboldened, Paul trapped me against the wall with his body, right there in the entryway. The twin light switches pressed into the small of my back a little painfully. His newly-dominant attitude activated my doll reflexes, but I beat them back and made a point of struggling against him, as if to get free.

At this he paused and fixed me with eyes.

“Koishi, listen to me. If you say the word ‘no’, we stop. Otherwise I’ll assume you’re saying ‘yes’. Okay?” This was the fine print.

Pinned under his gaze, breathing fast, I nodded once. Yes.

§

Naked, we fell to the leather couch and explored one another.

He had strong hands and it felt good to be gripped by them. He was a little rough, but he could have no idea how much farther I’d gone with Val. And had there been any lingering marks on my body at the time, I would have shown them with pride, offered them as proof and a challenge.

Lacking those, however, I simply assured him, “I won’t break, you know.”

I matched his ardor and did not let him dawdle. Beneath his body, I reached between his legs and stroked the proud root of him, while biting his nipples. The foreplay lasted all of five minutes.

Then he sat up and extracted a condom from his pants pocket. I tickled him while he worked to slip it on. This annoyed him a bit, complicating an already rather indelicate business.

“The good knight brought his armor, I see,” I said with a laugh. It was fun to taunt the man. I wanted him a little angry, and it worked.

Without prompting he held my hands over my head and plunged into me, producing a riot of emotions I hadn’t expected. I savored his weight, his musk, his animal need. I enjoyed struggling noisily beneath him, and not being ordered to hold perfectly still and silent, as Val often did.

I used the most scandalous language I knew, playing him like an instrument, spurring him on. When he foolishly attempted to synchronize our climaxes, I moved hard upon him and forced him to come almost against his will. He gave himself to it, then, with astonishing intensity. His face seemed wracked with pain, but the sounds he uttered gave proof of his pleasure.

Then he released my hands and fell upon me, gasping and suddenly a bit apologetic, so like a man. Annoyed, I shushed him and simply cherished the fine ache of my own unsatisfied need for a few moments. When his breathing had slowed I pushed his head between my legs, told him exactly what to do. His obedience was intoxicating. Suddenly I understood a bit of what motivated Val’s need for dominance.

It was absolute, velvet perfection.

I could imagine Val standing there, amused by the rebellion which only made me crave her more. And pleased by the new thing I was becoming. Had I not been lost in the raptures of the moment, I would have been very afraid.

§

We rested, cuddling in silence. Thirty minutes later we did it again in the shower, with the new geometries that setting offered, while trying not to slip and brain ourselves in the process. Shower sex, we learned, was more risky than erotic. But we soldiered on anyway.

Afterward we dressed, I in pajamas and he in his clothes. He watched me prepare tea for us both, sitting on one of the two stools by the counter top separating my living room and kitchen. It was a little after eleven.

“You’re one crazy lady,” he said at length.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Try me,” he goaded.

“I don’t want to scare you off.”

“I’m a big boy, Koishi,” he said.

“So I noticed. Just…be patient. For me.”

He sipped his tea, not knowing what to say next.

“You’re welcome to stay,” I offered. “But I have to get up by six at the latest. Stay with me.”

He did.

§

Spooned against my back, arm draped heavily over me, Paul slept like a baby.

But I could not. The night was a timeless blur marked only by the white noise of cars on the 101 Freeway, outside my balcony. I floated in a non-space of half-dreams, shapeless lusts, and a nagging sense of important things left undone. The sky was still dark at 5:47am when I slipped from under Paul’s arm and took a shower.

While washing my hair, a thought struck me: could Paul be another of Val’s games? Perhaps she had thrust him into my life for the purpose of later mischief, as she’d done with the photographs? Panic gripped me for an instant. But no, it was impossible; our meeting had been entirely random. Val could not have known I’d be shopping at that mall, on that night. Could she? No, I was simply being paranoid.

By the time I emerged from the shower, Paul had risen and was making breakfast.

“I didn’t know how you like them. But it’s hard to go wrong with eggs Lorraine and bacon,” he said.

I made coffee for us both, mine strong. This was my second sleepless night in a row, and I would be a zombie later, oh yes.

The sky outside was nearing sunrise as we sat at my small dining table, facing each other.

“You really didn’t have to cook,” I said.

“And you didn’t have to call me last night. But you did.”

Fair enough.

As for the food, I was impressed. It was quite good, though much heartier than my usual weekday breakfast of cereal or fruit.

“You’re a complex woman, Koishi,” Paul said.

I looked at the clock. “Oh my god, I’m a very late woman. I gotta go to work.” I finished my eggs and stood up quickly, taking my plate to the kitchen. “I’ll clean this up when I get home.”

He put his shoes on as I gathered my things. When I held the front door open for him, he stopped, leaned forward, and gently put his lips to mine. It wasn’t a demanding kiss.

“In case we don’t see each other again, milady, it was an honor,” he said graciously. “But I wouldn’t mind taking you to a proper dinner.”

I told him I’d consider it.

§

It was Thursday, and still no contact from Val. I knew she’d wait for me to contact her, but I checked my cell phone’s voice and text messages anyway. More than once.

Two sleepless nights in a row had made a mess of me. I had the misfortune of forgetting my security badge again, and when Tyler noticed the circles under my eyes he refused to raise the gate until I assured him I was okay. I snapped at him this time, and ordered him to open the gate. He let me through after putting on a clownish expression of dismay. Patronizing asshole.

I tried to nap during lunch, on the ratty couch we kept in a windowless equipment room. It wasn’t uncommon for artists to crash there, after an all-nighter. But the nap only sharpened my craving for real sleep. It was all I could do to make it to the end of the day.

The drive home in traffic was hot and sticky, miserable with my car’s air conditioner still broken. Once home, I didn’t even bother to wash the morning’s dishes. I turned on the AC, took a cool shower, wolfed down a TV dinner and went to bed.

Finally sleep, long denied, claimed me.

§

As promised, Trish called from the airport Friday night, to firm up dinner plans for the following day. But thankfully she had no time to ask penetrating questions about my relationship. Still, it was only a temporary reprieve; she’d want to hear about everything over dinner tomorrow. How much did I dare I tell her?

§

Saturday night we met at BK’s Brewhaus, a trendy pizza-place-and-microbrewery in Burbank. Back when we both worked at Pixelmatic FX, it was our favorite hangout for dinner and drinks. The place held many good memories.

Under the parking lot floodlights, I almost didn’t recognize my friend. Instead of the corn rows or braids I remembered, she’d had her hair straightened and cut in a sassy bob. But the key chain in her hand was just as full of baubles and fobs as before, and just as cacophonous.

When we hugged, the key chain made a complex metallic sound at my back. She smelled faintly of Givenchy.

“Wow, look at you!” I exclaimed, when we stood back to take each others’ measure. She smiled beatifically, her smooth white teeth seeming to glow in that chocolate face. And I adored her dimples.

“Looking good yourself, sweetie. How ya been?”

A difficult question, especially when I didn’t know the answer myself. “Great, great,” I said.

Inside the restaurant we gave our name to the hostess, but didn’t wait long to be seated. We stuck to generic chit-chat until our beers arrived, and then she turned the conversation to the subject I’d been dreading.

“So,” she said eagerly, leaning forward with arms crossed on the table, “Tell me about this person you’re seeing.”

Oh boy.

“Val? She’s…pretty different, I’ll say that. Definitely an A-type personality. Kind of dominating.” I’d added that last bit on impulse, just to test the waters.

But Trish didn’t catch the hint. “So she’s nothing like Norbert, then?”

“No, not like Norman. Oh god, he wouldn’t last five minutes with Val.” Despite everything, that made me laugh. “But anyway, I’m not quite sure what’s going on with us. We had a fight the day after you called, and I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“A fight, mmm? Is she not treating you right?”

My mind whirred, composing a safe reply. “I dunno, it’s just…I really trusted her, but the closer we get, the more she pulls away.”

“Maybe she’s finding out she’s not really into girls?”

“Oh, she is. It’s more like she has a lot of stuff in her past, and it gets in the way.”

“What kind of stuff? Don’t tell me she used to be a man.”

“Well— ” That stopped me cold, and I had to seriously consider that possibility for a moment, but no, I knew it couldn’t be. “No, no, I just think she had it rough as a kid. She has all these marks on her body she won’t talk about.” I didn’t mention the scarification.

“Girlfriend, trust me. The crazy ones are always more fun in bed, but they ain’t nothing but trouble later. You can’t fix people, Koishi. They are what they are.”

I’d have to think on that, later.

“Trish…I have something to confess.” That got her attention. “I saw someone else a couple nights ago.”

“No shit? You been busy.”

I told her about Paul, and this time I held nothing back, not even my brief experience of dominating him. She found that juicy, and it successfully distracted her from the subject of Val.

The rest of the dinner was smooth sailing. It felt good to hang out with my best friend. If only I knew how to talk to her about Val, without her threatening to kick Val’s ass, or thinking me insane. I might find a way to broach the subject another time, but not tonight.

§

Sunday was the worst.

That’s when the absence of Val in my life finally hit home. I told myself it was good to be free of her outrageous moods, her crazy demands, and that I’d finally have time to concentrate on the things I’d neglected since January.

But as I sat in a park on that too-warm afternoon, trying to read the big historical novel I’d bought last year—and people-watching instead—I realized that I missed her.

I was angry at myself for letting her stupid game get under my skin. I should have simply toughed it out. But it had been so unexpected, so strange. Why the sudden isolation, after weeks of increasing closeness?

And then it struck me.

It was a defense. Her way of maintaining a safe distance from anyone who began to matter to her. If I knew anything about Valeria, it was that her issues prevented her from having a normal relationship. I couldn’t possibly guess at her personal history, the life that left such marks on her body, but I knew there had been some kind of abuse. I doubt I would have survived, as she did.

I have high hopes for this particular doll. She’s yet to refuse a request, Val had told Milton.

I put the book down.

That was how she operated: by slowly raising the stakes until a doll abandoned her, further validating her belief that all emotional investments were doomed. A nice little self-fulfilling prophecy. That was why she had freaked at my painting of the girl and her doll. She’d begun to see I was different, that I really did care about her, and it had terrified her.

Whoever had done this to Val, I hated them. Hated him, rather. Because I couldn’t help but see him as a man. And my leaving would only reinforce the violence he’d done her.

It was all conjecture, and I knew Val would never discuss it. Now that the idea had entered my mind, though, I couldn’t put it out.

You can’t fix people, Trish had said last night. They are what they are. I thought of the doomed battery sealed in my glowing ice cube, impossible to change without destroying the thing.

But who else had the slightest chance of breaking through Val’s frightening exterior, her guardian persona, and saving the little girl inside? Not Millie; that woman was too caught up in her own needs. Of her other dolls I had no knowledge. But Milton; he knew something of these matters. He had managed to influence her in the past, but hadn’t won through entirely. What had held him in check?

I needed to rescue her. The fact was, I loved her. More precisely, I loved the vulnerable thing within her. But to get inside, deep enough to draw her out…was that even possible? To survive the ever-more sadistic demands the Guardian would make upon me, before I finally exhausted her defense mechanisms?

I had to try.

§

I called her that night.

Five, six, seven…I counted the rings. She picked up on the ninth, of course, just as my finger was poised to hang up. She knew the limit of my endurance, knew how to dance with it.

“Koishi,” she said, calmly.

“Hello, Val.” No reply. “I’m sorry about my tantrum,” I said into the silence.

“And what are you prepared to offer as a token of your regret?”

“Anything you ask,” I said, more bravely than I felt.

“I expect you to be creative,” she said. “I’ll be at the Santa Monica pier on Wednesday at eight.”

“I can be there.”

“Ta.”

I spent half an hour pondering what manner of gift I could possibly offer Val. It would have to be something intimate, unusual, made of equal parts beauty and pain. And then I had it. After a quick image search on the internet, I dialed Paul’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Paul. It’s Koishi.”

“Hi, crazy lady. It’s nice to hear from you.”

“Look, Paul…remember you said you’d give me a deal on a tattoo?”

16     grace

I WENT TO that meeting filled with dread and desire.

The pier wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected. I found Val at the end, far over water, standing apart from a group of patient fishermen. She was gazing out upon the dark and churning sea, hands resting lightly on the big wooden railing and standing very straight. If she meant to display self-sufficiency, to my eyes it seemed forced. Perhaps even a little lonely. I stopped three paces behind her.

“Hello, Valeria.” I’d meant to say Ma’am, but it didn’t seem appropriate, not yet.

She turned slowly, to behold me through narrow glasses, face shining like a ghost in the bluish glow of mercury-vapor floodlights. Her white hair was up, though a few strands had been allowed to fall at her temples. She wore a Victorian outfit much like the one from our interview at the jazz club: vest over a white blouse, slacks, lovely shoes with slightly pointed toes. This version was darker and lacked the touches of lace at the sleeves.

“Ah. There you are,” she said pleasantly, consulting her pocket watch. It was precisely eight.

I hadn’t known what reaction to expect from her. Nothing so blatant as wrath, certainly, but maybe a measured hostility, or at least scorn. So I was unprepared for her familiar tone, and to be safe I remained silent, clutching my purse in front, at the level of my hips.

“Is there something you wish to say?” she asked.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved.”

“I see. And now you’d like to come back.”

I nodded. “If you’ll have me.”

“That depends upon a great many things. For one, your understanding of our relationship. I trust you’ve given this some thought. What have you realized?”

I considered. How was it that I never seemed to anticipate the obvious questions?

“That I was a sorry excuse for a doll and don’t deserve your Keeping,” I offered.

She frowned. “Spare me the dramatics. Give me a real answer.”

“I’ve missed you, Val. I want to come back.”

She weighed my admission for a moment, before her gaze shifted to something beyond my right shoulder.

I heard footsteps coming from behind, and a blond girl of about twenty walked past me to stand beside Val. She held a cup of chocolate ice cream in one hand and a pink plastic spoon in the other, with which she offered Val a taste. Then her steel-blue eyes surveyed me with a feline regard.

I studied her in turn: a diminutive girl, fully four inches shorter than me and more boyishly built. The narrow velvet choker snug about her smooth throat suggested she knew of Val’s penchant for such things. She wore an expensive cropped leather jacket over a white silk blouse. Even the girl’s immaculate black jeans and designer boots screamed money. Beverly Hills money.

Val did not immediately introduce us, but savored watching me deal with the new variable. The parade of emotions I suppressed must have been a feast for her hungry eyes.

I disliked this person immediately, resented her presence and what she made abundantly clear.

I had imagined Val waiting patiently for my return in her stoic, reptilian way, perhaps even pining for me a little. But to learn she had amused herself with other dolls during my absence skewered my ego as neatly as a sandwich toothpick. That she would bring one of them to my capitulation was an added cruelty.

Val accepted another carefully-offered spoonful of the ice cream. The exchange had an almost sexual quality. Watching a strange doll serve her this way was disorienting.

I stood rigidly before their focused gaze and considered leaving, right then and there.

Finally she spoke, in a voice that was honey-sweet.

“Grace, this is Koishi, the former doll I told you about.”

Former doll. Ouch.

“Hello, Koishi,” said Grace, with a soft English accent that made me feel very plain by comparison. Her pleasant tone did not match the condescension in her eyes.

“She failed a test last week, and left my service. Now she’s come to offer a gift and an apology. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, a bit dully.

“Why don’t you offer your apology to Grace? We’ll let her judge the sincerity of your contrition.”

The thought of prostrating myself to this fair usurper was galling. The words I had been composing withered in my breast.

During this time, an older couple wandered out to the end of the pier, and stood together at the railing a few paces to my right. While the fishermen were busy on the far side of the pier, these two were close enough to hear our exchange. Their presence amplified my already crushing humiliation, and it became too much.

I don’t need this, I thought, and turned to go.

“Such a pity,” Val said to Grace, as I broke off and walked away. “Milton was looking forward to seeing Koishi this weekend.”

I stopped short. That Val had said anything was as close to an entreaty to stay as I would ever get; it was all that her guardian persona would allow. But it was enough to weaken my resolve. Milton had been my objective, my one chance to learn something of Val’s past. I thought of the little girl locked inside her, and resolved not to abandon her, at least until I knew what I was up against.

With great effort I turned back around, pausing a moment to force down my anger. Val and Grace watched with an air of detached interest. I walked back to where I’d been standing. Took a breath. And knelt before the two of them, facing Grace. With a grave voice and lowered head, I said:

“Ma’am, I showed a lack of faith and humility. I regret it now. I beg your forgiveness and ask you to consider giving me another chance.” I prayed it would be enough. I could do no more.

A moment passed.

“I’ve heard better,” Grace said in a superior tone. I saw red, but held my tongue.

“No, I believe she’s being quite earnest,” Val judged. To me she said, “Have you brought a gift?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Then let’s have it.”

I pushed my hair to the left and exposed the nape of my neck for them both to see. They came closer, bent down. The light was not good.

What they saw was my two-day old tattoo of a swimming koi, based on a Japanese brush painting I’d found on the internet. It was only about two inches tall, but Paul had made an excellent, detailed job of it. It had that graceful simplicity so characteristic of sumi-e paintings: an outline consisting of a few sweeping, organic lines of black ink, augmented by subtle dabs of black and golden-orange.

The fish was seen from an overhead angle, as if swimming coyly away. Its head was uppermost, the body bent in a graceful arc to the left like a comma.

“Tattoos on the neck are very painful,” Val said slowly, savoring that fact.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered.

In fact, it had hurt so much I’d barely managed to keep from leaping out of the chair. Paul had warned me it would be so, but I persisted. This is my penance, I told myself, and the experience did not disappoint.

In the two days since, I had carefully followed Paul’s instructions for its care so that the tattoo would be presentable now.

Val ran her cool fingers over its lines, which were still slightly raised and tender, not quite healed. The touch provoked both faint pain and yearning, and Val sensed its effect upon me. She and Grace stepped back.

By now the elderly couple perceived the strangeness into which they had blundered, and quickly took their leave. It was almost funny.

“You may rise,” Val told me, watching the flight of the seniors. As I got to my feet she asked Grace for her opinion of the offering.

“It’s nice enough, I suppose,” was her ambivalent reply.

Val said nothing, but I knew the tattoo held a powerful private meaning for her, drawn from my first day in her keeping.

And should I ever leave Val, the tattoo would simply become a pretty, secret thing with no taint of scandal. That had been the calculus of my decision, given my uncertain situation.

I stood, awaiting judgment.

“Koishi, the gift is acceptable. I will have you back, but let me be clear: you are on probation. Fail me again and it’s over.”

I nodded.

“Now I have a game in mind for the both of you,” she said, taking the ice cream from Grace and putting it on the railing. She consulted her pocket watch. “It’s a quarter past eight. You have half an hour to return with something to please me. There will be a reward for the winner. Begin now.”

§

Thirty minutes is not very long, and Val had exotic tastes.

At 8:45pm Grace and I stood before her, awaiting judgment on this week’s episode of Kinky Doll Scavenger Hunt. That’s how I’d come to think of the adventure, at any rate.

Our eyes were drawn to the item Grace held in her arms, an impossibly huge, fluorescent green teddy bear; one of those ghastly prizes from the dozen-or-so arcade games on the pier.

Val arched an eyebrow at sight of it, but said, “Let us have your offering first, Koishi. What have you brought your Keeper?”

I knew the pier’s gift shops held nothing of interest for Val, so I had sought out the dark corners, the places where broken things collected, and taken four photos on my cell phone.

The first picture was of a homeless woman, expertly blowing bubbles in the sherbet-colored lights of the Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Her face glowed with a beatific, almost child-like expression.

The second picture showed a broken barbie doll lying beside a trash can.

The third was of a pair of pigeon wings lying peacefully, bottom side up, on the large creosote-treated planks of the pier. I had discovered them beneath a staircase, in the space between the enclosed turn-of-the-century carousel and an adjoining seafood restaurant. It was a total enigma to me; there was no body, no blood, only the two wings perfectly arranged as if the rest of the pigeon had simply disappeared. Just the bones sticking out where the shoulders should have been, and little bits of dark, drying sinew. It was enigmatic, troubling…and exactly the sort of thing Val loved.

My last picture was only a few minutes old. It showed a young boy crying as his father ignored him to play the ring-toss game with a look of utter concentration. I had been captivated by the complete disconnect between the distraught boy and his goal-oriented father. It wasn’t neglect, really. Yet the scene touched me in a tender spot. As a child I had known more than one such moment with my own father.

Val did not comment, but the images held her interest for many moments. She did not show them to Grace. At length she returned the phone to me and regarded my adversary and her ridiculous stuffed bear.

“I admit some surprise at your offering, Grace. Tell me about it.”

“A man won this at the ring toss for his boy. I offered to pay him for it, but he refused. Everyone has their price, though. That man’s price just happens to be one hundred dollars.”

“And why should I find this gift pleasing?” Val pressed.

“The boy didn’t want to part with it. He put up quite a fuss…but of course that’s more than enough money to buy a better toy. I think the brat will get over it.”

So that was the story behind my last photo. I must have just missed Grace’s exit, and only caught the aftermath. This new intelligence painted the father in a slightly less negative light: he’d been trying to win another toy for his son, to make up for the loss of the first.

Val’s mouth twisted into a dark smile as she studied Grace, having connected the dots too, and asked me to show her the fourth photo. “Is this the boy?”

Grace nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“And I am to savor the man’s surrender to greed. The choice to betray his child, and the fact that such a ludicrous object can engender so much anguish. Is that it?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You have blundered badly, Grace. Find the child now and return his toy, or go home and never trouble me again. Am I perfectly clear?” Val’s voice was calm, but sharp as a new razor.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Grace nearly ran back to the arcade.

I was stunned by this new turn. Yes, Grace’s gift was terribly cruel, but it did possess a certain Val-like poignancy, a flavor of self-inflicted pain. I might have made a similar error, though perhaps not so mean-spirited.

And was I also in trouble, for having captured the same boy’s pain with my final photograph? But Val said nothing, and we waited in silence. Far below, and out of sight, the ocean churned about the tall, barnacled pilings. Presently a news helicopter growled past, flying low over the water as it sped north toward Malibu.

Grace was lucky; the father and son had not left the pier and she was able to find them. She returned, breathless and contrite, terror in her eyes. Of course she might simply have hidden the toy somewhere, but I didn’t think she dared. Especially after her original blunder.

“Did you get your money back?” Val wanted to know.

“…No, Ma’am,” said Grace uncertainly. Her head was lowered. “It didn’t seem proper.”

“Doll has a molecule of sense after all,” said Val, and then addressed us both. “I am a very cruel person at times, but let me make something abundantly plain. Children are entirely off-limits.”

Now that was a bit of news. The unusual emphasis in her last words suggested more than a fierce and unexpected morality; the matter was deeply personal.

Grace did not raise her head.

“I think we all know who won my little game.” Val let us absorb this. “Koishi, would you like your prize now?”

The safest answer to this sort of question was always, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Val instructed Grace to give me her mobile number, which I entered into my own phone’s contact list. I wondered where this was headed.

“Grace herself shall be your prize. Until I say otherwise, she is yours to play with. Feel free to call upon her at any hour of the day or night, since she comes from a wealthy family and has no real obligations to speak of. Be as cruel to her as you like. In fact, this is the ideal opportunity to stretch your horizons.” I caught a strangled cry from the girl, who evidently did not care for her new role.

Of course, what Val called a “gift” was usually just a new way to torment dolls, and this was no exception. I had neither the desire, nor the experience necessary to dominate Grace. I despised her, and the other woman’s expression proved the feeling was mutual.

“Listen well, Grace. Tonight you are coming home with me, and I will see to it you never make such a mistake again. In the meantime, a proper display of contrition may soften my mood, if you are very sincere. May, mind you.” Val pointed to me and said, “Direct your apology to Miss Koishi.”

She faced me with smoldering eyes. Through tight lips, she said:

“Forgive me, Ma’am. I was thoughtless. It won’t happen again.”

There was fear in her voice, but also a hint of defiance which was profoundly irritating. Val and I were silent as stones.

“It was wrong of me,” Grace added, sensing the depth of our disapproval and releasing my hand. She fell to her knees. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Val interrupted. “Koishi, what do you make of Grace’s apology?”

“Not very much, Ma’am.” I greatly enjoyed this reversal of fortune.

“I concur. Are you going to tolerate this sloppy behavior?”

The girl glowered before me, and I fought the urge to slap her. I was not used to being on this side of such an exchange, but I’d spent enough time with Val to take a stab at it. In a steady voice, I said, “Let’s hear that apology again…in haiku.”

It was fascinating to watch her strain to compose. Was this how I looked when Val thrust such challenges upon me? Eyes downcast, lips pursed, brow furrowed, fingers ticking off syllables. I had never considered my appearance, for the effort took all my concentration. She seemed so small, so cornered.

I wasn’t prepared for thrill it produced. With a few simple words, I’d locked the girl in an agony of mental effort.

As the seconds ticked away I became impatient. Christ, was I this slow? I fought the temptation to check my watch, but there was no doubt she felt the press of time. The wind began to freshen, and I regretted not bringing a sweater.

After what must have been two minutes, Grace recited:

bad doll hurt a boy
by taking his bear away.
she is so sorry.

It was dreadful. She knew it.

“There are many reasons you are not my favorite doll, and this is one of them. A terrible effort.” Val said. The words stung the girl like a whip stroke.

I spied a pair of policemen on their beat, about two hundred feet away, walking in our general direction from the amusement park area which occupied the pier’s middle span. They had noticed Grace’s kneeling position and approached, giving us a strong dose of Cop Eye.

I looked to Val, who also saw them but was unperturbed.

“Stand up, doll, and pay attention,” said Val calmly. Grace obeyed. “You are a stupid, spoiled brat who has never had to work a day in her life. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Then why do I keep you?”

Her lips twisted a bit as she thought it over. “Because I’m pretty and I do what you tell me, Ma’am?”

“You don’t sound very sure of that.”

“No, Ma’am. I mean, yes, Ma’am! I’m very sure.”

The cops were much closer now.

“Are you deliberately trying to anger me now?”

“No, Ma’am!”

Like the throw of a switch, Val’s icy manner became tender. “Then give me a kiss and tell me how much you love me.”

Grace blinked at the change in tone, then stepped closer and kissed Val sweetly. She looked up at her with glittering eyes and said, “You are wonderful to me, Ma’am. I don’t deserve you.” She didn’t understand the reason for her reprieve, but she was smart enough to capitalize upon it.

“That’s true,” Val said. “You really don’t. But you have your charms.”

“Is there a problem, ladies?” said the taller of the two policemen when they stopped a couple of paces from us. He reminded me faintly of the bad terminator from the second movie: slender, focused, a little scary. Grace, impressively, betrayed no surprise at the sound of his voice, though she had not seen them approach.

I’ve always been afraid of cops, and I prayed they didn’t sense that, the way dogs can. Unintelligible voices squawked from the radios they wore. Their heavy sidearms and nightsticks unnerved me.

Val was pleasant as sunshine and butterflies. “None at all, officer. Grace, dear, is there a problem?”

The girl turned to face the uniformed men. “Oh, no, Ma’am!” she bubbled, instantly becoming The Flirty Schoolgirl. “Can we help you with anything, Sir?” I almost rolled my eyes.

The pair really didn’t know what to make of us.

“Just keep it decent,” said the other one, with a trace of amusement. They’d be talking about us back at the station, I was sure of that.

“Aw, must we?” Grace teased.

“Behave,” admonished Val, with a wry smile. “Officer Blake, Officer Mendoza…do have a lovely evening.” With a slight bow of her head, she indicated they could leave now. And, incredibly, they did, their leather holsters squeaking as they strode off.

When they were several yards away, I made a small magician’s hand wave. “These are not the dolls you’re looking for,” I said in a low voice.

Val laughed. “There are many reasons why you are my favorite doll, Koishi. And that is one of them.”

Favorite doll? I was unprepared for such praise, especially tonight. “Um, thank you, Ma’am!”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned.

“Of course not, Ma’am.” I looked in the direction of the departing cops. “I should have you do that trick on Tyler.”

“Hmm?” she asked, somewhat distractedly.

“Just some creepy security guard at work. If he didn’t wear a uniform I’d call him a stalker. And he seems especially fond of me.” I shuddered.

But then Val’s attention returned to Grace, who had rediscovered humility. “Well. I think it’s time to see to the doll’s punishment. Will you be joining us, Koishi?”

But I begged off, with the excuse of needing to go to work early the next morning.

“A pity…but I understand,” Val said. “Still, I think you are ready to begin your training as a Keeper.”

I was stunned.

She continued, “When you return from Houston, I think we will make use of Grace for this purpose. You do wish to further your training, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“Excellent. Doll, say goodnight to Miss Koishi.”

Grace kissed my hand again. “Good evening, Miss,” she said, and curtsied.

With a parting “Ta,” Val led the girl back toward the other end of the pier. A chill wind stirred my hair, but I scarcely noticed.

My favorite doll.

17     houston

FORTY MINUTES OUT from Houston International Airport, the captain announced the beginning of our descent. Because of a good tail wind we’d be arriving at 11:15pm, a full ten minutes early. I looked at my wrist out of habit and remembered, again, that Val had taken my watch.

I pulled the thin airline blanket close about me and vainly tried to sleep. The flight from Burbank to Salt Lake City wasn’t bad, but this second leg to Houston had been hellish, exhausting. The heavyset man who bulged over my right armrest snored like a tuba, and the little bouncing brat across the aisle on my left inspired increasingly violent daydreams of infanticide.

But even without these fellow travelers from Hell, I could not have slept a wink. Tired, vulnerable, frustrated, and a little afraid, I descended into the dark unknown on aluminum wings.

§

I should have known the trip would begin with Val’s usual twists.

My flight was scheduled to depart Burbank at 2pm on the 21st, a Friday. I called in sick that morning, deciding it wasn’t worth driving all the way to Hollywood and back for half a day’s work.

It was a brilliant, calm, perfect March day.

Val rang from the front gate at precisely noon, and I buzzed her in. She appeared at my door with a department store bag. I kissed the pale cheek she offered and greeted her brightly.

Things did not proceed as I had imagined, of course.

First, she said I would not be taking any luggage. Stunned, I put my little wheeled suitcase in the corner.

Second, I was told to remove all my clothing and put on the things she’d brought in the bag: a clingy red mini-dress with spaghetti straps, and matching red heels. I felt nearly naked with my shoulders and thighs so bare, and nothing underneath, but at least the fabric was opaque.

Third, Val transferred the things I’d need for the trip—airline tickets, driver’s license, and passport—from my hand bag to a small red clutch purse she’d brought to match my outfit. She also tucked in a clip of bills. “This is for necessities, but there’s enough for unforeseen circumstances. Save your receipts,” she said.

“What about my phone, Ma’am?” I asked meekly.

She produced another cell phone and put it in the purse. “Use this instead. It has parental controls, so you can only call me or Milton, our home and cell numbers.”

Fourth, I would obey Milton completely during my stay. They had discussed my limits, and I should assume he acted with Val’s approval.

Fifth (and finally): while in Houston I was not to speak unless prompted by Milton, or those he authorized to command me. There were exceptions: Polite responses such as ‘yes, Sir’ or ‘thank you, Ma’am’ were fine. I could ask permission to speak, but must wait for it to be granted. Of course, in the case of a real emergency, the rule was suspended. But cheating, such as writing notes or playing charades, was strictly forbidden. Milton was aware of these rules and would report any violations, for which I would suffer grave consequences.

This last rule was a serious blow. Robbed of speech, how could I hope to learn anything about Val’s past from Milton? Perhaps she had devised the rule precisely for that reason. I’m sure she detected my disappointment.

When she was satisfied that I understood her rules, we stepped outside and I locked my front door. And then she took my keys, too.

§

In the Houston terminal I was met by a young Hispanic woman holding a sign with K. Paz written in magic marker. The letters were big and chubby, just the way my friends and I had written our names on book jackets in high school. I guessed she’d made the sign herself. But she seemed to know me on sight, probably having been given a picture or description of me in advance.

The woman was in her mid-twenties and pretty in a simple, fresh way. I liked her caramel skin, her dark eyes, and hair the color of corn silk, pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a whimsical print dress and low heels. Her figure was Rubenesque; cute, but too round for Val’s liking.

“Hi, I’m Josie,” she said brightly. “Did you have a nice flight?”

“Not really, Ma’am,” I replied, careful to stay within Val’s established protocol.

She laughed then. It was a warm, earthy sound. “Oh, don’t call me Ma’am. Just Josie.” Her accent was two parts Texan to one part Spanish. “It’s okay, I know you’re not supposed to talk. Do you need to use the restroom or get a drink before we go? Are you hungry?”

I was grateful for her thoughtfulness, but shook my head. “No, thanks, I’m fine.” What I craved was sleep.

With no luggage to wait for, we walked directly to the parking structure. The night was partly overcast, cooler than Los Angeles had been, and more humid. A gentle wind stirred against my bare skin, heavy with unfamiliar scents.

Her car—actually Milton’s, I would learn—was a jet-black two-door Jaguar; a perfectly maintained older model with dramatic lines and a surprisingly deep engine note. Josie was a careful driver, though, and never once came close to the car’s real potential. The soft leather bucket seats felt like paradise after my hours in a cramped airliner.

Within minutes we reached the southbound 59. Josie chatted a little at first, but she sensed my weariness and gradually fell silent. Mariachi music played quietly on the radio like a lullaby.

§

And then Josie was gently urging me awake, her hand on my shoulder. She helped me out of the car.

The nap had not refreshed me, it only gave my arrival a sense of unreality, as if I had passed into a realm of faerie.

The house itself reinforced that feeling of dislocation. I had expected a large ranch-style home, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a small castle, with stone walls and at least two towers of differing heights. The detailing and ironwork suggested it had been built a long time ago, perhaps as early as the twenties or thirties.

My first brief glimpse of the property told me it was large, and ringed by trees. This was a rich neighborhood.

Josie opened the front door and admitted me to the well-lit foyer, which dazzled my dark-adjusted eyes.

Milton appeared from one of the doorways.

“Koishi, dear, it’s so good to see you,” he said, and gave me a welcoming hug. So different from Val.

“Hello, Sir,” I said.

He held my by the shoulders, in those large hands, and studied me with a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re as pretty as ever.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

After assuring him I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, he said, “Ordinarily I’d give you a tour, but it’s already past midnight. You must be exhausted. Josie will get you ready for bed, and we’ll deal with formalities in the morning.”

I thanked him again. He said goodnight, and took his leave.

Josie showed me to an upstairs room, in the smaller tower, I thought. Beside the single, arched window was an ornate four-poster bed with gauzy curtains tied up at the corners. I put my purse on a vanity opposite the bed. There was a dresser and a nightstand, too. All of it was vaguely Tudor—a style Val detested.

“Here’s the bathroom,” she said, and flicked on the light. It was very modern, all glass and tile and stainless steel, some minimalist wood detailing. “You can clean up, and I’ll be right back.”

I took advantage of the privacy to use the toilet, and then washed my face.

Josie returned bearing a tray with a pitcher of ice water and a glass, which she placed on a nightstand beside the bed. Also on the tray was something metallic I couldn’t identify.

“Here, let me help you undress,” she said, turning to me. In a moment we had slipped the dress over my head.

“Oh, how pretty. Can I see?” she asked, upon glimpsing the koi on my neck as the dress came free. Though embarrassed by my nudity, I held my hair to the side while she admired Paul’s handiwork.

After a moment she laid my dress on the bed, folded it, and said:

“We have to wear these while we’re here.”

Then I learned the identity of the glittering thing on the tray: two lengths of gold plated chain the thickness of light dog leash, each with several tiny bells spaced along their length. She put one about my left ankle and secured the two end links with a small padlock. The other went about my right wrist where, because of the shorter circumference, she left a half-inch of extra chain hanging free on one end.

Both chains fit snugly enough that I could not have slipped them off, and were sufficiently stout as to be unbreakable—at least by me. But they weren’t the least bit uncomfortable.

They did, however, make it impossible to move without causing the little bells to sound. I was unprepared for the way it amplified my already acute sense of nakedness.

“Goodnight,” she said at last and left the room, taking my dress and purse with her. Then I heard a key at the door, and realized with a start that she had locked me in.

With a delicate jangle of tiny bells, I pulled back the covers and slipped into the cool bed.

And sleep whirled me away to oblivion.

§

“Wake up, little koi,” said Val, with gentle urgency.

“Ma’am?” I was instantly awake. I sat up with the force of my surprise, and the covers fell away from me.

A strange light from the window played upon her face, a warm orange glow with a watery shimmer. There was a distant roar I couldn’t identify, like the sound of the ocean in bad weather.

Val held out her hand. “We have to go, doll. It’s not safe here.”

The air was full of smoke. I took her hand and rose unsteadily from the bed, and through the window I saw another part of the house fully engulfed in flames. Fear gripped me. “My clothes!”

“There’s no time,” said Val. Her grip tightened and I was pulled quickly into the hallway, the bells at my wrist and ankle tinkling with the staccato rhythm of my stumble. In the hallway, acrid air burned my throat and stung my eyes. Smoke flowed across the ceiling like a slow motion, upside-down flood.

“How did you get here, Ma’am? Is Milton okay? Where’s Josie?” Panic raised my voice an octave, and it echoed shrilly in the narrow space of the hallway, above the roar. Val didn’t answer.

We reached the top of the stairway, but everything below was a fury of light and heat and sound. Val pulled me back the way we’d come, only to find that way blocked by fire as well. We went into one of the rooms we’d passed, a study with windows overlooking the front yard, where the fire hadn’t yet spread. Coughing, she thrust the window open and looked outside for a means of escape. The night air was sweet and cool.

A drainpipe ran beside the window, down to the ground floor. It was old, and didn’t look sturdy. “You can climb down here,” Val said, as smoke began to pour in beneath the door. “Go. Now.”

“What about you, Ma’am?” I objected. There had to be another way. One of us might make it down that pipe, but not both.

“Do not vex me, doll. Get out and climb down.”

Crying with fear, and worry for Val, I gingerly stepped out onto the window sill and reached over to the drainpipe. It was somewhat beefier than those on modern houses, but not greatly so, and the brackets holding it to the wall groaned ominously as I wrapped my hands behind the pipe and leaned outward, to give my bare feet purchase on the rounded stone shapes. Haltingly I inched downward, expecting the pipe to give way at any moment, to send me plummeting to the ground. A third of the way down a rusted bolt popped free, then another, but miraculously the pipe held.

About eight feet from the ground, the brackets broke free and I fell the rest of the way, painfully knocking the breath out of me, as long pieces of drainpipe crashed around me. When I could breath again, I looked up to see Val watching from above.

“Val!” I shouted, “You have to find another way!”

But she did not answer. I could see orange smoke pouring from the window, lifting into the night sky. Sirens wailed distantly. “Val!”

I jerked awake. The clock on the nightstand said 4:30; there was no smoke, no fire, only the sound of wind and a light rain upon the window.

§

When Josie finally did wake me that morning, the dream still burned in my mind. But when I learned she had orders to bathe me, the novelty of that and her cheerful disposition soon dispelled my lingering melancholy.

After we had breakfasted with Milton, he sent Josie on a shopping errand and gave me a personal tour of the house and grounds. That Milton was an artist, and a highly productive one at that, was evidenced by the unique decorations found in every room: sculptures of metal or wood, sketches taped to the walls, beautifully haunting photographs. It was a living, creative space that probably changed every day, a kind of three dimensional sketch pad.

Josie returned just before eleven. Soon after, another woman arrived to help us put up decorations and prepare for the evening’s event. Her name was Lorena—black-haired, sharp-featured, on the thin side—and her demeanor that day made it abundantly clear she was Milton’s senior girl and thought herself quite superior to we two lesser beings. She criticized everything we did. Josie gave no response to her ill treatment except once, by making a funny face while Lorena’s back was turned. I spluttered with laughter, and when Lorena wheeled about to glare at us, I pretended to have gotten something caught in my throat. She stormed off with a hmph!, leaving Josie and me to giggle in a sisterly hug. I suddenly felt thirteen again, and the warm, overcast day passed all too quickly.

18     party

I THREADED MY way through groups of masked, quietly chatting guests, taking pains not to bump my tray of wine glasses. When a man snapped his fingers to get my attention, I offered the tray so he might exchange his empty glass for a full one. His dark, narrowed eyes explored my body in a manner forbidden to civilized men, and there was gooseflesh on my arm when he stroked it, as casually as one pets a cat. Then he smiled and turned back to the conversation, and I continued my rounds.

The night was calm, cool but not chill, and there were hooded kerosene space heaters at intervals to keep us comfortably warm.

The party filled the large yard behind Milton’s huge house, which seemed half a castle to my eyes. Lines of hanging paper lanterns cast a soft, mysterious light upon an already unreal scene. The gravid moon shone bright enough to cast shadows, except when obscured by gilt-edged clouds. Music swirled in the fragrant air, a sensual ambient mix with throbbing drums and a vaguely middle-eastern flavor I’d never heard before.

Not in a million years could I have imagined the situation into which I had been thrust.

We three girls were dressed in thin, flowing silken garments of an unfamiliar style: draped over one shoulder, pinned at the sides across the breasts, and lightly belted with cord about the waist before falling to mid-thigh. Where it pressed flesh, the gossamer fabric was see-through. My garment was white, Josie’s yellow, and Lorena wore a blood-red thing that matched her alpha-bitch lipstick and nail polish.

These outrageous garments had a strong ethnic flavor I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Levantine, nor Greco-Roman, but instead reminded me of things I’d seen at the far end of Renaissance Faires, where the naughtier cosplayers dressed in garb from this or that erotic fantasy series. Without the freedom to speak I had no way to ask about its origin.

The one modesty permitted us was our hide thongs: rustic, hand-made things unlike anything found in a modern lingerie store.

And as before, we wore the bells about our ankles and wrists, enhancing our movements with a delicate cascade of notes. Our feet were shod in light, beaded sandals.

But the strangest part of our costume was the masks, made by Milton himself, I was told. They were grotesque, elaborate Boschian things of paper-mâché which covered the entire face and reached around to the back of the head.

Josie’s mask was a cat, or maybe a lion, but of that peculiar medieval style with bulging eyes and a fanged mouth like a Chinese dragon.

Lorena, the ranking girl, wore a crow’s head with an open beak and unruly coal-black feathers to match her hair.

And as for me, well…Milton had a sense of humor. He must have consulted with Val on this project, because I wore the mottled white-and-orange face of a koi. Inside the large, gaping mouth was a matte-black mesh that hid my face while permitting me to see clearly. The whole affair was topped by a dorsal fin, with small paddle-shaped fins swept back at my ears. I found it grotesque and avoided looking at reflections.

Because of our anonymity behind the masks, we each bore an identifying number on our right shoulders, temporary tattoos applied earlier that afternoon. Lorena was 2, Josie 7, and I bore the number 9. I didn’t know if the numbers had any real significance, but they did reflect our seniority, and allowed the guests to ask for us individually. Being numbered like cattle had thrown me into an odd mental state, almost as if I’d been drugged. I didn’t like it, but compared to the vast strangeness of the evening that one small thing scarcely mattered.

Milton himself wore a grinning Guy Fawkes mask, though his identity as the host of the party was no secret. The other guests, however, were a complete mystery. At least to me.

I watched for the arrival of a pale woman with white hair. But in the end I realized with disappointment (and some relief) that Val was not coming to this party.

By nine o’clock the last of the guests had arrived. Milton called for attention, and thanked them all for coming. Next, he introduced Lorena, Josie and me by our numbers, and announced that we were responsible for seeing to everyone’s refreshment—not only with beverages and hors d’oeuvres, but also by nature of our obvious physical delights. (He said this last with a showman’s wave, to quiet murmurs of approval from the score of masked partygoers.) We three were forbidden to speak to the guests, or remove our masks or thongs, nor were guests allowed to touch us in these places. But the rest of our bodies were free for whatever handling a guest might desire, so long as we were not marked in any way.

I had suffered far worse with Val, yet the announcement still made me gasp, to Lorena’s wry amusement. Although outwardly polite to me, she had radiated a superior manner all day, quite unlike the affable Josie.

And handle us they did, both men and women, though mostly the men. I was glad of my mask because it was impossible not to blush when being touched so frankly. Being alone among so many strangers, without Val there to embolden me, made it harder to bear.

One couple stood out from the rest. He was tall, handsome in a brooding Zorro way and clothed in sharp-looking slacks and dress shirt. What arrested everyone’s attention, though, was his flame-haired companion with the feathered Mardi Gras-style mask. Her small, lush figure was amply displayed by an opaque white silk garment very much like our own. Unlike us, however, her neck bore a gleaming steel collar to which the man had attached a light chain leash ending in a leather loop. For most of the evening she knelt or sat quietly beside his feet. They moved together with an easy grace that implied practice, a lengthy relationship.

“Khaareans are so creepy,” Josie whispered at one point, from behind her cat mask. She had been watching the strange couple, too, as we stood at the bar on a break while refilling our serving trays. Mute, I had no way of asking what a Khaarean was.

Lorena made a point of walking past us then, clearly annoyed by our dawdling. Chastened, we resumed our hostessing duties.

A little after nine-thirty Milton invited everyone to follow him to his studio: a brightly lighted structure built into the angle between the back of the house and the garage. Once everyone had assembled, he unveiled a…well, I didn’t actually know what it was.

It appeared to be a large, abstract wooden sculpture mounted on a sturdy base about six feet square. The sculpture itself was taller than a man and composed of smooth, organic shapes which drew the eye along sensual trajectories. A number of circular brass fittings could be seen at at various points, set flush so as not to disrupt the smooth lines of the…thing.

Milton clapped his hands and called for his girls, so we put down our trays and stood demurely before him. He told us to remove our silk garments, and help each other put padded cuffs on our wrists and ankles. After that, Milton spent some time arranging our bodies in artful poses, and used the conveniently recessed rings to hold us in place. Now I understood their purpose.

Milton used a step ladder to fix Lorena’s wrists to a projecting point at the top of the sculpture, high above her head. Her legs were held apart by widely-spaced rings in the base. Around the other side, my back was pressed hard against a more columnar part (it was very cold at first) and my wrists pulled back, one on each side. Because my ankles were clipped to a single ring I was free to wriggle from the waist down, but only a little. Josie was pushed against me, belly-to-belly, and locked there with her limbs forced wide apart in an X configuration. Thus I was trapped between her round body and the smooth, unyielding wood. We were forced to hold our heads to opposite sides so as not to crush our masks together and damage them. Anticipation made us breathless, and suddenly the mask felt hot, confining.

Milton arranged some colored lights and, sans mask, shot photographs while the guests looked on. Even if the pictures ended up on the internet, I told myself, no one would recognize me in this mask.

When he had done with that, Milton cleared away the lights and brought out an ice chest. From this he produced a dozen brightly-colored water pistols which he distributed to the guests, inviting them to amuse themselves by squirting us. The icy needles of water were not as bad as a flogging, but nearly so. When a pistol ran low, there was plenty of melted ice water in the chest with which to refill it. Our squeals elicited dark laughter from shooters and onlookers alike.

Josie’s body shielded me from the worst of it, but I felt a throb of sympathy when she jerked against me with a muffled shriek. “Sorry, sorry,” she said after each contortion, afraid she was hurting me. I quite forgot my rule of silence and kept reassuring her I was okay. After a few minutes of struggling we were left panting, exhausted, and goose-fleshed from the cold.

At length we were freed and our cuffs removed, at which point Milton brought towels for us to dry ourselves. This we did, in full view of everyone. The cold had the greatest effect on Lorena, having turned her fair skin almost white, to reveal a faint blue map of veins on her breasts and thighs.

By now the night air was turning chilly. Someone had removed our silk garments earlier, so there was nothing for us to do but shiver and hug ourselves against the cold. Fortunately Milton took pity on us and led everyone back inside the heated house, to a large entertainment room.

And here the night’s final amusement was held. The three of us knelt in the center of the room while guests drew slips of paper from a box. The slips were adhesive labels upon which were printed single words like blossom, moon, the, a, and stirring. These were placed randomly upon our bodies before Milton explained the purpose of the exercise. The guests were split into two teams, who took turns arranging our bodies so as to construct lines of haiku, in something resembling a game of Twister. The results were more amusing than poetic, and Josie and I laughed as hard as the masked participants. Lorena, however, suffered these indignities with a feigned stoicism betrayed by the fire in her blue eyes.

Milton stood to touch her arm, and asked in a cheerful voice, “This is quite fun. Don’t you agree, Two?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t sense her irritation, however well she tried to mask it. But then, Milton did seem to have a special interest in Lorena.

“Yes, Sir!” She was instantly cheerful, as if a shade had been raised to admit the sun. And then I realized the point of his question, his touching her. Despite the velvet delivery, it had been a serious warning: drop your airs, or suffer the consequences. From then on, she was pure sunshine and butterflies, a capitulation that pleased me greatly.

Finally the guests left. The house fell silent, and we were allowed to remove those stuffy, claustrophobic masks. Josie fetched three soft bathrobes and the four of us sat together on a large L-shaped leather couch, drinking chamomile tea.

Lorena made a point of cuddling with Milton, while Josie warmed me with kisses and soft embraces, perhaps an unconscious reflex on her part to counter the other woman’s territoriality. The bells locked on Josie’s wrist were by now a familiar sound—and a welcome one, for they accompanied her tender touch on my hair, my face. Her dark eyes were hypnotic as they gazed deeply into my own. In the twenty-four hours I had known her, this kind, effervescent woman had become very dear to me.

Just before midnight Lorena dressed and went home. Milton showed her out.

When he returned, I took his open hand and rose.

“You’re a sweet girl, Koishi,” he said paternally, and kissed my forehead. “Val is indeed fortunate.” Then, at Milton’s bidding, Josie took me upstairs to prepare for bed.

Between those unfamiliar sheets, recalling Josie’s moist goodnight kisses, I lay awake until the rectangle of moonlight slid from the nightstand to the floor, and plunged into a dream of swimming in dark, churning waters.

19     scrapbook

I WASN’T SURE if Josie lived with Milton, or had simply stayed for the weekend, but once again she woke me with a soft kiss, just past eight. I found her bent over me, sitting on the edge of the bed as I came to my senses.

As on the previous morning, she led me to the bathroom and started the shower. When the water was warm she slipped off her robe, and I saw the numeral 7 was gone from her shoulder. Josie drew me into the shower with her, and began to soap me. The water turned the tinkling of our bells into a dull rattle.

Yesterday. in this same situation, she had told me, “Just relax, I’m supposed to do this for you. You’re a guest.” This time I needed no prompting.

Today, however, Josie’s ablutions became outright caresses, and for several minutes she kissed and stroked me under the falling water. It was very pleasant, but I didn’t know how to respond, or even if I should. Nor did I know whether she was following instructions from Milton in this, or taking a liberty. Yet she was so disarmingly sincere that I quickly surrendered to my body’s own hungers and moaned softly beneath her touch, eyes closed, leaning back against the tiled walls of the shower.

Presently she stopped, and embraced me briefly before pulling back to regard me with a smile. I thought she was about to speak when her expression changed and she released me to shut off the water. After that, we dried each other and wrapped our hair in towels.

Sitting lotus-style on the bed, she removed the 9 from my shoulder with baby oil. Then we rose and dried our hair. Finally she put on her robe and went to fetch my clothes.

§

After a pleasant—if odd—breakfast of beef hash spiced with jalapeño, as well as fried eggs and biscuits, Milton took a last sip of his iced tea and said to me:

“Would you like to come with me to the study while Josie washes up?”

His request had not a trace of dominance or command, indicating he didn’t expect me to be particularly submissive this morning. I nodded, still mute, and followed him into the hallway.

The morning’s earlier haze was gone but the sky remained overcast, making the study a murky gray. Milton dispatched the gloom by switching on a series of recessed halogen spots, warm as sunlight.

It was a medium-sized room, longer than it was wide, with windows running the length of the leftmost wall. It was an organic work space that wasn’t messy, but certainly not sterile. On this side of the room I saw a couch and two facing chairs, with a coffee table in the middle. On the other end of the room was a large desk with a computer, and a stack of drawings.

“Have a look around,” he said while walking around the desk to boot up his computer. It beeped, and after the musical startup sound he began to click with the mouse, but I could see only the back of the monitor. When he looked up, his face glowed with light from the display. “Please, feel free,” he encouraged, with a wave. I heard a pregnant note in his voice, as if there was something he wanted me to find.

Certainly there was much to see here.

He kept a half-dozen pieces of sculpture sitting around, mostly abstract, but a couple were more mechanically oriented designs resembling clocks from another dimension. A strange mobile hung from the rather low ceiling, of a sort Calder might have created, had he been stoned.

A large bookshelf occupied most of the right wall, brimming with manuals, art books, and a healthy collection of classic literature. Unlike Val’s library, this one wasn’t arranged with military precision: some books had been replaced in a hurry, and laid flat across the tops of others. Many were well-used, as evidenced by the creases down their spines and post-it notes sticking out from between pages. Were Val to discover such disarray in her own home, she would blow a gasket.

But what really held my interest was the wall of framed photos and news clippings beyond the bookshelf, covering an area so large it wrapped around to the wall behind his desk. I found several photos of Milton himself standing with people at art shows and public functions. It was interesting to see him as a younger man, just as solid but with sharper edges, and laser-like eyes. He bore a faint resemblance to a young Val Kilmer.

Then one image caught my eye: a flash photo from the mid-90s (I guessed) at a convention hall, or maybe a party. Standing beside Milton was a blond, bob-haired woman in a green military dress uniform with three chevrons on her upper sleeve. She wore a sharp-looking cap, and a line of multicolored medals were pinned above her left breast. One hand held a drink, the other rested on Milton’s arm, and she was smiling as if she had just been laughing.

It was Val.

But so painfully young! And a very different creature than the grave, controlled Val I knew.

I turned to Milton and found he’d been watching my progress. Despite my look of astonishment, he didn’t speak. I resumed my search for more images of Val. This is what I found:

Two photos, side by side, of Milton and Val wearing tee-shirts and brimmed hats. Both photos had been taken the same day, at a shooting range in the desert.

In the first, they were standing together, hefting scoped, big-bore rifles. Her black shirt was sleeveless, tight-fitting over her boyish breasts. Her shirt had a graphic showing a fleeing, turbaned man in camos caught in a cross-hair with the words STOP RUNNING above, and YOU’LL JUST DIE TIRED below. She had a cocky, confident grin that reminded me of an ex-Marine I dated briefly. Her arms were more muscular than now.

In the second, a bare-headed Val lay on the ground with one eye on the scope of the rifle, which rested on a barrel-mounted bipod. Milton stood behind her, looking downrange with binoculars at whatever she was targeting. They both wore headphone-style ear protectors. I guessed these photos were taken around the time of the uniformed picture, by the length and cut of her hair.

There was also a photo of Val in a business suit, standing before a Power Point presentation, radiating competence. I guessed the image was probably a couple of years later than the others, based on the clothes and cut of her hair, now grown nearly to her shoulders. Here, finally, was a version of Val I recognized: cool, direct, a little threatening.

“She’s quite a woman,” Milton said, standing behind me now. His tone conveyed respect, but also a touch of…sadness? Regret?

I wanted to ask a hundred questions. I could only nod.

“I have something to show you. Please,” He said, motioning to the couch. I obliged him, smoothing my skirt beneath me as I sat. The cold leather squeaked against the backs of my thighs.

Milton produced a small brown scrapbook and held it out to me, then went back to his computer. I was almost afraid to open the album.

It was a scrapbook of Val’s life, compressed to a visual haiku of about two dozen images and clippings.

There was only one photograph from her childhood, creased as if it had been folded and flattened again. Here Val was perhaps eight, hair in pigtails, sitting in a swing. In the background, naked trees cast long, claw-like shadows across patchy grass. It was probably springtime, or she’d have worn a jacket or sweater.

The real message here was the look in her eyes, which had taken a brownish hue in the photo’s faded pigments.

Her eyes reminded me of Gomi. That was my mother’s name for the slightly lame beagle-mutt we adopted back on Guam, after I found him rooting in our trash one stormy morning. He must have been running loose for a while; he’d lost part of his left ear, probably in a fight, and it was already healed. I thought he had been abused, too, because it took weeks to gain his trust, and I was never able to coax him inside our house.

This young Val had Gomi’s eyes: wary, introspective, isolated. She was gawky, all knees and elbows sticking out of faded cut-offs and a red-and-white top with frayed shoulder straps. Her nearer hand held the rusty swing chain (such delicate fingers, with short, tiny nails) while the other brushed uneven bangs from her eyes. The afternoon sun in her face had narrowed her pupils to dots. Her expression was distant, unreadable. It haunted me.

It was an unhappy picture. I touched it and felt my heart throb for this withdrawn child, recognizing the soul of the lost girl in my doll painting.

Milton read my face like a book when I looked up from the photo. It seemed to confirm something for him, and he nodded for me to continue.

Next were a couple of pictures from her teens. She had grown feral, chopped her hair ragged and streaked it red, wore punky, butchy clothes and ran with a rough crowd. In one, she brandished a switchblade, gleaming brilliantly in the camera flash. In the other, she was looking at something to the left while drawing on a cigarette, hollowing her cheeks. I’d never seen her smoke and could not imagine it, now.

Stark contrast was provided by a head-and-shoulders service portrait of Val in uniform, standing stiffly before a mottled gray backdrop and American flag. Her eyes had a new hardness, sharp and predatory, while a Mona Lisa smile suggested she had at last found her element in the military. She looked about nineteen.

Next was a photo from a nightclub. Val had short hair that came down to her jawline. Lots of black eyeliner and multiple earrings gave her a distinctly punk look, supplemented by her black tank top and baggy green fatigues over heavy boots. She sat at a booth with one arm around a slight, black-haired, androgynous young man with his arm behind her, thrown back over the top of the seat. Both looked a little buzzed. He kissed Val’s cheek while she made a face and flipped the bird to the camera.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next, when I turned the page: two large black and white photographs showing Val and that same slender man, but now in a wholly different, and shocking, aspect.

They were in a vast desert under a moody, overcast sky. A dark Sixties-era Mustang stood in the distance, its passenger door left open.

In the first, the man stood in the foreground with hands raised beside his head, cuts and bruises on his tear-stained face. He was bare chested, wearing only jeans and sneakers.

Before him stood Val, holding a large, squarish pistol inches from his face and seemingly about to pull the trigger. The tendons stood out plainly on her gun hand, every muscle discernible on her straight, taut arm. She was hard—harder than I’d ever seen her, cool murder gleaming in her eyes. She wore a ripped white tee-shirt and no bra underneath to hide the outline of her small, hard nipples. Pinstriped slacks and black shoes gave her a thuggish look. I wondered if her leg had yet been scarred when the photo was taken.

In the second picture he was kneeling. With his head tilted upward, he seemed to beg for his life, with an expression so unrehearsed it made me squirm.

I beheld all this in a moment, and had just enough time for discomfort before I realized the images were simply full-page photos cut from some obscure counterculture magazine. The name of the publication was printed next to the page numbers: Chamber.

These images did not fit with anything I knew of Val. She had never mentioned the man, or any modeling work. I’d have remembered that.

On the next page were couple of Polaroid photos showing Val at what looked like BDSM gatherings. She was on a stage, whipping a man’s striped back before a crowd of onlookers.

And finally, a few informal snapshots of Val, Milton, and Millie at a backyard barbecue, apparently taken within the last year. She looked exactly as I knew her.

I was reviewing the album in detail when Josie entered and placed my clutch purse on the coffee table before kneeling beside Milton’s desk.

“It’s almost ten, Sir,” she told him.

“Ah yes, thank you for reminding me,” he said, touching her hair pleasantly. “Koishi, I’ll take you to the airport now. Is there anything you need before we go?”

“No, thank you, Sir.”

After Josie unlocked the little belled chains upon my wrist and ankle, Milton gave the girl permission to say goodbye, which she did with a tender hug and kisses that brought a tear to my eye. If ever a creature thrived in such a lifestyle, I thought, it was Josie; the sweetest, most unprepossessing person I’d ever met. I knew she fancied me. I’d miss her too.

20     gondriel

IT DRIZZLED ON the way to the airport. Unlike Josie, Milton was an aggressive, capable driver. Once on the freeway, he said in that warm accent:

“Koishi, do you like fairy tales?”

I said I did. And he told me a story:

Long ago, in a not-very-prosperous kingdom, there lived a husband and wife and their fair little girl. When thieves killed the girl’s father, her mother took a new husband rather than starve. But she chose ill, for the stepfather was often drunk and rarely home and soon her mother began drinking as well, to forget their troubles. Fights were common.

The miserable little girl was beaten more often than she was fed. One night she woke to find her stepfather standing beside her bed, and saw he was not a man at all, but a wolf in a man’s skin.

He saw her horror and growled, warning he’d eat her if she ever betrayed him, even though she was too small to make a meal.

From that night on, the girl prayed for deliverance, until a fairy came and offered to enchant her. “I can turn your heart to stone, so you will feel neither fear nor pain, and your stepfather can no longer hurt you. But neither will you know joy nor love, so long as the spell is upon you.”

“Forever?” asked the girl, thinking this no salvation at all.

But the fairy promised that one day a stranger with a magic stone would fall in love with her, and break the spell. Who, and when, she would not say.

The girl was afraid, but she feared her stepfather more, and so it was done. And from that day forward she was not the least bit afraid of her wolf stepfather, which only sharpened his vexation and hunger.

By her sixteenth winter she’d grown large enough to make a meal for the wolf. But she’d also grown strong enough to fight back. When at last he tried to eat her, she cut the wolf with a kitchen knife and ran away. Behind her, his howls of anger and pain filled the night.

Having nowhere else to go, she joined the King’s army. Her hard, fearless heart made her a fierce warrior and she slew countless enemies, won many battles. They called her Gondriel, woman of stone, but when even her fellow soldiers grew fearful of her, they sent her away.

Homeless once again, Gondriel wandered aimlessly until she chanced upon a young man locked in battle with a dragonet, which she slew. The man pledged his life to her, and for several seasons they traveled together. At last he confessed his love for her, but for naught, because he was not the promised stranger with the magic stone. She felt nothing for him, and had even forgotten about the spell which hardened her heart. Spurned, the man went away.

And so Gondriel would remain, until the day a stranger with a magic stone would come to love her, and quicken her heart.

§

Milton pulled into the short-term parking and shut off the motor. He watched me in silence as I assimilated the story.

Now it was clear why he’d wanted to bring me far beyond Val’s reach for a weekend. Being Val’s closest friend, he would never betray her confidence. But he had provided a wealth of clues, and left it to me to connect the dots.

“You love Vee dearly. I see that,” he said.

I nodded.

The traffic was an oceanic sound, flowing around us as we sat without words. I found myself drawn to his kind eyes, the lines at their corners.

He made me memorize his phone number, just in case. When we got out of the car he came around and hugged me.

“Goodbye, Koishi. We’ve enjoyed having you. Give my love to Vee.”

I wiped away tears. He held my hand as we walked to the airport. Inside the terminal, a poster reminded me of a fact I’d completely forgotten.

It was Easter Sunday.

21     keeper

THAT NIGHT VAL demanded an account of my trip, as she drove me home from the airport in the Batmobile, my name for her electric sports car. She had met Lorena and Josie, and shared my opinion of both. The tale of the ice water pistols made her laugh. “Yes, that’s something Milton would do.”

I made no mention of either the scrapbook or fairytale, knowing Milton had shared those things in confidence.

But when I spoke of the photos on the wall and asked about her military service, she said, “Come, now. Are you surprised?”

“Yes, but I guess it fits you. I saw stripes on your uniform. Were you an officer?”

“NCO. Sergeant.” Being ignorant of military matters, I didn’t know if that was a yes or no.

“Did you fight in any wars?”

“That depends on what you consider a war. I saw action, yes.”

She would say nothing more, and I let the subject go rather than betray my colossal ignorance. I’d have to look it up on the internet, later.

Val parked in front of the condo and came up with me, unlocking my front door with my house key, which she had kept.

The moment the door was shut she gave the signal for front, kneel and I obeyed, a little fearful. Was I in trouble?

Her right foot, in a low-heeled pump, slid forward a fraction of an inch. With immense relief I bent forward to shower it with soft kisses. Her shoe smelled new, and her white sheer stocking was rough under my lips. Finally her foot slid back, which meant enough. I resumed a neutral kneeling posture.

After growing accustomed to Milton’s calm demeanor, Val’s dispassion now struck me as exaggerated and harsh. I had not known how different their styles could be, and had simply assumed all dominants were like Val, to a greater or lesser degree. Now I knew better.

“Doll may express its feelings,” Val prompted.

“Thanks for letting me visit Milton. I’m thrilled to see you again, Ma’am. To be home.”

She stepped closer and stroked my hair. “Doll has been missed.” She gently pulled my head toward her so that my cheek rested against her soft gray slacks. This unexpected tenderness, so rare for Val, brought tears to my eyes. I found myself deeply moved by her gesture, and quietly sniffed. She wasn’t a total ice queen after all; I’d been too hasty in my judgment.

When she lifted my chin I blinked up at her, wiping away tears with an embarrassed smile.

“I believe doll is feeling sentimental.” I heard a trace of wonder in her voice.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said huskily, recalling the photo of young Valeria sitting on a rusted swing, already armored by a stone heart.

In that moment I resolved to free that little girl, by whatever means necessary.

§

Tyler wasn’t sitting in the gatehouse when I drove in to work Monday morning. Nor the next day.

“Where’s my boyfriend?” I jokingly asked Shelley as I helped her make coffee. She and I were the early risers, the first ones to arrive every morning.

“On vacation, probably. I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday, now that I think of it.”

Thank god for small miracles.

§

My phone buzzed during our Tuesday afternoon screening with the visual effects supervisor from Pretty Death Machine. The sound drew a glare from Carl, who had a rule about phones being silent for client meetings. I whispered an apology and ducked out to take the call.

But it was only a text message. From Val, of course.

Dinner? Saddle Crest Lodge, Wed 8pm. RSVP

The restaurant name was a web link, which I opened with my phone’s browser. The place proved to be a rustic, pricey restaurant in the Calabasas Hills, famous for exotic game meats. Apparently Hemingway had frequented the place when it was simply a hunting lodge.

I had learned to fear dining with Val, but I messaged back that I could make it. I’d have to study the menu later, and pick out Val’s meal just in case. I’d also have to find something nice to wear.

When I returned to the screening, my boss’s face was strained. Carl had spent the last twenty minutes struggling to remain civil as our client insisted the “energy tendril” effect in shot PDM_125_03 was all wrong. It was my tenth version of the shot in in two weeks.

The client in question was a balding, nebbishy fellow named Bob Bickel, though our private name for him was Mr. Pixelfucker. He was one of those micromanagement types who simply had to put his personal stamp of genius on Every Single Goddamn Pixel, despite a complete inability to communicate what he wanted. I found him incredibly frustrating and preferred to let Carl deal with him.

“Is it too bright? Too purple, maybe?” Carl wanted to know, sounding a little hopeful. Such changes would be easy to make.

“No, no, that’s all fine,” said Bob petulantly. “It just needs to be more…more…oobleck, you know? Less gooze.”

This was too much, even for Carl. “Jesus, Bob! I don’t even know what that means! Throw me a bone here!”

It was going to be one of those afternoons.

§

There was a traffic snarl on the 101, and I arrived a few minutes late, to find Val waiting for me in the restaurant lobby.

She was dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and an unusual white blouse that looked a little like a business shirt, but for the Nehru-style collar and the dramatic fin-pleating that shot up from the waistline to just below the bust, almost like a corset. The sleeves had a slight gather at the cuffs, and the top four buttons were left undone to create a plunging neckline. Her white hair had been put in a twist with a few delicate tendrils left to fall by her ears. It was stunning. She smelled of lavender.

I had chosen a short brown cotton dress with cute little waist pockets, thinking it might fit the faux-rustic flavor of the restaurant based on what I’d seen on their website. My black stockings and dark brown espadrilles would, I hoped, strike the right chord of casual elegance.

“I was going to scold you for tardiness…but how can I, when you come dressed so delightfully?”

Score: Keeper 1, doll 1.

I gave Val’s name to the woman at the front desk, and we were promptly seated at a window table overlooking the surrounding woods. The place was an eyeful, more like a cartoon animator’s vision of a hunting lodge: lofty ceilings, dramatic lighting, chairs made of rough-hewn wood, and paneled walls bristling with trophy heads and hunting photos. I found it hard not to gawk.

Val, however, had eyes only for me. Something had changed since our reunion on the pier, and I sensed it even more acutely now, after my trip to Milton’s.

“I am going to tell you something that may surprise you, Koishi,” she said, and my heart began to race.

“Yes, Ma’am?” I prodded, after a pregnant moment.

Val weighed her words. “I am rather fond of you.”

“I, um…thank you, Ma’am. You know I love you.”

“So you say,” she said dispassionately, and was about to continue when our waiter arrived with menus. He was young, handsome, and deeply interested in our drink preferences.

Val gave me a look that I knew, through long experience, meant you handle this. I ordered a martini—straight up, very dry—for her, and a margarita on the rocks, with salt, for myself. My keeper thought little of such frou-frou drinks herself, but let me have them.

“What did you think of Milton?” Val asked when he had gone.

That was easy. “He’s very nice. I expected him to be…scarier. Stricter.”

This provoked a wry smile. “Oh, Milton can be very strict. Remember, he taught me much of what I know about being a Keeper. But you were a guest, and he has taken quite a fancy to you. Be assured that you would have a very different opinion of that man, had you misbehaved the tiniest bit.”

I nodded, remembering how Lorena had instantly changed her attitude at his touch. Given this new intelligence, the gesture seemed even more menacing.

“Now,” she continued, “what is your impression of Grace?”

“She’s…” I weighed my words carefully. “I don’t know her well enough to say, Ma’am.”

“Oh, surely you’ve formed an impression by now.”

I had, but was reluctant to voice it. “I don’t know what you see in her. She’s pretty. But is she really cut out for this? For you? Honestly, she doesn’t seem your type.”

“Do you imagine,” Val said, “that I keep only one sort of fish in my pond? Of course not. In some ways Grace is very much my type. Can you guess why?”

Ah. This was a test.

“She’s crazy about you. But that’s not it, really. You like her because…I think because she can’t behave herself. She gets into trouble a lot.”

My answer pleased Val, but our drinks arrived before she could comment. The waiter described the specials of the day in glowing detail, and asked, “Are you two ladies ready to order?”

Val looked to me, and I realized we had not even looked at our menus. But I had already memorized the menu from their homepage, earlier in the day.

“Ma’am will have the Chef’s tasting menu with the premium wine pairings, and I’ll have the Grilled Jidori Chicken Breast with a Caesar salad and a glass of Di Bruno pinot grigio, please.”

“I’m afraid we’re all out of the Di Bruno, Ma’am. Perhaps I can suggest the—“

“Then I’ll have the Cobblestone Rose,” I told him.

“Nicely done,” Val said after the waiter had gone. “What do you suppose Grace sees in me?”

“Ma’am, I don’t know her well enough to say.” But Val waited, expecting me to attempt an answer. Something Trish once told me floated up from my subconscious.

“Pascal said we all have a God-sized hole in our heart only He can fill. I guess you feel a bit like God to her. But what she craves, I don’t know. Maybe your strength.”

“It’s true, you don’t have enough data…yet. So I’m making you her Keeper for the time being. Your task will be to discover her motivations.”

Oh God. I must have looked about as thrilled by this prospect as the stuffed moose head on the wall, but I nodded dutifully. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“I will offer guidance, but I have very high expectations of you. Are you free Saturday night, say seven-thirty?” I said that I was. “Grace is coming over, and I want you there. Wear black.”

§

The sun was setting, that Saturday night, as I drove up the winding road to Val’s house.

Wear black.

How troublesome those two little words had been, over the last two and a half days! The first, most obvious concern was: what should a Keeper wear? Black, tapered hip-hugger jeans and matching low-heeled pumps were easy choices; I already owned those. But I didn’t own a single top which suited the evening. And that meant shopping. And more frustration.

Not until this very afternoon did I hit pay dirt in a vintage-clothing store on Sherman Way: a sleeveless satin mini-top with a mandarin-style collar and little ball-shaped buttons running down the left front. It was cropped rather high, leaving my midriff bare.

My hair was up in a slightly wild Audrey Hepburn ’do with a ponytail and black velvet hair band. I hoped Val would approve of my attempt at retro fashion.

Still, having met my dress requirement did nothing to quell my fears about the evening. Playing Keeper was a role I didn’t want, and wasn’t equipped for. Sure, I’d skirted the edges of dominance with Paul and been aroused by it. But this time Val would be there to catch any misstep. I groaned as my stomach tied itself in a knot.

And the thought of domming Grace…ugh.

Yet another of Val’s roadblocks, deftly thrown in my path.

I pulled into the driveway and parked. After several deep breaths, I got out and walked to the front door.

Yolanda answered the door and showed me to the rear patio, where Val sat at the glass table with the newspaper and a cup of chai. I knelt two paces from her chair.

“I’m here for you, Ma’am,” I said.

She regarded me with a Cheshire grin, lovely in her soft gray pantsuit and champagne-colored blouse. The warm evening breeze stirred her hair and urged a wooden wind chime into soft bursts of tonal haiku.

“Stand up and let me have a look at you. Turn around. Yes, that will do nicely. Now have a seat.” Val pointed with her eyes to the patio chair on the opposite side of the table, and I obeyed, declining her offer of chai.

“Grace will be here shortly, but I thought we might chat a bit before we begin. What are your thoughts?”

“Ma’am, I’m not sure I’m ready to be a Keeper.”

“That is rather the point of training, yes?”

“Of course, Ma’am. It’s just that…”

“Mm?” she prodded, more gently than I expected.

“I don’t know if I can be a Keeper.”

“Do you recall my rules?”

“Yes, Ma’am. ’A doll must obey, and learn. A doll must trust the Keeper. A doll must—’ ”

“Enough. Need I say more?”

“No, Ma’am—” I said uncertainly. She let me dangle for a few moments as her eyebrows slowly rose. “It’s only that…I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with Grace, Ma’am. You’re giving me a violin and expect me to play.”

This put a sparkle in her eye. “I wouldn’t call Grace a violin, dear. More of an electric guitar, and not a very fancy one, at that.”

But I pressed on, hoping to make my point. “I don’t find her the least bit, um…attractive.”

“And this is a problem?” Val said. It was a challenge.

“I just don’t know what my motivation is. You’re always full of ideas and…well, I’ve been thinking about it for three days, and I still draw a blank.”

“Consider the consequences to you, should you fail. Surely that is sufficient motivation.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I said with downcast eyes, dreading this night. The chimes stirred again, as if volunteering to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Do you imagine I would assign a task without providing you with the proper tools? This sounds suspiciously like lack of trust.”

“Oh, no Ma’am!”

“Shut up. Perhaps I have misjudged doll’s devotion and talent. What a terrible Keeper I am! It’s a marvel you put up with me.”

Further protests would only dig my hole deeper, so I endured her withering sarcasm in silence.

Just then we heard the peal of the door bell. In a few moments Yolanda appeared with the news of Grace’s arrival, tinged with a note of disdain. Even she found the girl abominable.

“Bring her to the living room, and we’ll join her shortly,” Val said, and the maid reentered the house.

Val stood and smoothed her clothes. She extended her hand and, taking it, I rose. She did not release my hand, but pulled me close enough to feel her breath on my cheek and ear. She said quietly, “For the present, simply watch and learn. Follow my lead. Do as I say.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Here is your motivation,” Val whispered, and kissed me on the lips. My body throbbed, and I moaned softly into her mouth when her spread hand crushed my hips violently against her. She tasted of cloves and cardamom.

§

I was not prepared for what happened next.

Grace was sitting upon the soft leather couch, and stood as we entered, stooping to placing her little black Gucci clutch purse on the coffee table. Before she had a chance to kneel or utter a sound she was forced into a corner, and trapped there by Val’s body. Even I was stunned by Val’s bulldozer onslaught.

“I…I’m here for you, Ma’am!” she gasped, sounding very small.

But Val made no answer, only stroked Grace’s cheek with a menace that put the girl into a state of…not exactly panic, but a quivering dread.

I moved to stand beside the couch where the view was better, about three paces from them, and found I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Let them drop at my sides? Clasp them behind my back? As I fretted over this, my arms automatically crossed in front, more out of insecurity than a dominant attitude.

I needn’t have worried about it, for the two women were now quite distracted. Val had one strong hand about the girl’s throat, and used it to force the girl down into a kneeling position. Squatting over her, Val rudely thrust the other hand under the doll’s short denim skirt. Grace’s eyes were closed; she made little animal sounds I found curiously irritating, while Val threatened her with snarls and an occasional choking grip.

Here was a wholly new side of my Keeper. When I imagined her playing with other dolls, I naively assumed the scenes proceeded much like ours. Now it struck how differently she must treat each doll. Yes, Val had been intensely physical with me on occasion, but never like this. And while Grace was obviously frightened, I sensed the game was familiar to her, even welcome.

Grace was quickly reduced to gasps and, after a few minutes of rough handling, something like weeping. It might almost have aroused my pity if I didn’t find the sound utterly annoying: a kind of hoarse barking quite unlike Millie’s sweet cries.

At length Val pushed free and stood. She looked down upon the huddled girl whose face was now a ruin of streaked mascara.

“I have news for you, doll,” Val told her. “I am putting you in Miss Koishi’s care for the time being. If you do not obey her exactly as you do me, I will release you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she blubbered, wiping a stained cheek with the back of her hand. But she was still collecting herself, and the news didn’t seem to have penetrated her awareness yet.

“Good grief, look at you,” Val spat. “Go make yourself presentable. Quickly!” With a hand on the wall to steady herself, the girl scrambled to her feet, pulled down her skirt, and curtsied to us both before hurrying from the room.

“I trust you found that instructive,” Val said with bright eyes, when we were alone.

I scarcely knew what to say. “Yes, Ma’am.” Electric guitar was right: something you beat on to produce loud, raucous squeals. “Am I supposed to do that to her?”

“You may do whatever you want, doll. Be as cruel as you like.” It was both a hint and a challenge.

“What if I do something to make her leave you?”

Val laughed. “Highly unlikely. In fact, I encourage you to try.”

When Grace returned, having regained her composure, she knelt primly. “I am back, Ma’am,” she said. And then, as an afterthought, she added, “And Miss Koishi.” Was that an honest mistake, or a deliberate insult?

“Are you always so annoying, Grace?” I said with sudden heat.

“Oh no, Miss. Hardly ever,” she said, in a serious tone that somehow carried a note of impudence. Damn her.

“Yeah, so why are you being annoying now?”

She made no answer.

Val aimed a remote at her sleek black stereo, and the room thumped with electronic music, sinister yet a little playful. The singer’s voice had a touch of Bjork’s elfin menace.

“Grace, dear, stand up,” Val commanded, and the girl obeyed. “Why don’t you show Miss Koishi your true feelings, hmm?”

Grace’s eyes grew wide. “Ma’am?”

“Let’s have a demonstration of how little respect you have for your new Keeper. Slap her.”

“But Ma’am—”

“Slap her.”

Val’s command was so unexpected that I was still processing it myself when Grace’s hand stung my left cheek. There was a ring on her hand, and its heavy impact caused a star of pain against my cheekbone. For a moment, I was too stunned to move.

“Again,” Val said, firm but calm.

When the second blow landed, I turned to look at Val in disbelief. My mouth opened in protest, but my brain could not yet supply the words to fill it.

“Again.”

By now, however, I had sufficiently collected my wits to catch Grace’s hand in my own, and grip it tightly. Breathing hard, my face aflame, I glared at the girl, whose expression was a strange mixture of aggression and fear.

“Enough of that,” I said, with more heat than I intended. “On your belly!”

She fell to the rug. Val’s ruse worked; I had forgotten my insecurity and only desired to grind her into the floor like a worm. I set my shoe against her neck and pressed just hard enough with the heel to know it hurt. Grace mewed.

That was better.

Then it was a simple matter of using Val’s favorite trick questions to force the girl to incriminate herself. How well I knew their effect firsthand! When she inevitably fell into my trap, I lashed her with insults and bitter scorn until her hands trembled, flat on the floor on either side of her head like pink starfish. My cheek, where the ring had struck, ached in a way that promised a bruise tomorrow. A velvet fire blazed in my chest. I enjoyed stripping this creature of her airs and revealing just how ridiculous she truly was.

During this process Val sat on the couch and watched with languid satisfaction. The harsher I was the more color bloomed on Val’s pale cheeks, the quicker her breath, the brighter her shining eyes. I’d never before seen Val so obviously aroused, but then I was usually too busy shielding myself from her lash to notice such palimpsests of desire in the book of my Keeper’s flesh. Now I read them plainly, revealed in the bright flame of my wrath upon the bleating creature before me. I half-expected Val to touch herself then, but she did not. Her legs remained crossed, her hands neatly folded upon her lap.

I demanded a haiku of Grace, and when at last she blubbered her train wreck of seventeen syllables, ordered another. But at this second, even more dreadful offering, Val said:

“That’s quite enough, thank you,” Val said, “Or do you intend to make your Keeper’s ears bleed?” I laughed before realizing the question was aimed at me, not Grace. Abashed, I quit that game.

“Perhaps the doll needs to practice her positions, hmm?” Val suggested.

I walked about the room while Grace, forbidden to stand, crawled on hands and knees and struggled to keep the proper distance, kneeling whenever I stopped.

By now I had learned a great many more hand signs. There are countless ways to pose a doll at a Keeper’s feet; some are quite humiliating, others are difficult and exhausting; a kind of evil yoga. I enjoyed inflicting them upon Grace, but the greater joy was seeing Val’s pleasure mount as the hapless girl trembled with exertion.

It was alarming how easily I drew upon my own doll experiences to keep Grace under steady physical and mental pressure. I learned that it wasn’t necessary to have a master plan, one simply laid traps and waited for the doll to spring them. Then one improvised, based on the precise nature of the doll’s failure, and things known to cause her the greatest humiliation, or arousal, or dread.

But soon Val tired of that too, and sensed the girl’s growing fatigue. She told me to stop, to sit with her on the couch while the doll massaged our feet. I was amused by the gravity and tenderness with which Grace removed our shoes and attended to her foot worship.

Val began to stroke my cheek and kiss me ravenously, in a very different way than I was accustomed to as her doll. Then, I was simply a tool for attaining her own release, or something to be teased, humiliated, and controlled. Now she was drawn to me, responded to me as…well, if not exactly a peer, then as someone in whom she saw a little of herself, rather than food to play with.

Now, for the first time, I tasted something close to real love on the lips of this noble monster named Valeria Stregazzi. It was like brandy to me: sanguine, sweet, intoxicating. I wanted more of it, all of it, no matter the cost. Even if it meant the sacrifice of Grace herself.

22     dislocation

“VAL,” I SAID, “I have some…um, some unexpected news.”

It was the Tuesday following my first session with Grace, and my cheek still ached from the impact of her ring. Val and I had met for a late dinner at a small Italian restaurant in The Commons, in Calabasas just off the Ventura freeway, about five miles from her house in the hills. For this dinner, as sometimes happened, I was not in doll mode.

“Oh?” she said, and sipped her Chianti.

“Well…” I dithered, unsure about how to proceed. “My boss asked me to fly to London to help set up a new post-production facility there.”

“He must think very highly of you, to give you such a responsibility. Congratulations.”

“Val…he’s offered me a supervisor’s position. It would be a permanent gig. And a lot more money.” I said it as gently as I could.

This set her back. “Hmm. That does rather alter things, doesn’t it?”

We were silent for a little while.

When Val did speak, her tone was unexpectedly light. “London’s a fine city. You should find it quite pleasant. How soon do you leave?”

I had expected Val to be stoic about it, but I wasn’t prepared for this display of complete unconcern.

“Let’s see,” I said. “I’m supposed to fly there on April twentieth, and today is the first…” I let that float in the air for a second.

But Val didn’t make the connection. Her eyes were distant, a little hard.

I decided it was best to abandon the joke. “April fools, Val,” I said with a meek smile, hoping she’d take the joke in good humor. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“Ah.” Val set her glass down with exaggerated care. “I suppose you think you’re a clever girl.”

“Sorry, Val. It was a stupid joke.”

“Yes, I daresay it was. And do you know why?” Her voice was low, dark, threatening.

My stomach contracted into a tight ball, and I grew dizzy. “No, Ma’am.”

“Of course not, because the doll stupidly believes itself to be the center of the universe. Listen carefully. Of all the idiotic popular customs I detest, April Fools’ is the most vapid. I am profoundly disappointed.”

I looked down, my face hot with shame. A tear dropped into my pasta.

But she wasn’t finished. “Doll imagined I would fall to my knees and beg it not to go? How insulting.” She opened her purse and extracted a hundred-dollar bill, which she put on the table. “Goodnight.” She rose and walked out of the restaurant with a brisk click of heels.

I grabbed my own purse and followed her, heedless of the other diners’ eyes upon me. I had to trot to catch up, and reached her just in time to interpose myself between Val and her car door.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am!” I pleaded. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

She impaled me with a bayonet glare. “The doll doesn’t have such a high opinion of itself now, does it?”

“No Ma’am,” I began to cry. “I’m stupid. I’m horrible. I—”

“Hush,” she said, softly, wiping my tears with her hand. She brought the damp fingers to her lips, and tasted my anguish. “Do you want to know the real reason I am so vexed with you, doll?”

I nodded dumbly. My knees were quaking.

“Because…” And now she actually struggled to find words, something I’d never seen her do before. “Because I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

It was a confession; quiet, vulnerable, completely unexpected. Val placed one hand behind my neck and kissed me hard upon the lips. I tasted wine and the salt of my own tears.

I gasped, involuntarily taking air from her mouth, caught in a vortex of fading terror and blooming joy. It was more than my body could contain, and I would have staggered if my hand hadn’t found the low roof of the car as a support.

Val broke the kiss, her eyes shining.

“Oh. Oh, Ma’am. Val,” I said tremulously, my heart filling with golden light so suddenly it hurt. The cool night air smelled of eucalyptus trees, their dry leaves rustling in the starlit breeze.

After a few heartbeats, her mouth twisted into a familiar shark-grin.

“April fools,” she said.

Then Val gripped me by the shoulders and moved me away from the car door. I wobbled drunkenly, struggling to deal with these sudden, conflicting dislocations. She got into the car and closed the door, then lowered the power window, an almost musical sound in the calm evening air.

“Are you free Friday night, dear? Grace will be coming by then to continue your training. Eight o’clock sharp.” Her voice was all Keeper now, as if nothing had happened.

Luckily she didn’t wait for a reply, because I was quite unable to utter a sound.

“Ta,” she said, and her stereo began to throb. The car pulled away with an electric whine.

As I stood watching her tail lights disappear, I felt as though my soul had been ripped out of my body and roughly stuffed back in. My hands trembled, and for a few moments I thought I might actually throw up.

That was the last April Fools’ joke I ever played in my life.

23     clubbing

IT WAS 10PM on a Sunday night, and we were going clubbing.

At the 101-134 split, Val stayed on the 101 as it turned south to become the Hollywood Freeway. On our left, the hotels and offices clustered around Universal Studios formed the last big architecture before the freeway ascended into the Hollywood Hills. Like a scene from Blade Runner, the tall buildings scraped the belly of a low-hanging cloud deck, setting it aglow it with a melange of amber streetlights, animated billboards, and neon accents. The effect was magical yet somber, and I was reminded of the glowing trash can from Brent’s Christmas party, and my first encounter with Val. Though it had been only four months ago by the calendar, it felt like a year.

The bright matrix of the San Fernando Valley fell behind as the Batmobile rose into the clouds, through the foggy notch cut into the hills by the freeway. Traffic was light.

Val played snarling, Teutonic Industrial music on the stereo, but low enough to permit talking. As we passed the Barham exit, near the crest of the hills, I said:

“I think I know why Grace is your doll, Ma’am. She wants a parental figure she can respect.”

I hadn’t forgotten Val’s directive: to discover Grace’s motivations. After four scenes with her I’d formed this hypothesis, based on the girl’s actions and her answers to my probing questions.

“Oh?” Val offered no hint of her opinion of this theory, so I plunged on.

“Come on, her dad’s a total milquetoast. He gives her everything she wants, and she takes it for granted. She gets away with murder and hates his weakness. But you’re his complete opposite. She knows she can’t pull any fast ones on you.”

“If she is so hungry for a strict father figure, why is she such a dreadful brat?”

I really didn’t know. “She’s only been your doll for…two months now? Maybe she’s a slow learner.”

“No. In that case I would have released her weeks ago.”

“Well, maybe—”

“Don’t guess. Wait until you have a firm theory.”

By now we were descending out of the clouds, and I saw the vast, glittering sprawl of the Los Angeles basin. Ten miles ahead, the downtown skyscrapers were a mass of bright, jeweled pillars reaching into the glowing cloud layer, seeming to prop it up. Grid lines of light stretched so far into the distance they were lost in haze. There’s no more beautiful city in the world, provided it’s seen by night, and from a distance, Roman Polanski famously said. But the view lasted only a minute before we were down among the palm trees and grimy, baroque architecture of Hollywood.

Val took the Vermont exit and headed south into Koreatown.

“Tonight is about enjoying ourselves,” Val said. “Once we’re situated, I want you to circulate. Flirt a little. I’m in the mood for some male attention, so see what you can bring me. You’ve seen Millie perform that duty, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” It had been my first glimpse of her, in fact. I found the prospect intriguing, but not without a pang of jealousy.

She drove a mile or so, then turned left on Wilshire and continued a couple blocks before pulling into a graveled public parking lot.

I rose carefully from the car. Sexy as it was, the car’s hard seats and stiff suspension made for an uncomfortable ride.

The night air was cool and damp; it threatened to rain. Val was ghostly pale in the blue mercury-vapor streetlights. She was attired in her usual neo-Victorian way: vest, shirt, and slacks, but everything was white, as were her pointed boots and narrow tie. Her hair was caught up in a bun.

For contrast, I wore all black. Under my light jacket was a fishnet tee, sliced in a few strategic spots by a switchblade Val just happened to have in her boot tonight. Beneath that, a black crop top. I also wore a short, ruffly skirt, lace gloves, fishnet stockings (artfully sliced with that same knife) and a pair of old army boots Val had loaned me for the evening. She’d approved of my twin pony-tails, dark eye makeup and black lipstick and nails. I didn’t feel safe bringing a purse, so I kept my keys and wallet in a black nylon waist pouch I had bought two years ago, during my brief interest in bicycling.

It was only a short walk to Club Lacrimosa, whose entrance was tucked away on a cul-de-sac off Wilshire, and so nondescript I’d never have found it by myself. I assumed Val had been here before.

She paid our admission, and I gave my jacket to the coat checker in exchange for a ticket. We climbed a red carpeted stairway and entered the club.

It was much smaller and darker than I expected. Blood red carpet, a dim chandelier hanging from the ceiling, candle light, and a scattering of sofas and chairs gave one the impression of a Parisian salon from the 1700s, but with a darker edge. Things had not yet heated up: the music was still downtempo, and there wasn’t much of a crowd.

But this was just one room of many. I followed Val through a doorway, and we passed into a much larger room with a dance floor and pulsing purple and red lights. The DJ booth was at one end, the bar at the other. The room smelled of sweat, exotic cigarettes, and the slight vanilla tang of smoke machines.

Following a half-pace behind Val, I understood why she had worn all white: she stood out like the White Queen on a chessboard of black pawns. People sensed her restrained energy, and I was proud to live within her zone of control.

Around the periphery of the room were tables and places to sit. Val claimed a space on a big, L-shaped couch beside a table, upon which glowed a couple of votive candles. She produced a twenty dollar bill and spoke into my ear, over the music. “Bring me a Sidecar. You may get something as well.”

I made my way to the bar and ordered Val’s Sidecar, and a Screwdriver for myself. As the bartender worked I surveyed the crowd: mostly goth, with a few more fetish-oriented members. There were couples of every kind: straight, gay, and pairings I had no name for. On the dance floor, a particularly fearsome fellow kept his female companion on a slender leash of silk cord, where she undulated for the crowd’s benefit as much as his own.

I paid the bartender with a generous tip and returned to Val, who glowed in the candlelight from the table, and the many-colored pulse of sweeping spotlights. She accepted her drink with a smile and we sat for a while, simply watching the room.

Two very white college boys wandered into the club, conspicuous as doves among crows. One had the foresight to wear a black tee shirt and looked as if he might have been here before. But the other had not, judging by his entirely ridiculous Lakers jersey and sweatpants. It was amusing to watch the two deal with the sniper-stares of the regulars. The boys made straight for the bar, and when Mr. Laker #24 bumped into a solitary dancer, he returned her glare with a goofy laugh. Val predicted they’d get themselves ejected within the hour.

We two also received more than a little attention. As insular and reserved as this crowd was, they had no qualms about people-watching. I paid close attention to the males, making a cursory evaluation of each in preparation for my later fishing expedition.

By the time we’d finished our drinks the music had turned tribal, angry. The dancers were starting to warm up. Val stood.

“Let’s dance,” she said in a commanding tone, and I followed her to the dance floor, innocent of what would happen next.

Val didn’t dance; she erupted.

I beheld her transformation from a safe distance, with a fair amount of shock and awe. I had known that beneath her calm, snow-covered mountain of self control stirred a heart of seething magma. For the first time, I beheld the hot core of her with my own eyes.

Val, too, was blinded by her own pyrotechnics. She paid me no heed during this purgation, I might just as well have been on another planet. Her cleansing fire was frightening but also beautiful, even sacred, and the other dancers sensed this too, showing deference with a respectful distance.

A plump, skirted girl with black-rimmed eyes and a stiffly-boned corset studied me in a way that acknowledged me as the companion of that fierce creature. I couldn’t tell if it was a look of admiration or pity, but I felt a swell of pride.

Val danced for half an hour before regaining her senses. She became aware of me again and motioned me to follow with a smile.

After finding another place to sit, she handed me a white handkerchief. I used it to wipe the sweat from her brow as she sat with her head back, eyes closed.

I ordered another drink for Val, when the bar girl made her rounds. Then came a striking, if somewhat stocky, fellow in a sleeveless NIN tee and torn black jeans. He sat beside Val and said, above the pulsing music, “You’re a good dancer.”

“Yes,” she replied unhelpfully; a verbal caltrop to test his mettle. It was quickly found wanting, and after another failed overture he withdrew. He’d been doomed from the start anyway. Not Val’s type at all.

But the encounter had whetted her appetite. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the dance floor. Go. Mingle. Bring me food. I rose and found a place to dance, then began my hunt.

There wasn’t really any chance for small talk on the dance floor. Unlike the denizens of the more conventional clubs I’d been to, goths were solitary folk, keeping bubbles of personal space as they swayed like pale anemones in a dark sea. The more athletic dancers kept to the edge of the floor, too energetic and self-absorbed to make good prey.

So I simply danced and waited for an opening.

A few guys watched me, and a couple of girls. Some of them complimented me on my hair or makeup, but nothing came of it.

Then someone bumped into me from behind, an elbow catching me painfully in the ribs, just below my shoulder blade. I whirled around, glaring. It was Laker #24.

“Ha ha, sorry babe!” he guffawed. He was fairly drunk.

A nearby male goth with piercings had seen our collision and was instantly in the offender’s face about it. Two male friends backed him up; they made an imposing trio.

“I said I’m sorry, jeez!” blurted the oaf, intimidated by this overwhelming force. He raised his hands as if at gunpoint, then backed away under the combined Death Stares of everyone nearby.

My defender turned his attention to me. His angular powdered face had rascally eyes, high cheekbones, a wide, sensual mouth. He was sinewy like a punk rocker, and could probably hold his own in a fight. I found his cocky, confident air attractive and a little scary. On my own I’d consider him too risky, but Val’s presence, and my desire to feed her hunger, made me bold.

He said, “That asshole’s totally in the wrong club. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I reached back to rub the place I’d been jabbed. It smarted, but Val had inflicted far worse.

The crisis averted, his two friends resumed their dancing. But he remained, looking me up and down. “Hey, those are great boots.”

“Thanks,” I said, and had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked over the music.

“You’re the first man who’s ever noticed my shoes,” I admitted. “And they’re not even mine.”

“Whose are they?”

“My Keep—uh, my girlfriend’s.”

He sniffed something exotic, unexpectedly tasty, and took another nibble, “Do you two share a lot?”

Aha. Now to set the hook.

“At the moment, we’re sharing a girl named Grace.”

“Oh, you’re a kinky girl.”

“You have no idea,” I said with a grin.

§

His name was Tobias, and he had just arrived with his two companions a few minutes earlier. When I offered to introduce him to my unusual friend, I used body language and tone of voice to suggest the offer was meant only for him. But it wasn’t an issue. He said a word to his mates and they waved him off, being far too busy dancing to care.

He was immediately taken with Val. She, in her turn, seemed to find him worthy of at least a little effort. I knew Val’s taste in men ran toward the slightly feminine, based on the fashion photos at Milton’s and things she’d said. She liked them slender, clean-shaven, very tidy, a little tragic. Tobias met all these criteria, and she seemed to enjoy his act of the streetwise, capable rogue.

“So you two are dating?” he asked Val, sitting on her right, opposite me.

“No, she’s just mine,” she said dismissively. I glanced down and felt a pang in my chest. She’d just said that for effect, I was sure, but it still stung.

Her remark had the desired effect on him. His eyes brightened as he began to comprehend our relationship, and he wanted to know everything about it: how long we’d been together, how often we did this, what the rules were. The whole affair was powerfully arousing to him. Val used that to her advantage.

As they talked, I found myself feeling adrift and a little jealous. It was awkward to see her being courted, watch her respond, to know her attentions were focused on a total stranger. Now I understood exactly how Millie had felt at that Christmas party.

And yet.

I couldn’t deny that I was also a little turned on. Not by him really, but by the strange geometry of this isosceles triangle, and my feelings toward my Keeper, the sharpest of the three corners. My heart sang when she put her arm around my shoulders and left it there possessively while Tobias told her an amusing story. Val’s touch reassured me I was still hers, still a part of the equation. I rested against her and admired the sumi-e brush strokes of candlelight tracing her proud features.

She commented on his wealth of piercings, and then showed him my koi tattoo. One of her slender, strong hands urged my head down, and the other held my hair out of the way.

“Her gift to me,” Val said, and he was impressed.

She raised my head, turned my face toward the two of them. “Isn’t she lovely? I think she’d take my brand, if I asked.”

Her calculated boast had the desired result: a sudden, whirling chaos within as I confronted that possibility, filled with mingled terror and yearning. It was too big for me to process. More frightening was my suspicion that, if put to it, I might whisper yes.

That inner struggle must have shown on my face, because Val smiled, and Tobias looked like a boy in a candy store.

When we three danced, Val was almost as unruly as before. Tobias did a passable job of keeping up, but he lacked the sort of fire which blazed within my Keeper. I found that strangely reassuring.

When the music slowed, we found a couch in a dark corner and formed a three-way cuddle, with Val in the middle. They kissed and fondled as I held Val, filled with doubts and desire. These were uncharted waters for me. But I felt Val’s rising heat, and clung to the belief that she was only using him to stoke her own fires, that later she’d cast him aside and drive us home to spend herself on me.

I stroked her hair, nuzzled the back of her neck, and lost track of time.

But then Val got up, impulsively, and led us to the back of the big room, into a dim hallway marked RESTROOMS. Without the slightest hesitation she pushed open the door to the men’s room and we followed her inside.

It was empty. The walls were painted black and the urinals, those ridiculous fixtures, formed a worshipful line of gaping, upturned mouths. One of the mirrors over the sinks was cracked. Beneath the industrial-strength air freshener I detected the stink of urine. Not a tidy place, but I’d seen worse. As the door shut the room quieted, permitting only the music’s lower octaves to pound through the wall.

This situation was so bizarre I could only stand beside Val in docile wonder. Tobias was a little more composed, even eager. Under the cool fluorescent light Val’s pale, wicked face shone the color of skim milk. She gripped my shoulders and pressed me hard against the wall before kissing me like thunder, a prolonged assault that left me breathless and gasping. She was musky from her earlier exertions. Then she pulled away.

“Do you like my doll, Tobias?” she demanded, looking back over her shoulder. She moved aside, but kept one hand firmly about my upper arm. It was like posing for a mugshot.

“She’s really hot,” he said, surveying me with a sly expression. He sensed opportunity.

“‘Hot’ will do, I suppose,” Val said a little sarcastically. “Would you like to touch her breasts?”

I stood a little straighter, shocked by her bold question. My heart began to pound.

Tobias hesitated, probably wondering how to answer in the affirmative without conceding Val’s dominance, and losing face. “Yeah,” he said darkly, raising his chin a degree and shifting his weight to the other foot.

“Be my guest,” Val offered.

He walked close, and towered over me, scanning me like a map. Then he put his open hands on my chest and began to knead through my top. The wall at my back throbbed with bass.

My breath grew ragged. I couldn’t meet his eyes and found myself staring at the silver stud in his lower lip piercing instead. I wasn’t aroused or afraid now, simply overwhelmed by a vast, unnamed emotion that would have brought me to my knees if not for Val’s firm grip and the man standing before me.

I looked to her, saw narrowed eyes burning with something like passion. It was a hungry, predatory expression; the face of a cat whose playfulness has turned into serious biting as ancient saber-tooth instincts emerge. She used her other hand to lift my top, baring me, which caused him to make a low chuckle of appreciation. It was a sound male porn-stars made, triggered deep in the reptile part of their brain. He renewed his explorations.

Val let him play for a minute longer, but when he took the liberty of kissing me she warned, “Ah-ah-ah! Not yet, Tobias. I haven’t given permission for that.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but held the kiss for a few moments before breaking off. I felt a subtle shift in the slope of this scene.

“You can’t play with my doll if you won’t follow the rules,” she said in a scolding tone.

In his aroused state he had become less pliable, and now rankled at Val’s presumption of command. I felt a tickle of fear. He was much larger than either of us. Boom boom boom, throbbed the distant music.

But Val wasn’t the least bit cowed. In a cop’s voice she said, “This is how the game works: I say what’s permitted, and you obey. Am I clear?”

He was torn between desire and affront; desire won. “Yeah,” he said, dropping his hands.

“Do you wish to kiss my doll?”

“Yes.”

“Then you may.”

Tobias put his left hand back on my breast, the other on the wall beside my head, and leaned in to kiss me. His studs were hard points against my skin, and his breath smelled faintly of clove cigarettes. I kissed back absently, dutifully, and worried how all this would end. His hand slid down to my hips, pulling me against him as he began to thrust his leg up between mine.

Now Val physically pulled him off of me. “Obviously this game is too complicated for you, Toby. You can go.”

His nostrils flared at the insult and he stood motionless, deciding how to respond. I pulled my top back down and felt a contraction of my soul, as if retreating within myself, turtle-wise.

“You are one crazy bitch, you know that?” he told Val with a sneer. “You can’t just—”

“I do what I please. Now go. I won’t tell you again.”

This was too much for him, and he seemed ready for a fight. When Val didn’t back down he spat, “I’m not leaving without something for my trouble.” And he turned to me, reaching out.

Val grabbed his arm and yanked him back around.

“Hey!” He roared, and they both glared at each other a moment, gathering energy. I feared she’d resort to the switchblade, but thankfully her hands remained empty. Then he made the first move, shifting his weight and raising his arm, as if to strike. But he never got that far.

There was a sudden blur of movement. Val punched Tobias in the throat, then kicked him hard in the knees, and he went down with a voiceless wheeze. I twisted to avoid his clutching hand as he collapsed. His forehead made a nasty melon-thump sound when it hit the floor, and he curled up in agony. Val raised her leg and stomped on his head. He ceased moving. I was afraid she’d killed him, but couldn’t see any blood. He moaned and was silent.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” I said, horror-struck. The world had turned fish-eye. I could see everything, but nothing made sense. I began to feel sick.

Val was breathing hard, murder in her eyes. Once she saw Tobias was out of the picture, she scanned the room and grabbed my wrist. “Come on, we’re leaving,” she said. She pulled the door open and looked for a back way out. There was a fire exit about 20 feet further down the hallway, but it was marked ALARM WILL SOUND IF DOOR IS OPENED. No escape there.

“This way,” Val snapped and started back for the main room, just before a man entered the other end of the hallway, on his way to the bathroom. He must have seen our distress, and the men’s room door closing behind us, but said nothing as we passed.

Out in the chaos of the dance floor, Val hustled around the perimeter with me still in tow. Our haste drew curious glances.

We passed through the next room, down the stairs, toward the exit. “What about my jacket?”

“Leave it,” she snapped.

In a moment we were outside in the chill night air, walking as quickly as possible toward the parking lot two blocks away. Everything seemed unreal; I was in shock from the sudden shift in our fortunes. Had Val just killed someone? God, please no.

About halfway there, we heard angry voices behind us. Two men bursting out of the club, running in our direction. Tobias’s friends.

“Run,” said Val. She let go of my wrist.

A lightning bolt of adrenaline hit me and we pounded down the sidewalk like madwomen. Time slowed. I experienced a sudden, strange disconnection, a singing in my nerves, and actually had the presence of mind to marvel at the hypnotic glide of concrete beneath my flying feet, as if in a lucid dream. I felt I could run like this forever and never stop. Two steps ahead of me, Val moved with the precision of a marathon runner, but in graceful slow-motion.

We reached the gate of the parking lot and turned in at full speed. Gravel rolled under my boots and I almost went down, but the time-warp allowed me to recover with superhuman agility.

Thankfully Val’s car was parked on this end of the lot, near the entrance, and she was ready with the keys. In a heartbeat we were inside. The dash sprang to life and the sudden blast of music from the stereo startled me. Not bothering with seatbelt or headlights she reefed the car into a gravel-crunching J-turn and aimed for the gate. Damn, she could drive.

The two men had just reached the parking lot and banged their fists on the hood as we shot past. Val made a right onto Wilshire, floored it. The electric motor gave a powerful whine and acceleration pressed me into my seat for several seconds.

Val shut off the music. Above the wind and engine whine I heard the distant howl of a deep-throated V8 echoing down the man-made canyon of the street. As we turned north onto Vermont I looked back down Wilshire, saw a pair of headlights fixed on us with a predator’s intensity, a hundred yards away.

At the next intersection Val made a another skidding right turn and, before our pursuers came back into view, turned immediately right again—straight toward the lowered gate of an automated parking garage, at a full thirty miles an hour. I screamed and braced for impact, but the Batmobile’s low roof slipped under the cantilevered arm without a scratch. Val laughed, braked hard, and sped up a ramp marked by a painted arrow.

Behind us, I heard the other car race past the garage entrance, booming down the street we’d just left. They hadn’t seen our maneuver.

Val went up a level, speeding through the garage fast enough to screech the tires, a sound which echoed strangely here. She took the first descending ramp labeled EXIT, and our car slipped under that gate as well. We emerged onto a different street, going the opposite direction.

When it was clear we’d lost our pursuit, Val slowed, clicked on the headlights and followed a sign pointing toward the 101 Freeway. That’s when I noticed her bun had come partially undone during our flight. I began to shake.

“Are you injured?” she said, inspecting me in glances as she drove. Injured, not hurt. The sort of thing Val would say.

“N…no, Ma’am.” My teeth chattered. The adrenaline had run out and I was beginning to crash, completely wrung out. The awful events of the last few minutes replayed in my head, over and over.

“Did you ki—” I began, and checked myself. “Is he…dead?”

Val chuckled, but the sound lacked her usual haughtiness.

“No, Koishi, not even close. Though he might have a slight concussion.” She said it in a strangely offhand way. “Seatbelts,” she reminded, and we snapped them on. When I hugged shivering arms about myself, she turned on the heater. It was a little past midnight.

We rode in silence. As we sped along the northbound 101 I watched the sleeping world flow past and wondered if anyone had caught Val’s license plate, and if the police would come for us. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. Val drove in silence, and I spent the rest of the trip coming to grips with this new side of my Keeper.

§

Val parked in front of my place, and accompanied me up the several flights of stairs. My unsteady hands fumbled and dropped the keys in a noisy jangle; Val picked them up and unlocked the door for me. Once inside she was a mother hen, putting my things on the kitchen counter, and fetching a blanket to cover me on the couch. In the shimmering, aqueous light from the aquarium she watched my face intently.

“You can relax, dear. You’re safe,” she said in a hush, straightening my bangs. From me, she carefully didn’t say. “I’ll make tea.”

She flicked on the kitchen light and put a pot on the stove. As it heated she removed my boots, then sat beside me and gently undid my ponytails with somber eyes and hands like butterflies.

Presently the kettle whistled, and she rose to fix my tea. After handing me a steaming cup, she sat on the edge of the couch and watched me sip. It was my favorite herbal tea, with a squeeze of lemon. The tart, familiar taste slowly brought me back.

Her face and hair shone softly in the light from the kitchen. The fires which had previously blazed in her eyes were spent, leaving only ashes. Her expression was one of quiet resignation. She seemed smaller than I remembered.

“I’m sorry for letting that situation get out of control. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

There was an odd note in her apology; the bittersweet minor chord before a sad song ends. I suddenly feared this was the prelude to a goodbye, the permanent kind.

“Val,” I said. “Don’t go. Please.”

She heard my deeper meaning, it checked her.

“I have to tell you something, Koi.”

I nodded, waited.

“I enjoyed that,” she said, guiltily. “No, I didn’t mean for it to happen. But it was just like old times. It’s part of who I was. Who I am. If you hadn’t been there…”

I could imagine the end of that sentence.

Outside, tree branches began to stir. Rain tapped at the window glass.

“You must think I’m a monster,” she said a little bitterly, looking out the window.

“Oh, Val…” I whispered.

And with profound wonder, I found myself overflowing with the same golden joy she had briefly sparked with her cruel April Fool’s joke. Because for the first time Val was utterly vulnerable, utterly naked before my eyes. Because I knew she was a monster, and didn’t care. Yes, her game had been completely reckless. But it was Tobias who’d broken the rules, and Val used all her considerable strength and skill to protect me. To protect the one she loved, even if she couldn’t admit it. Of that I was sure.

Trapeze artists must share this sort of bond: being thrown into the hungry sky only to be caught again. Nothing sweetens life half so well as escaping death.

I shrugged off the blanket and embraced her, covered her in soft kisses and tears of spring rain. “Don’t go. Stay with me tonight. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I removed the remaining pins from her bun, freeing the hair to tumble about her shoulders, and smoothed it out with my fingers. The action seemed to move her deeply. I read it in her eyes, the color of pale jade.

When I pulled her to my bedroom, it was like leading a child.

24     hooky

GOLDEN SUNLIGHT HALF-WOKE me, and the dance of shadows on my eyelids. Vision without full consciousness. Cobalt sky, scudding clouds, so beautiful.

I was looking out my bedroom window. Oh, it must be Monday morning. Presently I thought to check the clock on my nightstand, blocking the eager sunlight with a lazy hand.

7:48am. Damn. I should be well on my way to work already.

I had slept all of three hours, and exhaustion still flowed through my veins like a drug. There was no way I’d make it to work in this condition. Sorry, Bob, I thought. I’ll twiddle no pixels for you this day.

Soft breathing behind me. Val. I carefully rolled over to look at her in wonder, and realized she had never before spent the night here. Her long hair spilled across the mint-colored pillows, like sea foam. Innocence lay on her face, and I felt a curious pang at seeing her so vulnerable, unguarded.

I recalled her lips and hands and sighs in the stormy dark, scant hours ago, the smell and taste of secret seas. On what strange shore were we now shipwrecked?

And then her eyes opened, as simple as that. Had she been awake as I watched? We remained this way for a time, gazes locked, in sacred silence.

“Well, fuck,” were her first words, upon seeing the clock. She sat up. The sheets fell away from her, and the faint scar on her left shoulder shone in the sun’s rays, a line of slick, pouting flesh.

“I’m not going to work today,” I said, reaching for her. “Stay here with me. Let’s play hooky.”

Val tucked her hair behind her ear, looked down at me with a darkly amused expression. “In my line of work, you don’t play hooky.” She slipped from under the covers and walked, naked, to the living room to fetch her cell phone.

When she returned, I found my attention drawn to the lattice scar on her left thigh. I would never grow accustomed to it, and it looked even more fearsome in the morning light, a rune of old pain, catharsis.

She got back under the covers and speed-dialed a number. I heard a single ring before it was answered by a man’s voice, too muffled to make out.

“It’s me. Something’s come up and I need to take care of it. What’s the status?” She listened as the man on the other end spoke briefly. “So today is feasible? All right. Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hung up the phone and said to me, “Technically I’m on call, but I doubt they’ll need me.” She reached over me to set the slim cell phone on the nightstand, next to my regular phone.

All very mysterious indeed.

Val leaned down and kissed me with cool lips, then remained bent over me. “Apart from the obvious, what do you have in mind for our day of hooky?”

“Um…” I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “Yeah, well, first…the obvious,” I said, running my fingers along her muscled, bare arm. “After that…hmm. I could make you breakfast in bed. Then a maybe a shower.”

“You’re forgetting an important detail,” she said, inscrutably. Was I supposed to be in doll mode? My pulse raced. I stopped caressing her arm and bowed my head contritely.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

My sudden fear made her laugh out loud. She lifted my chin, saying, “You’re fine, Koi. As you were. No, I’m thinking of something else.”

But I could not imagine what it might be. Eventually she relented, and simply told me.

“Why bother cooking breakfast when you have a doll of your own?”

“You mean Grace?” I blinked. “This early in the morning?”

“I’ve called her at all hours, you know. She may be a wastrel and a brat, but she’s almost always available. Didn’t I tell you to use her, however you liked?”

“Yes, but I thought…”

“Tell her to wear a short dress. She should expect to go out later.”

“Yes, Ma—” I caught myself. “Okay.”

“I’m going to freshen up.”

While she used the bathroom I called work and left a voice message for Carl, telling him I wouldn’t be in. He didn’t usually get in until nine-thirty or ten anyway.

Next, Grace. I couldn’t remember her number, so I retrieved my cell phone from my waist pack, where Val had set it on the kitchen counter last night. I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled down to the G’s on my phone’s display.

As I did so Val’s own phone caught my eye.

Who had she just called? I wondered. The question fueled a burning curiosity about Val’s work, her fortress of secrets. The number would be right there…all I had to do was take a peek. After glancing toward the hallway and still hearing water running behind the bathroom door, I decided to risk it.

In a moment I found Val’s Recent Calls display. There it was, the newest item in the list: a name, Gordon, and a phone number from the 213 area code. Downtown Los Angeles. I quickly keyed that number into my own phone and saved it, before placing Val’s phone back in its original spot.

Crushing guilt struck me for violating Val’s privacy, and fear that she might one day find this number on my phone and discover my snooping. That I condemned my own snooping while expecting hers said much about my doll conditioning.

For safety, I gave the entry the bland title of Pizza (something Val never ate), changed the area code to the local 818, and reversed the other seven digits. Saved it again. Then, on impulse, I found the Delete Number option and stared at it, knowing it was the right thing to do. The safe thing.

The sound of the bathroom faucet stopped.

Just delete it, I thought. But I jumped when the bathroom door clicked open, and desperately pressed my hang-up button to return to the default screen. Grace, grace, grace, I thought, and scrolled down to her number with a trembling hand. Pressed the dial button. Waited as it rang.

Val stood beside the bed, and stretched like a cat before getting back in.

“Good morning, Miss Koishi,” Grace answered. Of course she had seen my caller ID on the display before picking up.

“Your Keepers want to see you. Are you free right now?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss,” she replied, stifling a yawn. I guessed my call had awakened her. “Are you at Ma’am’s house?”

“No, my place.” I gave her directions. “Ma’am wants you to wear a skirt—”

“A short skirt,” Val corrected.

“…A short skirt, and we’ll be going out later,” I said to Grace.

“Yes, Miss.” A pause. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

It was rush hour, and traffic was bad that morning. The trip took her nearly an hour, but Val and I scarcely noticed the passage of time, being entirely occupied with, well…the obvious.

§

When Grace called up from the front gate, I buzzed her in and met her at my front door, clad in a robe. She wore a cute lime green mini dress with a scoop neck and two-tiered, lightly ruffled skirt that barely reached to mid-thigh. I guessed that the outfit, with matching designer purse and mules, probably came to four hundred dollars; Grace never lacked for money.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said, with more cheer than she felt. Her spoiled Beverly Hills eyes took in my small living room, and seemed to judge it harshly.

“Come in, doll,” I said, and closed the door behind her.

Grace knelt before me, holding the purse in her lap with both hands. Her head was bowed slightly. I caught her looking for our Keeper out of the corner of her eye, but Val was still in bed, reading.“I am here for Ma’am and yourself, Miss Koishi.”

Grace’s wording and tone of voice, the brief pause after the word Ma’am, could almost be taken as a slight.

But I was more vexed by her reaction to the condo, as I had always been a little insecure about my modest lifestyle, compared to Val and her circle of affluent friends. Val, for her part, had never once shown the least sign of condescension. Damn that Grace.

I pulled my robe more tightly about my body and said, “Ma’am and I are in the mood for some breakfast.”

“Where should I get it from, Miss?” She opened her purse to get her car keys.

“You’re going to fix it for us.”

She closed the purse slowly and looked up. Now it was her turn to feel uneasy. “Miss?”

Ah ha!

“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, doll. But we’re hungry, so be quick about it.”

“Um,” she swallowed. “Yes, Miss.”

I showed her where I kept the food and cooking things, and rejoined Val in the bedroom.

“I doubt she’s ever cooked a meal in her life,” Val said wickedly.

“God help us.”

§

Grace knelt at the foot of the bed as we regarded her breakfast attempt, on plates in our laps.

It was a simple meal of fried eggs, microwave bacon, and buttered toast, but the eggs were overcooked and the bacon was burned in spots. Grounds floated in our coffee. She’d had to ask how to use my French press but clearly hadn’t mastered it this time around.

“Gah,” I said, as I crunched on a piece of shell in my bite of rubbery, crisp-edged egg. The poor girl withered as I poked at my food.

Val took a couple of bites from her toast, and set the plate aside.

That simple act, with its complete lack of drama, was the most crushing thing Val could have done to Grace, and the girl hung her head in utter shame.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Miss. I don’t have much practice at—”

“Shush,” Val said. “Perhaps you will do better with errands. Koishi and I are going to take a shower, while you clean up the kitchen. Then you’ll drive to my house and bring me a change of clothes, which the maid will give you. If Koishi and I are not here when you return, simply wait outside until we arrive. We won’t be gone long. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

§

While Grace went to fetch Val’s clothes, perhaps a thirty minute drive, Val and I got a proper breakfast. I took her to a small, out-of-the-way place with excellent food, on Ventura Boulevard.

Halfway through my spinach omelet, I looked down, hesitated, and spoke.

“Ma’am, I…”

“Yes?” She’d heard the note of gravity in my voice.

I wanted to confess all, then, to tell her I’d peeked at her phone, and beg for whatever punishment she deemed necessary to erase my guilt. Her wrath would be terrible, but well-deserved. The words gathered, piled up on my tongue, ready to pour out in a flood…but they just wouldn’t come.

Val waited as the moment dragged on. The silence became intolerable.

“Ma’am…Where are you planning to take us today?”

She smiled at the triviality of the question, after so pregnant a pause. She must have known it wasn’t my original reason for speaking up. But she didn’t press.

“I thought we’d go to the zoo.”

§

Because the Batmobile only seated two, the task of driving fell to me, after suffering Val’s disapproval of my Corolla’s unwashed state.

Grace sat alone in the back and simmered. Her morning had been one of tedium, frustration, and torment. She had especially resented Val’s order to make me up while we both waited for our Keeper to change, but Grace obeyed in the faint hope of winning a little affection.

The sky was unusually clear after last night’s rain, and the last clouds had blown away by the time we left for the zoo, at a quarter-to-eleven. It was a perfect spring day in Los Angeles, with the sun’s warmth perfectly offset by a cool breeze.

The drive from Tarzana to Griffith Park only took about twenty minutes now that rush hour was past. The empty parking lot was a surprise until I realized it was a Monday morning, hardly a peak time for the zoo. Val paid our admission, and we passed through the revolving metal gates.

Val walked into one of the gift stores flanking the main path just inside the front gate, and after a few minutes’ browsing bought a large Mylar helium balloon. It bore the zoo logo and had a purple nylon ribbon for a string, at the end of which was tied a disk-shaped plastic bob with an image of a panda bear.

I wondered what would possess Val to buy such a thing, but her plan was made clear outside the gift shop.

“Give me your hand,” she told Grace. “No, your left hand.”

Val tied the bob-end of the string securely around the girl’s wrist with a solid knot, and gave me the balloon to hold, which had the effect of turning the ribbon into a short leash, perhaps three feet long. The bondage was sufficiently subtle as to seem almost innocent; young children would not understand, even if their parents might. If I’d learned one thing in Val’s keeping, it was that you can get away with a lot, if you act like you know what you’re doing. I did worry about being challenged by a park official, but realized that simply releasing the balloon would nullify the problem.

What really surprised me was Grace’s reaction to this bondage. I had expected her to chafe under such a restriction, but instead she became uncharacteristically docile, obedient, even pleasant. Ah ha, I thought, she really does crave a strong parental figure. The balloon was a totem of youth, the tether an expression of control. I doubted Grace had any inkling of what Val had so masterfully done to her.

As we strolled down the main path to the exhibits, we came upon one of the park’s outdoor restaurants. Grace asked very politely if she might have something to eat, and her tummy grumbled as if on cue, reminding us she had not eaten all morning. I was moved to pity, and asked Val to hold the balloon while I purchased a kids’ meal consisting of a grilled cheese sandwich and box of orange juice. We sat around a circular, primary-colored table while she ate, amusing ourselves by feeding bits of crust to the tiny birds hopping around our feet.

It was a beautiful day. There were few people about, and a hush lay upon the park.

When she had done eating, Grace wiped her mouth and earnestly thanked us. I found myself slowly warming to her, something I would never have guessed possible.

Her meal done, we resumed our exploration. Grace held onto the map of the zoo we’d received with our admission, and pointed the way to exhibits she wished to see. We indulged her, stopping to watch the flamingos, bypassing the alligators and crocodiles, and lingering to study the seals and otters (Grace found these especially delightful). From there we trudged uphill to the aviary.

During this time Val received a few calls from work, on her cell phone. Judging by this end of the conversation it was not good news:

“I don’t care if the committee’s giving you crap. Convince them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. He did what? I’ll skin him alive.”

“That’s it, I’m coming in. Hmm? Are you sure? Well, fine—but there’ll be plenty of ass kicked tomorrow.”

Whatever was unfolding at work left Val in a darkening mood. I knew better than to inquire. She found the snow leopards of great interest, however, and observed them with an almost brooding expression. She also made us stand for several minutes within the ringed cage of the Siamang monkeys, as they swung from ropes and branches, occasionally bursting into ear-splitting synchronous hoots, almost screams. It was appalling, and the intensity of the sound unnerved both me and Grace. Val seemed to find it cathartic.

But as we walked past a low, windowless building Val said, “What’s this?”

Grace had not mentioned it as we approached, and now seemed eager to avoid it. “The reptile house, Ma’am,” she answered in a small voice.

“Oh, well we certainly can’t miss that,” Val said, and strode to the entrance.

For the first time, Grace held back; I had to tug on the string to make her enter the building.

Inside, the reptile house was star-shaped, with glass exhibits spaced along its inner wall. It was dim in here, in the shade created by the low roof and slatted exterior walls. Grace’s arms were goose-bumped, and she stayed close to the outer wall, far away from the exhibits.

Val noticed this, and took the balloon from me.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of reptiles, Grace.”

The girl didn’t answer. Val continued:

“Oh come now, there’s nothing to fear. The glass keeps you quite safe from this…” and Val consulted the placard over the nearest specimen, “lovely Sidewinder. It can’t possibly bite you. Come, look.”

But Grace would not go any closer.

“Meh,” said Val, and we followed her as she walked past the exhibits, stopping periodically to study the more interesting specimens.

Presently we came upon the large, multi-window boa constrictor exhibit which occupied one of the points of the star-shaped structure and offered three different viewing angles. The snake was huge, at least twelve feet in length, and as big around as a man’s thigh, with supple, smooth skin that hinted at powerful musculature beneath. Even I found it intimidating, but poor Grace was beside herself.

“Come here,” Val said with such a tone of command that Grace actually took a couple of steps closer. She was breathing rapidly now. But it wasn’t close enough for Val, who used her left hand to grip Grace’s hair and yank her within a step of the glass.

“Are you frightened, doll?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Do you deserve my affection?”

“Um, I try to be good, Ma’am,” said Grace, her eyes fixed on the coiled, unblinking snake. It breathed with a slow swelling, and flicked its tongue to taste the air.

“Then bend down, and get a good look.” Gripping hair, Val pulled Grace so far down she was forced to put her hands on the glass for support. Her eyes were closed now, and her breath came in gasps as she tried to twist away.

But Val’s hold was much too tight. She leaned beside Grace’s ear and hissed, “Don’t move. Not a muscle.”

Val let go of the balloon and thrust her right hand under Grace’s skirt, began to roughly caress her. I saw the poor girl tremble, heard her whimper with fear and maybe a little desire, I wasn’t sure.

I scanned in both directions, but saw no one else in the building, so I returned my attention to the two women. I felt a pang of guilt over Val’s sudden cruelty toward Grace, and my heart went out to her.

Grace was crying now, a quiet sound which echoed in the enclosed space. Tears fell wetly upon the dirty concrete. Val’s caresses grew more forceful, but I could tell Grace was too frightened to reach any sort of gratification.

After another minute of effort, Val stopped and withdrew her hand.

“Do you appreciate my attentions, doll?” Val asked.

“Oh yes, Ma’am!”

“Then kiss the glass and thank me.” Val said.

Grace remained frozen, eyes squeezed shut, and now a small squeal of fear came out of her.

“I won’t ask again,” Val said.

Grace began to cry loudly, a jagged, painful sound, and she quaked with fear. But she obeyed.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” she sobbed.

“Enough. Get up,” growled Val. She gave me Grace’s balloon string and walked away.

Grace lurched back, turned away from the glass and pressed herself against the outer wall. She wiped her eyes on the backs of her hands and pulled herself back together. I wanted to say something reassuring. No words came.

We left the reptile house in search of Val. We found her walking out of the women’s restroom, wiping her hands with a paper towel before tossing it in the trash. Sneering, she commanded Grace to get herself tidied up, too.

A nearby mother detected our strange energy and watched distrustfully as she fed her two children a pretzel. When Grace was done, we continued down the path along in our original direction.

The three of us spent the rest of the outing in our different silences. Val, languorous as a newly-gorged python. Grace, beaten but vaguely happy. Myself, uneasy about Val’s treatment of her.

A crisscross of contrails slowly spread out into a feathery layer of cloud, turning the sky a wan, milky color in patches. The warm air was cooling slightly.

“Time to go,” Val said, around two o’ clock. We left.

In the rear view mirror I could see Grace in the back seat, staring idly out the window. The balloon, still tied to her wrist and held close in her lap, swayed with the car’s motion.

§

On the sidewalk in front of my condo, Val cut the balloon string from Grace’s wrist. She allowed a kiss before sending her home.

“Thank you, Ma’am and Miss,” Grace said, and left.

“Is there a problem?” Val asked, noting my expression as I watched Grace’s car drive away.

“You were pretty harsh with her,” I said.

“She knows the safeword. And anyway, she’s suffered far worse. So have you, for that matter.”

I had no reply to that.

Val’s phone rang.

“Yes?” she said. She listened for a minute, and frowned. “All right. Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

She hung up.

“There’s a fire at work,” she said huskily.

“A fire, Ma’am?”

“A situation. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks, maybe three. Probably out of touch, though I can’t be sure. It’s likely to be a very stressful time for me.”

I knew better than to ask what, or why. Instead, I asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can come with me,” she said, and walked to her car. It awoke with a whoop whoop and I got in the other side. “Are you hungry?”

§

This time her question was entirely innocent. After picking up sandwiches and drinks, Val took the 101 freeway west to the Topanga Canyon Boulevard exit. There she turned south and followed that road through an upscale neighborhood before it coiled like a snake as it ascended into the hills. She steered her sports car expertly around a dozen or so switchbacks, and after a few minutes pulled into a tiny parking lot at the crest of the hill, where an observation point overlooked the San Fernando Valley.

It was quiet up here, warm and a little breezy. There were three picnic tables in the shade beneath some low overhanging branches. A Hispanic couple sat at one table, talking quietly in Spanish while listening to cheerful, accordion-laced Mexican music on a portable radio. We sat at another, some distance away, and I took the bench across from Val before unwrapping my sandwich.

A small gray lizard sunned itself on a concrete walkway, and I was reminded of poor Grace and the reptile house. Thinking back on everything that had happened since last night, I felt a little lost.

“Ma’am?” I said.

“Yes?”

I struggled to find words, and heard myself speaking in a submissive voice, unconsciously testing the water. “Do you have any instructions for me while you’re gone?”

The unspoken question was: Am I still your doll, or something else?

She heard it too, and answered me just as obliquely, in a softer tone than that of Keeper.

“I recall Milton saying something about an art show. Weren’t you supposed to create a few more images?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Again, the doll.

“Relax, dear. I know I’ve kept you rather busy these last few weeks. Now would be the time to make some headway.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” I said familiarly, in a deliberately non-doll tone. Another test of the uncertain waters.

“Milton is very fond of you, and he’s well-connected. He can help you go far, if you apply yourself.”

It appealed to me, the idea of creating art that would be seen and appreciated as my own, not just blending invisibly into someone else’s movie.

“You know, Val, I hadn’t done anything artistic for a long time. Before meeting you, I mean. I guess you’re my Muse, huh? Thanks for getting me off my lazy ass.”

She appeared genuinely moved by this confession, and for a long moment simply gazed at me.

“I am many things to many people, Koishi. Some of them rather dreadful, to be honest. But you…” She paused again. “You’re the first to call me a Muse. It’s nice to know I can inspire something besides terror.”

This was the voice she’d used in the buildup to her April Fools’ joke: vulnerable, without guile. I felt a stab of doubt. But there was no punchline, and that warm, golden light peeked out of its hiding place. This time she was serious.

Val drew out her pocket watch, unclipped the short chain. She held it in her palm, coiled like a snake, and weighed her words.

“I want you to have this, for the times that I can’t be with you.”

I put down my sandwich, staggered; then I read a different meaning in her words and grew fearful.

“Oh my god, Val, you’re not leaving m—”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’ll only be a week or so. This is merely a gift of appreciation.”

“But I can’t take your watch. It’s really expensive. And it’s…well, it’s yours.” Meaning: part of you, not me.

“Listen well, doll.” The Keeper talking. Then, more gently, “After I left the Army I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was a professional domme for a while. Does that surprise you?”

In fact it did.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I have known many, many submissives in my life. All of them come afflicted with some inner itch they need scratched, in a place they can’t reach by themselves. They need someone like me to make the itch go away. Millie, Grace, Carly, Wayne…they’re all this way. Yes, I like the things they let me do, it keeps me from—it keeps me sane. But I’ve also grown to despise their single-mindedness, their naked need. Can you understand that?”

I nodded.

The Hispanic couple stood up and put the radio in their car, then began walking down the park path, away from us, joking and laughing. They hadn’t overheard us, they were simply moving on.

“You’re not like those people, Koishi. Yes, you have some unresolved issues with your parents, particularly your mother—”

That rocked me. Because I realized she was right. But she pressed on, yanking me out of my sudden introspection.

“—but that’s not why you give yourself to me, is it?”

I shook my head.

“No, Ma—Val. You know why I stay with you.”

“That is what I find so incomprehensible. Yet here you are. And so I want you to have this.” She pressed the watch into my hand, still warm with the heat of her body. Its chain slithered against my palm with a soft rattlesnake sound.

Val looked away, and watched a hawk ride a thermal which rose from the sun-warmed hillside, perhaps to hide her sudden intensity of feeling. I knew what it must cost her to say these things.

During the silence, I studied the watch with the gravity of one receiving a sacrament. Which, in a way, it was. The gold cover, the winding knob, the chain, all showed signs of long use, and realized I had no idea how to care for something so precious.

I gently opened the engraved cover with a snick, and marveled at the ornate, whisker-thin hands and slender roman numerals spaced about its ivory-colored dial. There was a name printed there, too: ELGIN. From the style of the thing I guessed it had been made in the early twentieth century.

I found it fascinating that my dark Keeper, who surrounded herself with the images of decay, energies of pain, would keep such a symbol of permanence and consistency so near her flesh, her heart.

“Val, it’s too much. I’m just gonna break this. What if I over-wind it or something?”

She turned back to me, took the watch, and held it in slender fingers. “You can’t over-wind it. Just turn the crown like this, until it stops, see? Do it every morning. To set the time, pull the crown and turn, then push it back down. Like so.”

She closed the front, and opened the back cover to show me the inner workings, a wonder of art and engineering. The burnished metal gleamed, a living thing of gears, one of them rocking back and forth quick as a hummingbird heart. “The mechanism is called an escapement. See these dimples, here on the top plate? There are seventeen jewels in there, little ruby bearings. They’re almost frictionless, and they never wear out. Have the watch cleaned every couple of years and it’ll last an eternity.”

I tried to imagine that constellation of gems, the strange metal and crystalline organs which animated such devices, and thought of Ticktock, the clockwork soldier of Oz.

She returned the gift to me. “Mind you keep the chain clipped to your belt loop. If I hear you’ve dropped that watch, I’ll whip you to an inch of your life.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, fighting the instinct to fall to my knees before her, so stern was her warning.

§

We stood beside each other at the weathered, painted rail, looking out over the San Fernando Valley. Directly below, the tree-covered hills sloped down to the valley floor, with expensive houses and swimming pools dotting the numerous ridges and canyons. Nearly ten miles away on the other side lay the Santa Susana mountains, stark in the unusually clear air.

From this angle, the entire valley between appeared more park-like than when one was down in it. The only real break in the foliage was the dozen or so office towers at Warner Center, mostly glass and metal. They gleamed dully in sunlight filtered by the even, opalescent cloud layer that had developed from the earlier contrails.

The pocket watch was a hard, smooth pressure against my thigh, reminding me of the strange new vantage point our relationship had reached.

I wanted to take Val’s hand, decided against it.

“It looks so tranquil from here,” Val said. “One would never suspect how fragile that tranquility is.”

It sounded like a confession.

“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked with a chuckle.

“One has only to read the news, or exercise a little imagination. We haven’t had a serious earthquake in a while, for one thing. Also, there are numerous groups who would thrive on a little chaos.”

“You mean like terrorists?”

“That’s a popular example.”

“You’re suggesting there are other dangers? Is this related to your work, Ma’am?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” There was the wall again, though her disclaimer wasn’t as stony as it had been in the past.

“Are you saying something is going to happen soon?”

“Dear, something is always about to happen. Things are happening. You simply don’t notice because of a concerted effort by some very creative, motivated people.”

I mulled that over. She continued:

“Have you ever read The Time Machine, Koishi?”

I thought back. “In high school. That’s where humanity splits into two species, right? One from the rich, I think, and the other from the working class. Eloi, and…Mur, Mor…”

“Morlocks. Correct. Pale, ugly things who live underground, tending the machines for so long they can’t bear sunlight.”

“Right, I remember. And didn’t the Morlocks…”

“Eat the Eloi? Yes. One can’t expect to lead a life of ease without some sort of payment. There’s no free lunch, after all.”

“What are you saying, Val?” I felt goosebumps on my arm, tried to rub them away. This was important.

“I’m not saying anything. We’re simply discussing an interesting book.” But of course that was a lie. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Val said lightly. She placed her hand on my cheek and kissed my forehead, as she had in my first weeks as a doll. But I lifted my head to kiss her boldly on the lips, out of a desire to hold onto the ground I’d won last night. She didn’t object.

“I suppose it’s time I took you home,” Val said. “I have to get ready for tomorrow.”

She took my chin in her hand. “Paint. Send me a haiku each day, by email. And spend some time with Grace while I’m gone. If you can get one good haiku out of that girl I’ll be greatly pleased.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, in automatic response to her instructions.

“Good girl.”

25     chamber

ON MY TENTH birthday I received a new bicycle; a beautiful, gleaming thing made of freedom and adventure. Dad put it together after the party, and I spent the remaining daylight riding up and down the street, thinking of all the places I’d go tomorrow. But that night came news that grandpa Julio was dying, and we drove to Bakersfield the following morning. I spent the next three days trapped in a world of hushed rooms, gloomy grownups, nothing to do…and no bike. It was torture.

I felt a similar pain now, with Val’s going away just at the moment of a breakthrough. I ached for her.

But there were also doubts, which thrived in her absence. Had she really, truly opened up, or was it just another of her mind games? Yet here was her watch, and I doubted she’d part with something so precious just for a prank.

I kept the watch on my nightstand when I slept, wound it upon waking, and wore it to work. I found myself taking it out now and then, fingering its engraved cover, recalling Val’s words and the strange journey we’d taken to reach this point.

And yet…unlike the amber pendant, which she had sent with a haiku—

inexorable
a golden suffocation
no longer fragile

—and which I still wore, the pocket watch felt alien. I was too aware of this foreign object in my body’s space, of its weight against my thigh. Holding it, I feared dropping it. I’ll whip you to an inch of your life, Val had warned.

Tuesday afternoon, in reference to that earlier haiku, I emailed this to Val:

unequivocal
a golden supplication
no longer veiled

Not nearly as good as hers. But I figured she’d get the connection. I received no reply.

Mercifully, work didn’t allow much time to mull on these matters, because during my absence a crisis had occurred on the Pretty Death Machine project. The studio heads at American Pictures had finally seen our finished shots with the robot girl’s razor-blade fingernails, and decided they didn’t like Mr. Pixelfucker’s Geigeresque direction for the effect. More sexy, less terminator, they said, and three weeks of work went down the drain because of an internal struggle on the client’s part. It didn’t matter that Bob was their own representative, or that we’d delivered exactly what he requested. Now it all had to be redone, and fast. At least we’d get to charge them a ridiculous amount of overage. More overtime for me. Yay.

It was a very busy week, which meant nights of arriving home at nine or ten, dead tired.

But this regimen had the effect of giving me vivid, strange dreams, and Thursday morning I awoke with the inspiration for the next painting, which I worked on the next two nights and most of the weekend.

For this image I mimicked the American Primitive style, tuned to about halfway between Grandma Moses and Edward Hopper. The location was a hill overlooking a valley, the air turned the color of butter with light of the afternoon sun. A distant hawk soared on a warm breeze.

On the left side of the painting was a tree, and coiled upon one of its branches was an albino Burmese python, quite large.

Like a fruit, an open pocket watch hung from the tree branch near the serpent, displaying a time of 3:35.

Swimming in the air beneath the tree was a golden koi, about three feet in length, angled upward as if preparing to nibble the watch.

On the right, and somewhat further back, was a Beatrix Potter-style rabbit sitting upright, watching the snake and koi with some anxiety. It held a shiny balloon by a string in its paw.

And across the bottom, printed upon a banner with curled ends, was the painting’s title: TEMPTATION.

Its frank surreality was intended to be a little unsettling. I’d aimed for a biblical flavor, enigmatic and raw. While only Val would truly understand the imagery, a viewer would have fun trying to decode all those vaguely ominous symbols. In fact, I had my doubts about the artistic merits of the whole, but at least I was being productive. Maybe I’d do better with the next one.

Sunday evening, when I’d finished, I emailed the image to her along with another haiku, in the same format as before.

irresistible
a golden fascination
no longer righteous

Again, no reply.

§

My phone bleeped at work the next morning. But it was mom’s number, not Val’s. Crap. I walked outside to take the call, and found a quiet spot between a couple of sound stages. Even though the day was still young, the air had already grown uncomfortably warm.

I steeled myself with a deep breath and answered the call.

“Hi, mom.” I said it with practiced cheer.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. I hated when she called me that, but asking her to stop would only start an argument, so I bit my tongue and counted to five. Then: “How’s dad?”

“He’s a little under the weather this week,” she said. Dad was always under the weather; but this was our code for he’s very ill. It was so hard to watch him suffer, especially when no one knew exactly what it was that had destroyed his health.

“Should I come visit?” More code. It was my way of probing the gravity of his condition. But thankfully mom said no, the new prescription was helping, and she’d let me know if things changed.

Then she complained about the weather, and the outrageous utility bill she got for accidentally over-watering the lawn. I let her rant.

Her next question was the one I dreaded most.

“You’re dating someone, aren’t you? You haven’t called in weeks. Tell me you’re seeing someone. One of those handsome actors at your work? Or maybe a rich producer. I’ll never understand why you stopped seeing that Brent.”

Marrying me to wealth would solve all of her problems in one stroke, and now I understood the reason for her call. In the light of dad’s declining health, she was growing desperate. I couldn’t blame her.

“No, Mom, stop,” I groaned.

There was no way I could tell her about Val. In fact, I didn’t know how to explain my relationship with Val to anyone, not even Trish, let alone my mother. My thoughts circled that black hole for a few moments, before coming back to find myself in the middle of a lecture.

“…Maybe if you wore nice blouses instead of tee shirts all the time. Used a little makeu—”

I wasn’t in the mood for this. “Okay, I did meet a guy named Paul at the mall. He’s half-Hawaiian…”

She took the bait, and I was spared for the moment. I led her on briefly before admitting he was just a tattoo artist, not at all wealthy or famous. Her disappointment was palpable. I begged off and managed to hang up before we had time to pick a fight.

But back at my desk, fresh doubt gnawed at me. What did I have with Val? Was there any hope of a happily-ever-after? She and I were far beyond the edge of any relationship map I knew, deep into the part labeled Here Be Dragons.

I was an only child, and not getting any younger. Pretty soon my parents would need a lot more financial help. I cursed under my breath, with the realization I was beginning to think like Mom.

It was a lucky thing Val was incommunicado, because this sudden pang of insecurity would have compelled me to call her for reassurance. Such things never went over well with Val. Dolls who started making demands ended up getting the boot.

But this wasn’t codependency, dammit. It was love, and she was the one with issues. Not me.

I took out the pocket watch and fingered it. For all my emotional investment in the woman, what did I know for certain about her? Nothing.

There had to be a way to learn something tangible about her, anything at all. So far my investigations had been in vain, but I still had a couple of leads I might explore. But where to start? Did I dare?

I had her work number, lightly encrypted, in my phone’s memory. But that was much too risky.

Millie and Grace didn’t know anything useful, I’d bank on that.

Milton did, though, and he genuinely seemed to want things to work out between Val and me. But he’d gone as far out on a limb as he could with the scrapbooks and his carefully worded fairy tale. Unless there was a real emergency, I didn’t dare ask him for any more information.

Brent? Maybe. But whatever it was they shared in the past, I had the odd feeling she held some dirt on him. If not exactly blackmail material, then perhaps an uncomfortable bit of information he’d prefer to keep private. I didn’t completely trust him not to tell Val I’d gone digging. So scratch that idea.

I thought back to the scrapbook, and the glimpses I’d had of her past. Military records? Business journals? I’d already done a lot of searches in that direction, without a breakthrough.

Shooting ranges? Not enough to go on.

Wait.

The photo shoot in the desert, with the pistol, and the slender male model. He’d also been in that nightclub photo, which suggested they’d hung out or dated a few times. If so, he might have learned a thing or two about her during those early wild days. And she’d never mentioned him, so they were probably estranged now, which made him a safer contact than Milton or Brent.

If I called the publisher…

And if they were still in business…

And if they kept any sort of records…

…they might have his phone number or email. Then I could pose as a talent scout, and ask him a few innocuous questions about the strange, pale girl with the gun.

I laughed at myself. This was starting to sound like a trashy paperback suspense novel. And I didn’t remember the name of the magazine.

But while working I tried to visualize the magazine page in my head. The publication had a one-word name, starting with a C. A catchy, slightly ominous name. A gun word, maybe, or something dungeon-y.

I considered calling Milton’s house. If he answered I would hang up. But if Josie answered, I might sweet-talk her into finding the scrapbook and getting the name of the magazine. No, best to avoid that if at all possible. Too much risk of exposure with Milton.

Chimera. Camera. Camelot. Camphor.

I couldn’t stop mouthing the words. It was right there on the tip of my brain. A dark word, with multiple meanings.

Carbine. Camouflage. Chameleon.

This would drive me nuts.

When Carl called us to dailies, I sat in the dark screening room watching the latest footage with glazed eyes, totally lost in my memory game, a million miles away. Cancer. Canker. Cambrian.

I didn’t even notice Carl calling my name until he waved a hand before my face.

“Huh?” I said.

“Perhaps you’d care to give us your expert opinion of this shot, Miss Paz?” Carl said, more amused than annoyed.

“Oh, sure.”

God damn, I’d be glad when Pretty Death Machine was done. The show had been trouble from day one, and Mr. Pixelfucker had caused most of our pain. But this time, amazingly, it wasn’t his fault.

It was a fix-it-in-post problem, totally unexpected, and not part of our original bid. This close to our deadline, we could charge them an arm and a leg, and they’d have to grin and bear it.

Carl gave me a brief rundown on the shot, a dramatic over-the-shoulder angle of the film’s heroine, cocking the huge revolver she held aimed at the assassin robot’s pretty head. A killer shot except for one thing: a shadow obscured the butt-end of the large-caliber bullet sitting in the gun. So they wanted us to track the camera and the gun, roto out the hammer, and composite a shinier bullet into the hole. And, while we were at it, could we please add a nice specular glint just to make sure the audience saw it? Though tedious, it wasn’t an especially difficult shot, but it had to be done by 9am tomorrow morning. The director had decided the fate of the movie depended on this one stupid bullet glittering like a star in the chamber of that big gun.

Chamber.

That was it. Chamber. The name of the magazine.

It took a moment to collect myself and assure Carl that I could get the shot done by that afternoon, plenty of time for a revision or two before the end of the day. Satisfied, he told me where to find the scanned frames on the network and sent me back to my desk.

I did an internet search on chamber art underground magazine while waiting for the 2D tracker to solve the match-move on the bullet shot. In five minutes I had what I needed. The magazine, based in San Francisco, had gone out of business a few years ago, but I found a phone number and the name of the former editor-in-chief.

When lunch rolled around I found myself eating a Caesar salad under an umbrella on the cafeteria patio. I held my phone, poised on the edge of action. Surely no one would answer, and even if they did, they couldn’t possibly still have records from a fifteen-year-old photo shoot.

The knowledge that this was a wild goose chase made me brave. I dialed the publisher’s number and began counting the ten rings I’d wait before hanging up.

On the fifth ring, a man picked up.

Amazingly, it was the editor himself, not a secretary. He had a friendly, unusual voice spiced with a hint of James Earl Jones’ warm oboe-vowels and marimba-smooth consonants. Although Chamber was defunct, he still had several other magazines going. I got the impression these were small, low-budget affairs where he did a lot of the work himself. Five minutes later, after a little flirting and a few creative lies, I had the model’s name and the phone number of his talent agency: Gabriel Lee, represented (at the time) by Angie Westerling Models right there in San Francisco.

On impulse I asked about the girl who’d posed with Gabriel, as casually as I could.

“Oh, I remember her all right,” the editor said. “Name started with a V. Vera? No, that wasn’t it. Anyway, crazy girl. Funny thing about her, though, she wasn’t a model, just a girlfriend who came with him to the audition. She had an interesting look going on, so we asked if she’d be interested in doing the shoot. She signed the releases, and bam.”

His voice took on a strange, almost nostalgic tone. “That girl had a way of handling a gun like it was a part of her. We joked about it afterward, that maybe she was a hitman for the mob, or something. It was just a vibe she had.” He chuckled.

I wanted to ask more but decided not to push it, so I thanked him for his time, and hung up.

My unexpected breakthrough gave me chills, despite the hot, dry noontime air. I might actually get in touch with this guy, I realized and felt a stab of…fear? Did I really want to pursue this?

§

I had a first revision of the shot done by four-thirty and decided to take a break. As I paced outside in the shade between sound stages 4 and 5, I dialed the Westerling agency and learned from the woman there that Gabriel Lee hadn’t worked for them in five years, and was considered inactive. But with a little wheedling I managed to get a phone number out of her.

That one was out of service, but the system gave me a new number for Gabriel Lee. With a pounding heart, I took a few deep breaths and tapped it out.

“Hello,” said a man on the other end of the phone. It was a dark, clear voice, like a subdued metal guitar. Deeper than I expected.

I gathered my wits and launched into my rehearsed opening.

“Hi. Is this Gabriel Lee?”

“The one and only.”

“I understand you did a photo shoot for Chamber magazine about fifteen years ago, with a woman named Valeria Stregazzi.”

“Val? Yeah. We were dating, actually.” His tone was somewhat amused, but otherwise unreadable. “What’s this about? Are you with the police?”

Police? Good god.

“Oh no…nothing like that,” I blurted, unprepared for the sudden change in direction.

He chuckled wryly. “You’re either the world’s worst detective, or the best. What’s your name?” Not a challenge, but he wasn’t pussyfooting around.

I hesitated, realizing the conversation was getting out of hand. “Uh…” I dithered, then abandoned secrecy. “Koishi. I swear I’m not a detective or anything.”

“Let me guess. You’re a friend of hers. A lover.”

“Yes.” It was a relief to be frank with him.

“And I suppose she sent you to check up on me.”

“Kind of,” I lied, then backtracked. “Well, not exactly.” God, I sucked at this.

“Val does enjoy her head games. All right, I’ll play along. What do you want?” Finally, real candor.

“I guess I want to know what she was like back then. She doesn’t talk about herself, and I really care about her. I just want to know if she’s…if there’s anything…”

“You want to know if she’s crazy.”

“Yeah.” It felt like a betrayal.

He gave a quiet sigh. “I loved her. Or thought I did, you know? But it didn’t work out. Maybe she’s mellowed since then. I sure hope so.” There was old pain in his voice, scarred-over desire.

Very likely Gabriel was the young man of Milton’s fairy tale: the spurned lover who lacked the magic gem needed to unlock her heart.

“You probably know this already, but Val’s a very kinky girl,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered, almost a whisper.

“I mean really kinky. Once she handcuffed me to the bed and fucked me holding a loaded gun in my mouth. I thought I was going to die. You know what she said afterward? ‘That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever done.’ I bet she never mentioned that.”

Silence, as I absorbed this new intelligence. Then:

“I figured you’d wanna know. Look, I have to go. Good luck with Val—you sound like a nice girl and you’ll probably be fine. Just don’t ever cross her. She has a real temper, as you probably know already. Goodbye.”

Click.

§

Around six o’clock that evening, Carl and I sat down to review a shot when Shelley buzzed to say two men were here to see him. My boss excused himself, and I went back to working on the shot.

But as I prepared to go home a half hour later, Carl waved me into his office.

“Those men were from Bulldog Security. Seems one of their employees stopped showing up for work last week, and they found he’d been surfing porn on company computers. Nasty stuff. I mentioned it to Shelley when they left, and she says you had some issues with Mr. Deen, too.”

“Tyler? He was a creep, yeah.”

“Well, he’s been terminated. They were here to assure me it wouldn’t happen again, but I think they’re spooked by his disappearance. Worried what else he might have been up to, and doing damage control. Is there anything I should tell them? Or the police?”

“Not really. Shelley thought he was screwing with my security badge on purpose. I never had any issues with it until he started working here. Oh—and he might have touched my ass once in line at the cafeteria.”

“And you didn’t report him?” Carl demanded.

My cheeks felt hot. “It seemed like an accident at the time, I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to cry wolf.”

“Dammit, K, you should have told me! I would have kicked his ass. At least he’s gone now. Just promise to keep your eyes peeled, okay? I don’t want to lose my star compositor to some nutjob with a machine gun.”

Carl wasn’t the most diplomatic person alive, but his concern would have been a comfort, if his words hadn’t filled me with a sudden sense of peril. Maybe I should talk to the police. Better safe than sorry.

But then I recalled mentioning him by name to Val, that night on the pier. She hadn’t seemed to pay attention, but it might have been an act.

Oh Jesus. Had she tracked him down while I was away in Houston? What if he really was just a harmless creep, and my offhand comment had put him in her sights? Given what I’d learned about Val since that day, there were a hundred dooms she could visit upon him, as well as planting incriminating evidence on any computer he touched. If that was so, would the trail lead investigators to my Keeper?

The unknowns were staggering. Maybe he was a psycho, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Val had framed him, or roughed him up, or killed him, and maybe she hadn’t.

Carl noticed my distress, and offered to walk me to my car. I let him.

How safe it was to know Val?

26     instructions

BLURSDAY (NOUN) 1. A day which cannot be distinguished from any other. 2. The state of profound mental exhaustion producing this confusion, caused by working many twelve-hour days with no time left for anything but eating and sleeping. 3. Koishi Paz’s mental state near the end of the Pretty Death Machine project.

§

We were supposed to finish PDM on Friday, but like the terminatrix of the title, the project just wouldn’t die. The director added another three shots at the last minute, and we had no choice but to accept the extra work, or risk pissing off the studio and lose out on future projects. Hollywood is very much built on people scratching each others’ asses.

As a result, I ended up working long shifts and well into that weekend, too. In a sense it was a mercy, as there wasn’t time to pursue my sleuthing or dwell on my disquieting conversation with Gabriel, or the unknowns surrounding Tyler. But the endless grind took its toll on me, and by the end I was utterly exhausted, unable to tell one day from another.

On Sunday, when the last shot had been finaled, Carl stood behind my chair and gave me a badly needed shoulder massage. As I melted under his strong hands he said, “Thanks for all your hard work, Miss Paz. We couldn’t have done this job without you.”

Miss Paz. Was he flirting with me? I imagined the two of us tangled in bed, his body just as craggy and no-nonsense as his face. The idea was so strange it made me chuckle. No, he was simply as tired as the rest of us, and the hard-ass exterior had temporarily softened. And maybe he was still feeling protective, in light of Tyler’s odd disappearance.

“Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo. Take the day off. In fact, take the whole week off and get some rest. We won’t get plates for Hammer Fall until a week from Friday, so there’s not much to do anyway.”

My work-ethic muscle clenched. “The whole week? I can’t—”

“Unless you really want to do those shots for Pony Story.” Pony Story was a dreadful kid’s movie in deep financial trouble, and the completion bond company which had assumed control didn’t care how the shots looked, just so long as they were done and under budget. Bond company work was thankless, unrewarding, poison on your demo reel.

“No, thank you,” I admitted. The fact was, I really needed a week off.

“Rony and Ryan can bang those shots out in a couple of days, so we’re square here. Go home. Relax. You’ll need it for Hammer Fall.” I didn’t doubt that. Hammer Fall’s director was known for being extremely demanding.

I thanked him and spent a half hour tidying up my files on the server, hands shaking from fatigue and four cups of coffee.

Carl announced he was taking the whole crew out for drinks at the Japanese-Thai sports bar across the street. Several coworkers unsuccessfully tried to guilt me into coming along, but I declined. All I wanted was home-food-sleep.

I grabbed my stuff, said my goodbyes, and stepped out of the dim office into warm afternoon sun. It felt strange to be going home in broad daylight, work all done, reminiscent of the last day of school before summer break. I wearily climbed the three flights of stairs in the studio’s vast parking garage. By the time I reached my car I had begun to sweat. The guard at the gate waved absently as I pulled out of the lot and turned toward the Hollywood Freeway.

It was even hotter, ten minutes later, as I descended into the San Fernando Valley and saw what looked like a war zone. A pall of smoke lay upon the valley, obscuring the far hills. Brush fires had raged in Malibu the last few days, but a strong wind from the south west had stoked them to new furies, causing the loss of dozens of multi-million-dollar homes. When I merged onto the westbound Ventura Freeway, the sun became a baleful red eye glaring through thick, acrid air.

By the time I reached my exit I was bone-tired and melancholy from the apocalyptic tableau, with only enough energy to order a burger and fries from a drive-thru.

Seen in sunlight for the first time in days, the condo felt alien. I found a message on the answering machine. It was Paul just saying hi, in a nice and unstalkerish way.

I turned on the AC, then plopped onto the leather couch and ate in a daze, with the TV turned to a random news channel. Several minutes passed before I rose from my trance to realize I did not share these political analysts’ fascination with McCain’s health records, nor Obama’s chances in the upcoming Indiana and North Carolina primaries. But the other channels were no better, so I shut off the TV and ate in silence.

The clock on the microwave said 5:45pm as I threw away the wrappers and put the unfinished soda in the mostly-empty fridge.

Should I check my email? Screw it, I thought, I’m going to bed.

§

Of course I was wide awake at 3am, my circadian rhythm hopelessly trashed by my crunch time at work.

The heat didn’t help, either. Here in the valley one couldn’t live without some cooling, but oh, the cost. I avoided using the AC as much as possible, preferring to suffer rather than pay a big utility bill. I blamed my mom for infecting me with that aversion.

After thirty minutes I rose from my tangled sheets to make iced tea, then powered up the computer. I sat in its pale glow, in my underwear.

To my delight there was an email from Val, about two hours old. It bore no identifying subject line, only her phone number. It had been sent from her cell phone. I clicked on it eagerly.

Forgive my brevity, time presses. Send me a haiku. Wrapping up here soon. Expect instructions. --V

It wasn’t much, but I was thrilled to get even this brief message.

Send her a haiku, hmm? I closed my eyes and sifted through the loam of my subconscious, searching for anything which might resonate with Val. After a few minutes I had it, and sent a short reply:

Val,

I miss you. Here is your haiku.

dirty brown smoke pall
leaping flame consumes the hills
mansions taking flight

Koishi

I had started to type a question about Tyler, but backspaced it into oblivion—better to ask her in person. I hit SEND.

To my astonishment, I received an almost instant response, in the form of another haiku:

rolling into sky
the blackened remains of wealth
becoming honest

-- V

§

Expect instructions, she had said. The more I thought about that, the greater my sense of unease. Those two simple words were a chisel in my mind, chipping away at the joy I was saving for her return. Val had a history of coming back from stressful business trips with a sharpened appetite. The tenor of her last message only increased that anxiety.

But she’d given no clue as to when I should expect such instructions, so I left my computer running that day, with an audible alarm set for incoming emails.

The day turned out to be a wash. I lazed about, watched television, even tried to lose myself in a book, and failed. I ate half a carton of English toffee ice cream before napping off the ensuing sugar crash. Finally I went to see Iron Man at the theater, desperate for anything to take my mind off Val’s message.

That evening I considered asking Paul out to dinner, but guilt stopped me. I’d have been terrible company anyway.

And no word from Val that whole day.

§

My computer chime woke me from a restless sleep, just past 1am Tuesday morning. Val’s instructions. What timezone was she in, anyway?

It read:

My little koi,

Tonight you will dress well; that little black dress from the jazz club should do nicely. A car will fetch you at seven o’clock. No need to bring anything with you. Do exactly as you’re told.

If for any reason you cannot make this engagement, email me as soon as possible. Otherwise I expect you to follow my instructions to the letter, and behave in a way that reflects well upon me.

—Val

Again, with the cars.

I felt a familiar roller-coaster drop in my gut. And a closer reading failed to find any hint suggesting she’d even be there, wherever there was. Her wording actually suggested the opposite.

It was galling. Just when I thought I’d won a beachhead in her heart, she lay new obstacles in my path. I yearned for the inner Val, the little betrayed girl, not the woman of stone. How long could this continue?

Unexpected tears traced cool tracks down my face. Nothing had changed. Everything was for naught.

I didn’t want to go. I wouldn’t go. But neither could I bring myself to send her a refusal.

§

All that day I dithered, and waited. When the time came, I found myself on the couch in that little black dress, all made up for the third time, tears having destroyed the first two attempts. In my hand I clutched a little beaded purse with only my keys inside.

The intercom buzzed, and I rose to answer it. A man at the front gate said, “Your ride is here, Miss.”

“I’ll be right down,” I said and switched off the intercom. I smoothed my dress, feeling more than a little afraid.

I locked the door and carefully descended the steps in my heels, as if to an execution.

27     masks

A WHITE LIMO with dark windows waited for me at the gate. The driver offered polite greetings as he opened the rear door and helped me in, before hustling around the car to get behind the wheel.

Through the tinted window I caught sight of white-haired Mr. Murphy watching from his second-story balcony in unit 3. Even when I caught him ogling me, the creep never bothered to avert his gaze, as if old age entitled him. A hot breeze stirred his thin hair. With those dark eyes and papery skin he resembled a featherless hatchling in its nest, waiting for mommy bird’s next partially-digested meal. Disgusting.

I wasn’t terribly surprised when the driver turned in his seat and handed me a blindfold, the kind people wear when they sleep during the day: a soft black raccoon mask with no eye holes, held in place by an elastic band. The driver’s kind yet firm expression left no doubt about my compliance. He appeared to have done this sort of thing before. Well, so had I. This was a favorite game of Val’s.

Still, I hesitated to put it on, partially out of fear Mr. Murphy might somehow see me though the tinted window. Just to be safe, I turned my face away from the window as I slipped it over my eyes.

The engine started and we pulled away from the curb, as cold air began to blow from an air conditioning vent. It raised goosebumps on my bare arms, until I found the vent with my fingers and closed the vanes.

I knew my neighborhood well. Judging by our stops and turns I guessed the driver had taken the eastbound 101, the direction away from Val’s house. In that case I had no idea where this car was taking me.

We traveled at a good clip for a few minutes, before hitting slow-and-go traffic that might have been the 405 interchange. He didn’t take that ramp, but continued eastward. Higher speed, then another slow patch, and ten minutes later we descended from the freeway to wait at a light, before turning right. Probably somewhere in Studio City. I didn’t think we’d gone as far as North Hollywood.

Next came five minutes of surface streets giving way to a gradual rise, with twisty turns. Coldwater Canyon Avenue, or maybe Laurel Canyon. Both roads snaked up and over the hills before descending into Beverly Hills or Hollywood, respectively.

But we never made it that far. After several minutes of winding roads at the top of the hills, the car made a final turn before coming to a halt. The engine stopped. The driver said, “A moment please, Miss,” and got out, opened my own door and helped me stand.

The air here was cooler and fresher than it had been down in the Valley. We must have driven south, out from under the long smoke plumes spreading east from the fires. It was peaceful here. Instead of traffic I heard birdsong and the stirring of chimes in a eucalyptus-scented breeze.

The driver held my arm to guide me, still blindfolded, across a cobblestone driveway. He warned me to step up when we came to a landing. Without a another word I was given over to a second set of hands, and helped over a threshold.

A door closed behind me. I was led over a wooden floor into what sounded like a hallway, before we turned right and a door frame brushed my elbow. There was a rug in this room. Quiet baroque music floated on the air; Bach’s Sonata in G.

That person took my purse before guiding me to a sitting position on a chair…no, a couch. The act of sitting down while blindfolded, in a strange place, was scarier than I would have guessed.

“Wait here, please,” the person said. A woman, with a hint of a New York accent. Her footsteps retreated, a door closed, and I was alone. Or so I thought.

Should I remove the blindfold? She hadn’t said. I was desperate to see my surroundings. But I forced my hands to stay in my lap, afraid this was another of Val’s tests. She might be inches away and I wouldn’t know. My feeling of vulnerability was almost unbearable.

I wanted Val, not these games. This wasn’t how normal people reunite after a long separation. They wait in the airport terminal as their lover’s plane arrives, or sit on the porch listening for the car’s approach. They rush into each others’ arms and kiss, say tender things with lips and eyes and hands.

Val had killed these romantic notions with just two words: expect instructions. Damn her. Damn her insatiable appetite for tricks and torments.

But I couldn’t abandon the little girl in that photo, sitting grimly on a rusty swing. Not now, after so much progress. And if Val’s trials had grown more difficult, it only meant her defenses were crumbling.

Yeah, right. That hope had carried me far, but it was beginning to unravel.

I slowly took off the blindfold and set it on the cushion beside me. Only then did I risk a look around.

I found myself alone, in a long Edwardian drawing room that spoke of wealth. The walls were ochre, with green-and-gold floral trim around the top. I was sitting on one of two powder-blue couches arranged in an L around a Turkish rug. Much of the wall before me was taken up by a large, dormant fireplace.

A picture window at the far end of the room overlooked a garden rendered in Maxfield Parrish blues and oranges by the lowering sun.

I began to notice smaller details. Oil paintings graced the walls: a landscape, a few portraits. On an end table in the angle between the couches sat an antique lamp, and one of those miniature Zen rock gardens with sand, pebbles, and a toy rake no bigger than a fork.

The door through which I had come stood open. It was the kind which slides into the door frame, instead of turning on hinges. Warm incandescent light spilled from the hallway beyond, and I heard distant voices coming from that direction.

Presently the doorbell rang, followed by hushed greetings and the sound of footsteps on stairs. Where was Val? And what the hell was I doing here?

A minute later a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the room and stood before me. By the rhythm of her walk, I guessed this was the same woman who’d led me into the room earlier. She wore a shimmery white cocktail dress and matching patent heels. The most striking thing about her, though, was the sequined white Mardi Gras mask covering the upper half of her face. Her anonymity, and the line of her thin carmine lips, gave her a fierce but unreadable expression.

I averted my gaze when she noticed my missing blindfold. But she no gave no reprimand, only picked up the blindfold and motioned me to stand, which I did.

“What am I—”

“Shhh. Everyone’s arrived. Put this on.” She gave me a mask much like her own, but purple. When I’d slipped it on, she straightened it with her slender fingers and took my wrist, saying, “Come.” Her own hand was smooth, cool, with perfect French-tipped nails. I felt an old fear, that of a child being called into the doctor’s office.

She guided me out into the hall, to the foot of a large stained wooden staircase, which we climbed. The lacquer on the railing was so perfectly smooth it stuck to my sweaty palm. There was a hall at the top of the stairs, and I was urged toward the first open door, through which could be heard the buzz of lively conversation.

A hush fell upon the scene as we entered, broken only by the sound of our heels on the hardwood floor, and the clink of ice cubes. I noticed the heavy reek of a cigar. This new room was darker, about thirty feet square, with crimson wallpaper suggestive of vampires, and rich velvet curtains that admitted no sunlight.

I saw four people sitting in a rough circle, facing the center of the room. Those four pairs of eyes regarded me from behind masks of different colors. Three well-dressed men sat in armchairs, and a woman in a midnight-blue evening gown reclined on a couch. A covered lamp on the table beside the couch softly illuminated the scene, its light tracing the calligraphic curve of the woman’s bare shoulder.

Far brighter, however, were the halogen spotlights aimed at a rug in the center of the circle. It was here the first woman made me stand, with a whispered command to stay, before moving out of the dazzling circle of light, back toward the door we’d just passed through. I blinked under the glare, and clasped my shaking hands in front.

The men held drinks in their hands, and one puffed on the cigar I had smelled. The woman in the evening gown sat at an angle, with her back against the arm of the couch and her legs crossed, dangling over the side. Their combined gaze felt like ghostly hands touching my body. I shivered.

When my eyes adjusted and revealed the darkened corners beyond the glare, what I saw there made me gasp.

I recognized Val immediately, despite the gloom and her blood-red mask: pale as a ghost in her vest and tweed pants, sitting on a love seat. And the young woman at her feet, in the black sweater dress, could only be Grace. Her matching black mask gave her a cat’s inscrutability. I guessed the cocktail she held in her hand was Val’s.

I heard the door close behind me.

Val studied me with the glowing eyes of a predator waiting just beyond the campfire’s light.

“And here she is,” announced the woman with the white mask, referring to me. She pointed to me and said, “Turn around.”

I looked pleadingly to Val, but her only reply was a narrowing of the eyes behind her mask. Do it.

So. This was to be a game of humiliation.

I turned obediently, stumbling once when my heel caught the rug. After a complete turn, I saw Grace offer Val the drink, which she savored with a practiced sip.

“She’s fresh meat, obviously, and very pretty,” said the first woman, with the white mask. “The bidding starts at one thousand for an hour with this exotic Asian beauty.”

That took a moment to process. Bidding? An auction? My knees almost gave out. I would do—had done—much as a down payment for Val’s trust, but this was way out of bounds. That’s when I knew it had to be a game, because such things are totally illegal. Even so, I was livid.

“She’s thinner than your last, Red. Feeding them less these days?” asked a man behind me, with an accent I couldn’t place; Eastern Europe, or maybe Russia. I turned to see who was speaking. It was the man with the green mask, and the cigar. He had thick lips I didn’t like.

The first woman snapped her fingers. “Eyes down and forward,” she told me. Then she rose to fetch something, and it turned out to be the blindfold I’d worn earlier. The last thing I saw before the velvet-black descended was Val’s inscrutable gaze, and Grace’s triumphant smile.

“Ah, we have a thousand,” White said, but I didn’t know who had made the first bid. “Do I hear fifteen hundred?”

“Hmm, too much, I think,” said another man, “for a girl who lacks discipline.”

From the corner, Val said huskily, “And here I thought you’d enjoy a spirited girl, Gray. A chance for a bit of whip-work.” This seemed as much a warning to me as a goad to him.

I was already fleeing in my mind’s eye, running down the steps and through the door, out onto the street where I’d wave down a passing car. But I couldn’t take that first step. This was all a big prank, and I wouldn’t let her win so easily. I almost wanted to see how far she’d take it. And when this was over I’d make her pay, oh yes.

I heard someone rise and walk close, before a hand firmly grabbed my breast. I pulled away. My defiance sparked quiet laughter among the others. “Fifteen hundred,” he said.

“Thank you. Do I have two thousand?”

When a finger traced my lips I protested, and received a slap for the outburst. Growling, I started to remove the blindfold until someone caught my wrist and held it tight.

This was getting way out of hand.

When I tried to pull free, several hands held me and handcuffed my wrists in back, before pushing me off the rug and down onto the couch. I started to cry at their rough handling, hot tears wetting the blindfold. Someone chuckled derisively.

Now I believed this wasn’t a charade. Who were these people? I had long suspected Val worked for the mob, and this seemed to confirm it. My anger melted into fear.

“Let me go,” I pleaded, mostly to Val. “Please don’t—”

Another slap, this one hard enough to make me cry out.

“Quiet!” snapped the woman with the white mask. I stopped crying, more out of shock than ordered calm. “Two thousand, anyone…ah, yes. Thank you. Do I hear twenty-five hundred?”

I scarcely heard what followed.

When I drew my knees up into a fetal position, hands firmly pushed them back down. It was terrifying, humiliating. If I’d had a gun I could have shot everyone in the room, including Val.

Finally the bidding was over. Someone—the man whose breath smelled of cigars, Green—pulled me to my feet. It was hard to rise, with my arms locked behind my back. He placed a leather collar around my neck and clipped on a light chain, where it briefly dangled, supple and cold, against my sternum. Then the chain went taut and I was pulled close to him.

“If she is not all you say, I expect my four grand back,” he chided in his Slavic accent.

From the corner, Val laughed. “You wound me, Green. When have I ever disappointed you?”

“Val!” I wailed, but a sharp jerk of the chain choked me to silence, and I nearly fell. With the leash in one hand, and his other on my arm, he guided me toward the hallway.

Behind, I heard a sharp clap clap and Val said, “You’re next, pet. Hop to it.”

On any other day I would have cherished Grace’s disbelieving wail.

§

I spent the next ten minutes sitting on a bed somewhere on the second floor of that house. The man had tied the leash to something, probably the bedpost, and warned me to stay put, before leaving the room himself. A clock ticked somewhere behind me in that dreadful stillness, and muted voices floated from the other room. I thought I heard Grace crying. Then, people leaving. The house fell silent.

I had clung desperately to the hope this was all a joke, but it was too elaborate, there were too many participants, for me to truly believe it. People could go to prison for this kind of thing.

I hated Val. I hated her endless appetite for tormenting me. No matter how ravenously she fed, it was never enough, something worse always lurked in that evil brain. With each new degradation, I’d told myself it was simply the Ferryman’s coin, the necessary price of passage to Val’s lonely isle. But just as I gained that shore, she had tossed me aside, made me a whore.

This was unbearable.

The door snicked open and shut again, and I heard a rustle of cloth in that direction, the sound of breathing. I suppressed a whimper. If not for the cuffs I’d have ripped off the blindfold long ago.

He came close and stroked my cheek. I turned my head away with a growl. The hand traveled down my neck, my breast, my belly, before coming to rest on my bare leg.

I could kick him; I had a good idea where his crotch was. My leg actually tensed with temptation. But what would it gain me, handcuffed like this? His hand, flat on my left thigh, slipped upward, beneath the hem of my dress.

I resolved not to cry, but at his touch between my legs I did anyway, a ragged sound forced from me by dark despair. It was too much, too much.

Then the hand withdrew, and I didn’t know where he was, or what would happen next. I flinched and cried out at the touch of hands at my neck, but they were only removing the leash. Then the blindfold went away. I blinked away the sudden, blinding light and blurring tears.

It was Val who stood before me. We were alone in that room. She was unmasked, and her expression spoke of total satiety. It had been a game, after all.

She smoothed my hair and lifted my chin, then bent to lick away my tears. I felt sick, as if in total free fall. Val pulled a key from her pocket and turned me slightly in order to release the cuffs. I didn’t resist.

She put the open cuffs on a nightstand and turned back to me. She stood with her arms uncharacteristically at her sides, rather than with hands on hips. It made her seem unguarded, open.

As she regarded me with her gray-green eyes something broke loose inside me. And then I attacked her, slapping her hard again and again, sending her white hair flying with the force of my blows. I was dimly aware of my hands stinging, as I screamed out all my rage in one long, incoherent sound.

And she took it.

My assault forced her back against a dresser with a loud thump, knocking over a plastic bottle of lotion that had been resting on top. After a dozen blows I stood before her, gasping, murder in my eyes.

Val regarded me with a reverence I couldn’t process. There were angry hand prints and a scratch on her face. Blood welled from a split lip, bright as a rose petal on white silk.

“I hate you,” I hissed.

She made no answer, but only looked at me through the strands of hair that had fallen over her face.

But I wasn’t finished yet.

“You are one messed up bitch, you know that? I gave you everything! I loved you!” I sobbed. “But you just can’t handle that. Well, I’m sorry you had a shitty life, Val, but I’m not doing this any more. I’m done! I’m just fucking done!”

My shouts rang loud in that enclosed space. I steeled myself for her counterattack, but none came. The moment dragged out to the breaking point, marked only by the quiet tick of the clock.

At last Val nodded humbly. “I’m not a well person, as you know. I’m the first to admit it.” She wiped blood from her chin, studied it, then sucked it from her finger. “But I do care about you, believe it or not.”

“I don’t believe anything about you any more,” I spat.

Dizzy with rage I stormed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door into the gathering dark. No one intervened, and I sensed we had been alone in the house. Val’s was the only car in the driveway.

The night air was warm and still. Fragrant eucalyptus leaves crunched underfoot as I found the switch for the driveway gate and stomped into the sloped, tree-lined street. This was a wealthy neighborhood where the houses were large and far apart. I looked both directions for the nearest yard lights, and decided to go uphill, to the left. From there, I could call a cab, or maybe even the police.

But then I was bathed in cool blue headlights. Val drove up in her electric car, slowing to roll beside me as I trudged down the street. She leaned across to speak through the passenger-side window. “Let me take you home, Koishi. Please.”

“Fuck you.” I didn’t stop walking, but she kept pace, tires crunching on pavement.

“I just want to see you home safely. No more games, I won’t even talk. And you forgot this.” She held up my purse, shaking it so I could hear my keys rattling inside. In my fury it had slipped my mind entirely.

I reached in and yanked the purse out of her hand.

“Please, Koishi.”

I heard genuine contrition. I didn’t really care, but being lost miles from home without money, a phone, or ID left me few alternatives.

Val pressed a switch and the passenger-side door unlocked. After a brief hesitation, I got in and slammed the door shut, but refused to look at her.

“Seat belt,” she said quietly as she made a U-turn. I ignored her. Let the police give her a ticket.

On the way back down the twists and turns of Laurel Canyon, my right middle finger began to hurt. The nail had broken in my attack. My wrists still ached from the metal bite of the handcuffs. I knew I was a wreck, even without a mirror to check.

Val drove in silence, true to her word. In that vacuum I thought of all the time we’d shared, the tears I’d shed, the thrills and humiliations. All of it suddenly a cruel joke. I wanted to vomit.

Ten minutes later on the westbound 101 we hit a wall of somber taillights, as traffic jammed just before the 405 interchange. The start-and-stop crawl was a torment. I just wanted to be home, far away from this woman and everything she represented. In the tiny, still car my sniffles were painfully loud. But when Val offered a tissue, I angrily brushed away her hand. That same hand had held a loaded gun in Gabriel’s mouth, years ago.

I would never, ever be a doll again.

§

Val parked by my front gate. I sat with my fingers on the door handle, my wrath having finally cooled into resolve. The odor of smoke lent a note of finality to this moment. This was our parting, and it seemed to require the sacrament of last words.

“I tried Val, I really did,” I said, wiping tears. “I’m sorry.”

I climbed out and shut the door. Val stood too, and regarded me soulfully from across the car. So many words piling up, yet none would come.

It was time to go. I climbed the short flight of steps to the gate.

But as I fumbled with my keyring, it fell into the flowerbed beside the intercom. “Crap,” I muttered, and after a minute of searching I still couldn’t find it.

Then Val came up to the gate to help, and shined her little key fob flashlight where I was looking. The brilliant white LEDs made the flowers glow unnaturally in the still night air. In another minute I found my keys and stood up, uncomfortably aware of Val’s proximity.

“Goodbye, Val.”

She carefully didn’t touch my cheek, though I knew she wanted to. “Goodbye, little koi.”

I unlocked the gate and passed through, making sure it didn’t slam shut and wake Mr. Murphy.

“I don’t really hate you, you know,” I said, as I turned around.

“Thank you.”

Crickets chirped, and I let the gate close slowly before turning away.

“Let me buy you a drink?” she asked, in a voice soft as a moth’s wing.

I stopped and looked at her through the metalwork of the gate. Was she serious? Her split lip was dark, almost black, in the soft upward glow from the yard lights.

“I…I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said at last.

“You’re right. But come anyway.” She looked like a completely different person. Humble.

“I can’t do this any more. I can’t.” My voice cracked.

“Then we’ll do it differently.”

I shifted my weight as emotions warred within me.

“I couldn’t, I look like hell.” So lame.

“Go inside and think about it. Clean yourself up. I’ll wait a little while in the car. Come back down if you like, but if not, then…” she paused to weigh her words, “…thank you and goodbye, Koishi. You’ll always be very special to me.” With that, she returned to her car and I heard bass begin to thump from within, the stereo’s light on her face.

Once upstairs I carefully clipped my broken nail, washed the blood, and applied a bandage. As I scrubbed off my streaked makeup I cried some more. Then I changed into sweats and made tea. Twenty minutes later Val’s car was still parked in front, and I felt a pang. You’re a fool, Koishi. It’s over. Let her go.

But as I slipped on jeans, I noticed the fake ice cube sitting dormant on my bookshelf. It had still worked when I tried it yesterday, all these months after the Christmas party.

I slipped Val’s watch into my pocket, then locked the door behind me. And, for the second time that night, descended those steps into the unknown.

part three

28     closure

VAL DROVE TO The Cheesecake Assembly, an upscale casual restaurant in Woodland Hills. It wasn’t exactly her kind of place, but it was close, and they didn’t take reservations.

Since the Nineties this part of the Valley had become a hive of office towers, in whose shadow lay apartment complexes aswarm with the suited drones who worked here. I saw dozens of those same drones doing the corporate mating dance as we entered the restaurant’s neo-Egyptian lobby.

Val added her name to the waiting list, and was given an electronic pager the size of a large drink coaster. Rather than wait in the lobby, we stepped into the small sports bar where, on a plasma screen high in one corner, the Dodgers were beating the Mets. A few eyes noted our arrival before returning to the game.

Val ordered a martini. I got a beer with an offbeat name designed to convince me it wasn’t actually owned by the largest brewery in America—which, Val pointed out, it was. We found a small table, and sat on stools so high one almost needed a stepladder to mount them.

“I didn’t think you’d come. Thank you,” Val said.

“I don’t know why I did. Closure, maybe,” I admitted.

Val nodded in resignation, her gray-green eyes now amber in the dim, warm light of the bar. “You’re hurt. Angry.”

“Don’t patronize me. Of course I’m angry, what did you expect? The first thing you do when you get back is treat me like a slu—like dirt,” I hissed.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been under enormous pressure at work.”

I’d heard that before. “Yeah, and just what is it you do exactly? Huh? The mystery thing was cute at first, but dammit, Val. I can’t live on secrets. I need more.”

“If there was any way I could be more forthcoming, I would. You have to believe that.”

“Is it a matter of national security? Please. I’m sick to death of your secret agent act.”

That earned me a glare. “You haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Everyone here,” she said with a brusque wave, “is living in a dream world. Be thankful you don’t know how fragile that dream is.”

In a movie, that would have been the start of an impassioned monologue, explaining all. But this was reality, and she was Val. No monologue.

Turning away in frustration, I gazed at the televised baseball game without actually seeing. Two tables away, a woman with bad Eighties hair and makeup stared at us. I imagined she was some unmarried middle-manager from Cornfield, Illinois, on a starry-eyed pilgrimage to the Home Office. I could guess her reaction to my recent lifestyle choices. Run along home, dear. You wouldn’t like the games we play in the big city. When I fearlessly returned her gaze she capitulated, and turned back to her associates.

Did Val see my own life from a similar vantage? Was I as blind to the true nature of the world? I recalled our discussion of Morlocks and Eloi two weeks before, and wondered what she’d been hinting.

But I was compelled to fire one last arrow.

“You have some messed-up friends, to play a stunt like tonight,” I said in a hushed voice. “Normal people don’t do that crap. They have book clubs. Barbecues. Tupperware parties.” I took a long swig of beer, holding the bottle carefully so as not to bump my throbbing, bandaged finger. “I should sue your asses, every one of you.”

She lowered her head slightly. “I misjudged your limits, and for that I’m deeply sorry.” Quite a different thing than saying the game was wrong, however.

With a jump, the pager started to blink and buzz on the table, describing the circle of a honeybee dance. When Val rose to return the pager to the front desk, I followed.

“There’s an open table out on the patio, if you don’t mind the air,” said the hostess, who tried not to stare at Val’s scratched face. We had no objection, so she led us through the restaurant to the covered patio in back.

The warm night air smelled of distant apocalypse, though not as much as before. Either the fires were being brought under control, or the wind had shifted. Our hostess gave us each a menu before describing the daily specials, with the tone of a stewardess reciting emergency procedures. And then she was gone.

I absently flipped through the oversized menu, not the least bit hungry. What was I doing here? I asked myself. Breaking up, I guess. Ending this.

Our waitress—her name tag said Ellie—brought glasses of water and took our order. I chose the soup of the day, having already forgotten what it was; something with lentils. Val got the Caesar salad. It felt strange not to order for her.

And then we were alone again, and the void between us yawned wide. On impulse, I drew her watch from my pocket and placed it on the table top between us, the chain making a cool, slithery pile. “I should give this back,” I said.

She pushed it toward me. “No. I want you to keep it, no matter what.”

But it had always felt alien, that watch. I couldn’t force myself to pick it up again, and wanted nothing more than for it to go away.

“No,” I said, after a moment’s contemplation. “It’s a part of you.” And not me, I didn’t say, but the idea was there. We were truly done.

For a moment her eyes burned, and then she was perfectly composed again. Her pale, slender hand took up the watch with feigned casualness.

Predictably, the meal was an uncomfortable affair.

“I am unaccustomed to begging, Koishi,” Val said quietly, after putting down her fork and touching the cloth napkin to her split lip, which had long ago stopped bleeding. “But…I’m willing to try a more conventional sort of relationship, if it means holding onto you.”

I nearly dropped my spoon in disbelief.

I pictured myself introducing Mom and Dad to this monstrous woman, declaring her my lover. They might get over the initial shock, but not the loss of their dream of grandchildren. It was tragic, darkly funny, and more than I could handle.

“Will you at least consider it?” she gently urged.

Here at last was the prize I’d sought for months. Val’s heart on a plate, but too late. I can’t do it, I thought. Why not? I sifted through my feelings as I looked out on the courtyard, a hollow space encircled by office towers, the parking structure, the Hilton hotel. Then I knew it wasn’t the little girl inside Val asking this of me, but her Guardian, falling on her sword for the sake of her fragile ward.

I sipped my drink and pretended to consider Val’s plea. “What about Millie? Grace? The others?” A touch of acid in my voice.

“What of them?” she asked, more out of surprise than defiance, and I realized she was flying blind, too. “Millie’s not a problem, she’s busy for the foreseeable future. Grace—well, I know someone who could take her in. There’s…no one else.” Her last admission had a note of desperation.

It was nothing less than unconditional surrender.

The pity I felt was dark, bitter, a little nauseating. Curiously, I saw that Val was not an especially pretty woman. Without the haughty Keeper act she seemed plain, hard-edged, a little sad. But when I recalled the marks on her body, a story told in cryptic runes of flesh, I felt guilty for abandoning her.

I seriously weighed her offer then, measured it against the pain and humiliations I had suffered at her own hands. At one time I had thought of them as achievements, trophies won by a special kind of intimacy. Now they just hurt.

No. I couldn’t do it.

“I’ll think about it,” I lied.

She nodded, understanding me perfectly. It was truly over between us.

And now that I had nothing to lose, and nothing to fear from this woman, I broached the question that had gnawed at me for a week.

“I want to know what happened to Tyler.”

“Pardon me?” She looked confused.

“The security guard I told you about, on the pier. He’s gone missing, and they fired him, too. I want to know what you did.”

I’d hoped the blind accusation would smoke her out. It failed.

“Ah. I vaguely recall you mentioning him, now that I think back on it. But I had nothing to do with his disappearance.” She said it so innocently I almost believed her.

“But—”

“Koishi, you called him a creep yourself. I’m sure he deserved whatever happened.”

That would have chilled me to the bone, if I’d had time to think about it. But just then her phone rang. “Yes?” she said, answering it.

A man’s voice, indistinct, probably someone from her work. He spoke for half a minute.

As she listened, her eyes focused on something far away.

“All right, Gordon, thanks for the heads-up. No, no, it’s okay. I’ll stay in touch. Goodbye,” she said, and hung up. Val flagged our waitress and handed her a credit card.

“Thank you for coming to dinner with me, Koishi. I apologize for having to cut this short.”

“What is it?” I said, with rising concern.

“A work matter,” she assured me.

“You’re lying. Tell me,” I demanded.

I thought she wouldn’t answer, but after a moment’s hesitation she said, “The fires have changed direction. My neighborhood was warned to prepare for evacuation.”

That rocked me. “My god, Val. Is there anythi—”

“No dear, I’ll be fine, but I face some difficult choices tonight. First, though, we must get you home.”

I wouldn’t hear of it. “Screw that, I’ll take the bus. Go do whatever you need to.”

I thought of the Bruegel painting of Hell she kept in her study, and how prophetic it might yet be.

Val smiled gratefully and put a twenty-dollar bill on the table before me. For cab fare, I guessed. In a benedictory voice she said, “Thank you, my dear Koishi. You have enriched me beyond words. Ta.”

And, after drawing stares by placing a lingering kiss on the top of my head, she left with a tip tap of heels on polished tile.

A dozen pairs of eyes watched her depart, only to flash back to me when she had gone; eyes bright with lurid imaginings that, no matter how scandalous, fell far short of the bizarre reality we’d created.

A reality now ended.

29     holocaust

WHEN WE DATED in college, Brent had been darkly amused by my inability to walk past a homeless person without giving them money, or to hang up on telemarketers without making a polite refusal first.

“You have too many mirror neurons,” he’d teased, then explained that empathy was the result of specific brain wiring, activated by our observations of others. “You’re a sucker for anyone with a sob story. It’ll be your undoing.” On the other hand, a massive deficit of mirror neurons was probably the reason for his own meteoric success in Hollywood.

It was maddening, the smug way Brent trivialized my feelings, shoehorned everything into the latest theory from Scientific American. In fact, his mechanistic view of life had been one of the reasons for our split, though I didn’t know it at the time.

But he might have been right after all, because Val’s plight gnawed at me. Even though I wanted nothing more to do with that relationship, I couldn’t stop worrying about her.

Apart from Milton, Val had no real friends I knew of, and in any event was far too proud to ask anyone for help. Despite being better prepared for catastrophe than most people, this would hit her hard.

I unlocked the front door and dumped my things on the kitchen counter. The phone rang, so unexpectedly it made me yelp. I let the machine answer, ready to pick up if it was Val. But it wasn’t.

“Hi Koishi, it’s Paul. How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope everything’s okay…” Damn you and your psychic thing, I thought, in the slight pause which followed. Was he expecting me to pick up? “Anyway, Speed Racer opens this weekend and I’d like to see it with you. My idiots-for-friends think it’s a kids’ movie, but of course you know better. You probably even worked on it, huh? No pressure, just call if you’re interested. Bye!”

I’d deal with that later.

For now, however, all I wanted was to curl up on the couch with a half pint of expensive ice cream and follow the fire’s progress on TV. But the fires had been headline news for so long everyone was numb to the story. Except for me, of course; I’d been living under a rock named Pretty Death Machine for weeks. No one was covering it live. I’d have to wait for the eleven-o’clock news.

§

Channel 11 played helicopter footage of wild flames climbing into the night, enhanced by elaborate 3D flyover graphics that were less informative, yet far more expensive, than a simple map. Channel 9’s report mentioned the threat to several communities, including Val’s, and warned those nearest the fire were likely to be evacuated over the next twenty-four hours, while others still had time to salvage their most important possessions.

I considered driving out to Val’s, to offer help, but thought better of it. I was willing to brave the police checkpoints, but I feared Val would simply turn me away, and I couldn’t bear that. Or was that merely an excuse? With a throb of guilt I put my car keys down, and tried her cell phone again. If she accepted my offer of help, I’d go.

One, two, three, four…a total of nine rings, before Val answered.

“You’d better have a good reason for calling…”

My heart stopped in a visceral response to the no-bullshit tone of command, before I realized it was that damned away-message, the one that always fooled me. I knew the next part, and said it along with her, “I look forward to hearing your explanation.” And as always, the harsh beep, an electronic slap daring me to speak.

I hung up, rendered mute by the challenge. And felt guilty about that as well.

Flogged by my own helplessness, I sipped wine and watched a sitcom on my DVR, hoping to untie the knot in my gut.

The wind picked up while I lay in bed, waiting for sleep. My potted plants on the balcony scratched at the sliding glass door. A neighbor’s wind chime sang a pentatonic dirge.

§

Time off from work is usually a welcome gift, but this time I missed having something to do. My next two days consisted of reading, eating, sleeping, watching the news, and letting my machine answer the phone. Outside, the air grew soupy with smoke, and burned my eyes and lungs whenever I went out.

On Thursday evening’s six o’clock news I caught a brief glimpse of fire claiming Val’s house. Flames obscured the structure, but I recognized the curve of that cul-de-sac, the loop of driveway within the gate. I wondered about the fate of the koi in her fish pond, and found myself rubbing the back of my neck where my own koi swam.

No sign of Val herself. The footage wasn’t live, so it might have been shot hours ago.

She wasn’t picking up the phone. Of course she was safe, right? Had she lost her cell phone in the fire? Not a chance; that phone was her lifeline. So either Val was ignoring everyone, or just me. Or something was seriously amiss. All three possibilities were equally troubling.

Damn it, I had to know if she was okay.

I used a map site to find the hotels and motels on that end of the Valley, close to Val’s house but safely beyond the fire’s reach. There were about a dozen. I started dialing.

“Thank you for calling Holiday Motel,” said a man with an Indian accent.

“Hi. Um, do you have someone named Val Stregazzi staying there? S-t-r-e—”

“No, Miss. There’s no one here with that name,” he cut in, a bit too abruptly. Maybe they had a policy against answering such queries. Or had Val told him not to take any calls?

“She’s a friend of mine. She just lost her house in the fire and I’m really worried. She said she’d stay in a hotel but I forget which one,” I lied. Maybe I could appeal to his sympathy.

“That’s terrible, Miss,” he said, with a singsong accent that made terrible rhyme with edible. “But I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name.”

“Okay, thanks so much,” I said, and hung up.

Calling the other numbers produced the same result. But she had to be somewhere.

Screw that noise.

It was only six-thirty. I could use the remaining daylight to look for her car in the parking lots of the motels identified on my map. So I printed it out, grabbed keys and wallet, and locked the door behind me.

§

Thirty minutes later I found the Batmobile in Calabasas, parked outside a Hilton in The Commons, only a block from the Italian restaurant we’d had dinner together on April Fools’ Day.

This close to the fire, a churning smoke layer covered the sky, dense enough to turn evening into blood-red twilight. Ash particles fell like paper snowflakes, blanketing everything with a powder that cast an eerie hush over the world. Mansions taking flight, I thought, recalling my oddly prophetic haiku with guilt, as if the act of writing had caused this disaster. Val’s response had been sanguine, ending with the blackened remains of wealth / becoming honest. But all I saw was tragedy and loss.

As I pulled into the hotel parking lot, a fire engine and a pumper truck screamed past on their way to the fire line, only five miles away. Their sirens added to the end-of-the-world flavor.

After parking, I hustled into the hotel’s cool, well-lit lobby. It was one of those pretty, antiseptic spaces through which people pass but don’t linger, like museums and funeral homes. To my red-adjusted eyes, its bright lighting and gypsum walls now glowed an odd minty green. I was glad, however, to be out of that Boschian gloom.

“I’m here to see Val Stregazzi,” I told the middle-aged woman at the front desk, and gave my name. She studied the computer monitor over the rims of her square glasses, and picked up the phone.

“There’s a Miss Paz here to see you,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Yes of course.” The woman set down the handset and pointed. “She’s in room 213. Just up those stairs and to the right, Miss.”

I thanked her and made my way to the door bearing that number.

Before I could knock, the door swung open to reveal Val, looking so changed I might not have recognized her on the street. It wasn’t the tee shirt and worn jeans, or the loose ponytail and lack of makeup, but her expression which spoke of profound change: a forced normality which couldn’t mask her shock, fatigue. Her eyes seemed to focus on a point far behind me. She was thinner, too.

The room behind Val was lit by a bedside light and the icy flicker of a muted television. Heavy white curtains covered the room’s large window. An air conditioner hummed.

“Hello, Koishi. Forgive me for being unprepared, I didn’t expect guests. Won’t you come in?” She made a welcoming gesture and moved aside to let me pass, before quietly closing the door behind me. “Can I offer you a drink?”

She seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. I resisted the urge to hug her. “No, I’m fine. Are you okay? I saw your house on the news—I’m so sorry…”

A forced nod. “Yes, most unfortunate. Thank goodness for insurance, hm? I managed to get the important items into storage…those that weren’t already. And a few last-minute things, here.”

She waved in the direction of a suitcase, a computer bag on the table, and four cardboard boxes stacked beside the curtained window. A sheet covered what must have been picture frames propped against the wall on the far side of the bed.

“I called, but you didn’t answer. I could have helped,” I said, more plaintively than I meant to.

“I know,” was her terse reply, filling the room with an awkward silence dark and cool as squid ink.

“Have you eaten?” I prompted, needing to fill the void. “There are restaurants across the way.”

Val pointed to the room’s small kitchen, where some cartons sat open on the counter, marked with blood-red Chinese characters. “Take out. There’s some left, if you want it.”

“No, I’m good.” I tucked my hair behind an ear and gazed into her gray-green eyes, those eyes which could root me to the spot, once upon a time. Now, they were dull, ashen. “I just needed to know you’re okay, Val.”

This amused her. “‘Okay’ is not a word people use to describe me, even in the best of times. But yes. Your Val is okay.”

My Val. The phrase implied possession, continuity. Was she playing me, even now, with the one card left her, of yielding? Or simply acknowledging our past?

When Val excused herself to use the restroom, I sat on the bed and waited as the silent TV pulsed with a colorful ad for Speed Racer. I thought briefly of Paul. But there wasn’t room in my head for both his world and Val’s, so I put the thought aside.

My roving eyes fell on the stack of picture frames hidden beneath the sheet. Curiosity got the better of me. Furtively, I stood and lifted the cloth to see what Val had considered so valuable.

Stephan’s photos of me, from that shoot on Groundhog Day, so long ago.

I replaced the covering, adrift in turbulent emotions. I was moved that she counted these among her treasures, but I’d wanted to kill her two months ago, at their unveiling. The memory gave me gooseflesh.

Still no sound from the bathroom. Almost against my will, I walked around the bed to raise the flaps of the top cardboard box, and peer inside. A manila envelope lay flat on the bottom. On top of that rested an inlaid wooden box about nine inches square, and in the narrow space that remained were two photo albums, spines facing upward.

The lid of the lacquered wooden box came off easily, and its contents were so strange it took a moment to process them. The largest item was a coiled, foot-long braid of silver-blond hair, surely Val’s. Each end was held together by a ribbon of black silk. I couldn’t imagine the story behind this memento, but knowing Val it involved innocence lost, a painful metamorphosis.

A small clear plastic box, tinted pink, contained several irregular objects: baby teeth, I saw, after bending for a closer look. Hers, or someone else?

The Elgin pocket watch was there, with its serpentine chain.

A scattering of foreign coins. Two small pumice rocks; one black, the other a deep rust color.

A tiny glass bottle with a penny trapped inside, one of those cheap theme-park curios. Another lock of that pale hair tied around that bottle’s neck, suggesting a private symbolism I couldn’t decipher. There were other items as well, but time pressed.

The coast was still clear as I replaced the lid on the box and began to flip through one of the photo books. It contained photos of a very young Val, some from before puberty, and people I didn’t know. Two family portraits, showing a painfully tender child-Val flanked by a skinny blond woman with Farrah hair, and a clean-cut man in his late twenties. Maybe I was projecting, but the man’s eyes were quietly creepy, like the wolf in Milton’s fairy tale.

I found photos of the Keeper I knew so well, posing with Millie and other women. Scandalous nude photos, too, with that crime-scene look created by flash photography in dim rooms. Overblown, blurred closeups of thighs, breasts, arms. A few bore bruises or the stripes of a lash, but most did not. Blindfolds. Gags. Handcuffs. And interspersed among these, cheerful outdoor portraits of the very same women, no worse for wear.

There were photos of me as well. I hurried past those, uncomfortable with seeing myself from that viewpoint.

Then the toilet’s flush made me jump, and while Val ran the sink I hastily slipped the album back into the box, closed the flaps, and sat back on the bed.

“Well, Koishi,” Val said, upon emerging, “It’s certainly nice to see you again. I had planned on a thrilling night of internet surfing, but if you care to stay we can watch television. Time Twister’s on at eight, I believe.” Val despised television, but the offer didn’t seem to be a trick or test, as it would have been if uttered by the Keeper.

“No, I—” I began, when something in the box shifted with a soft thud. I gave a start, and Val’s eyes shot to the source of the sound, the way a cat’s hunting instincts take control when a bird lands nearby. My heart clenched. In my haste, I must have put the photo album back wrong, and it had just tipped over onto the wooden box. She would surely know I had been rooting around in her things.

I barely resisted the urge to drop to my knees and confess all, tearfully begging Ma’am’s forgiveness. Instead I blurted the first distracting thing that came to mind.

“You…shouldn’t stay here alone, Val. You can come stay with me until you get things sorted out.” Well crap, that came out wrong.

But it had the desired effect: Val’s pupils relaxed as she powered down from attack mode. As if waking from a dream she said:

“You’re kind to offer, dear, but in light of all that’s happened, it might be premature.” A weak refusal, a test of my sincerity.

“My couch folds out into a really comfortable bed,” I said, backpedaling to make sure she understood the offer didn’t include intimate benefits. “You won’t be any trouble at all.”

She processed that. “Thank you, but I’ve already booked this room for a week.”

A second refusal. Here was my graceful exit, offered on a silver platter. I’d discharged my duty and could walk away with honor.

But—dammit—my extra mirror-neurons chose that exact moment to hijack my speech centers. Disbelieving, I heard myself say, “You can get the charges prorated. Come on Val, let me help. It’s the least I can do.”

Based on months of experience, my words were delivered with the exact note of insistence and pleading required to sway this woman. An amazing performance, especially considering my conscious mind played no part. I mentally kicked myself while watching Val’s firewall give way.

“All right, Koishi. Thank you. But let’s wait until tomorrow. It’s late and I’m rather tired.”

We did actually watch Time Twister then, sitting on the bed with our backs against the headboard, the thin hotel pillows folded double behind us. Despite the narrow bed, we kept a chaste twelve-inch gap between us. When my tummy growled, Val reheated her leftover Kung Pao Chicken and made me eat, then fetched me an iced tea from the vending machine in the hall.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, awash in a memory sparked by clips of burning homes, during a teaser for the late-night news.

“Hmm?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“My first night at Milton’s. I dreamed the house was on fire.” The vividness of the memory was staggering. “You saved me. Woke me up and made me climb down the drain pipe But then you disappeared. I thought it was real…I thought you were dead.”

She found the tale curious, but entirely coincidental. Just like Brent.

§

Val crashed around nine-thirty, hardly a surprise given what she’d endured. So I shut off the TV and eased her into a more comfortable sleeping position, then tucked her in.

Should I stay the night, or go home?

On impulse I stroked Val’s hair, and her eyes opened sleepily. It was a cat’s heavy-lidded gaze, inscrutable, and she didn’t smile.

The damned mirror-neurons said stay.

In the bathroom, I washed my bare face, and used an index finger to brush my teeth with Val’s toothpaste. Then I stared into the mirror, wondering just how big a mess I’d gotten myself into.

I stripped to my underwear, then slipped under my side of the covers. Reached up to turn off the bedside lamp.

And lay fretting in the dark for what seemed ages, listening to the air conditioner and the roar of fresh fire trucks, relieving one another.

Exactly when the velvet abyss of sleep finally swallowed me, I do not know.

30     halcyon

WE WOKE EARLY, neither of us sleeping well on the hard bed, in a strange place. The endless rush of emergency vehicles outside didn’t help. With dawn came new sounds: swarms of helicopters and a low-flying tanker, growling overhead twice an hour with its belly full of pink fire retardant. The bass note of its engines made the windows rattle.

Val rose first, dressed, and left the room without a word. While she was gone, I put on yesterday’s clothes and surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror: I was a catastrophe. But I’d wait to shower at home.

Some vacation this was turning out to be. What day was it, anyway? Friday? Christ almighty.

Val returned with a paper plate of croissants and diced fruit, and some remarkably average coffee from the lobby. In The World According To Hilton, this was known as a Continental Breakfast. And so we broke our fast, listening to the mindless prattle of a Fox morning show while speaking fewer than a dozen words between us. It occurred to me that Val had seen more television in the last few hours than all the months I’d known her.

Val called work to report her status and ask for the day off, which she received. Then, after making arrangements with the front desk, we carried her things to our cars and set out for home.

§

Fitting Valeria Stregazzi into my condo, after lunch, proved a greater challenge than expected.

It wasn’t the amount of stuff. The few boxes, the suitcase and the other things from the hotel fit easily in my second bedroom, which I used as a studio.

No, it was her presence that took up so much room. She was a one-woman mass exodus. The fire had not only claimed her home, but the resulting shock had also knocked loose the personae within her.

I saw the Guardian first. Like a cat entering an unfamiliar home, she made a detailed survey of each room, every corner, the closets and balcony, mapping it all, securing the perimeter. She’d been here before, of course, but only as a visitor. For the near future, it must also serve as her safe zone.

Next appeared The Keeper, whom I expected to maintain a low profile after my recent defection. But I soon caught her looking through Val’s eyes, and it was she who frowned at the newspapers left on the coffee table, the pile of worn clothes on the bedroom floor, my unwashed dishes. The bra hanging over the shower curtain rod finally pushed her over the edge. Had I still been her doll, she would have surely punished me, but now she only demanded the key to the coin-operated laundry room downstairs, and did the wash—hers and mine—herself, without a word of reproach.

Her silent anger did give me an initial spasm of fear, until my conscious mind remembered Val was no longer the boss of me. At that point it became somewhat amusing, for I was witnessing a passive-aggressive reboot of the fierce Mistress I had served with shock and awe.

Still, I did penance by helping fold and put away the clothes, fresh out of the dryer. Though we labored in silence, she appeared satisfied.

Later that afternoon Val the Keeper, playing Felix Ungar to my Oscar Madison, resolved to dust the living room. Rather than fret over this new, silent criticism, I slipped into the studio to phone Carl about the expected plates from Hammerfall. Yes, a few of the shots had arrived for digital scanning, and yes, there would be work for me to do on Monday. Good news, as I didn’t relish the prospect of being cooped up with Val for an entire week…Though leaving her here alone was just as worrisome.

After hanging up the phone, I heard an unusual hush coming from the living room, not even the swish of the feather duster. A stealthy peek from the hallway showed me why.

Val stood at my bookcase, holding the plastic ice cube which had been the cause of our meeting in the first place. Quiet wonder showed on her face. The cube’s bright blue LED lit up when she smacked it, and so did her expression. I suppose it gave proof of my devotion to her, to us, in spite of everything.

With a start, I realized this was the Little Girl, exploring on tiptoe just outside her keep. Rather than startle that delicate creature and rouse her guardian, I ducked back into the studio and rustled papers to remind her of my presence. By the time I emerged, she had put the cube back in its place and resumed her labors.

The fourth member of this virtual throng was Val, her physical self, the one serving as vehicle for the other aspects. She was little more than a husk: quiet, hollow, uncomplaining, somewhat lost. An orphan.

And it was the Orphan and I who found ourselves, incredibly, watching Oprah at four o’clock, an entire episode devoted to the topic of sandwiches. After that hour of mental anesthesia, I persuaded Val to try the Teriyaki burger from Hamburger Addict. Keeper Val, the epicure, would never have consented to such pedestrian fare, but this Val relented. I was beginning to think of her as a friend.

§

“It isn’t fancy dining, but these are my favorite burgers,” I said, around a juicy bite.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Val said, as she reached across the table to wipe my chin with a napkin. “But yes, they’re not bad.” Not bad, in this case, meant nonlethal. She held her own burger as if it were something alien, not entirely safe.

Val was dressed well, but less severely than the Keeper: khaki slacks, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hair in a twist. A squashed image of me swam in each curved lens of her sunglasses, the kind cops wear.

And me? Geeky and plain in my post-doll outfit of jeans and a black tee shirt. The front of this particular shirt bore a famous geek webcomic, an old-style fantasy map titled Internet Communities. It had territories named AOL, Myspace, Facebook, WoW, and so on. When she saw it, Val expressed surprise that I should be a fan of that comic. I told her the shirt was a Christmas gift from a friend, Chaz, who did freelance Lightwave work for Lucid Dreams. He was a huge fan of such things. Val found the whole thing amusing.

Hamburger Addict was a popular burger franchise with locations in Los Angeles and the Bay Area. Their burgers were far superior to those from the big chains. I was, in fact, addicted to their teriyaki burger, with its Swiss cheese and fat ring of pineapple instead of onions. We had found a table outside, and ate while watching rush-hour traffic crawl along Ventura Boulevard.

Today had been hot, but not as bad as the last few days, and the smoke was better here, fully a dozen miles from the fire. And with the calmer winds, firefighters were slowly bringing the fire under control.

“What happens now?” I asked. “You have insurance, of course. ”

She took off her sunglasses and hung them in the neckline of her blouse. “Yes. There will be a mountain of paperwork. Police reports, claim forms, so on. It’ll keep me busy for some time.”

“When can you go back, to look for…” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. It didn’t matter.

“I’m told perhaps Monday. I don’t expect to find much.” Her eyes grew distant.

“Will you get the house rebuilt?”

“Doubtful. I’m thinking of relocating, though not far. Silverlake, perhaps. It’s closer to work, not too crowded. For the short term, however, I need to rent a place while I deal with everything. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days.”

“Oh,” I said, with a pang, before I reminding myself the relationship was over.

A passing car backfired just a few feet away, loud as a gunshot and strong enough to trigger a nearby car alarm. It made me jump, but the effect on Val was infinitely more dramatic. Her head whipped around to the source of that racket, eyes full of murder, neck muscles taut as steel cables.

Her intensity frightened me, but she quickly regained her composure and apologized, over the whooping alarm. Just as the sound became unbearable, a man emerged from the Greek restaurant next door, stopping the racket with his key fob.

I put a calming hand on her arm and said, impulsively, “We should do something tomorrow.”

“‘Do…something’?” she said, recovering enough to process my suggestion. It was the Keeper speaking.

“Yeah, silly. Instead of sitting around my place, moping and watching TV.”

“The idea has merit. What do you suggest?”

“How about a drive to Santa Barbara?” But it was the Orphan, not the Keeper, I was inviting. “A whole day of sun and blue sky, away from all this craziness. Come on, it’ll be fun. We can go shopping.”

“Shopping,” she said, with same enthusiasm she might have given the word sputum.

“We’re going to the beach. Did you pack a bathing suit in your things? No. So, shopping.”

She nodded skeptically, and I recalled I’d never seen her wear a bathing suit in public—probably because of her scars. I left that question unasked, and forged on, confident an outing would be good for us both. And so it was decided.

§

Upon returning home we packed for the next day’s trip. After that, I suggested Val choose a movie for us to watch after I took a shower. She was still deciding when I emerged fifteen minutes later in sweats, hair wrapped in a towel. As I brushed my hair she pulled out my copy of Earth Angel, signed by the director himself in silver ink.

“You worked on this?” she asked.

“Yeah, we were nominated for a VES Award, but that stupid pirate movie won everything,” I said.

“You sound a little bitter about it.”

“I guess I am,” I admitted. “Mom keeps asking when I’m going to become famous, and I was this close to shutting her up. She doesn’t quite understand it’s not really about what you do, it’s the people you know. The asses you kiss.”

“I’ve noticed you don’t talk about your parents much,” Val said, putting the DVD in the player.

I found myself unreasonably annoyed by her comment. “Neither do you.”

That arrow squarely found its mark, and struck her dumb for the next hour as we sat on opposite ends of the couch while the movie played.

But as we neared the protagonist’s death scene, the one tattooed on Paul’s arm, I regretted my sharp tongue and made popcorn. Sharing the bowl gave an excuse to sit closer. And after the film’s signature moment, in which the dying hero finally beholds Angie’s luminous wings and recognizes her true nature, I caught the shine of a tear on Val’s cheek.

“That was your work, wasn’t it? That scene,” Val asked quietly.

“Yeah.” I had composited that sequence, knew exactly what went into its making, yet it never failed to move me powerfully.

And Val had recognized my work without being told, just as she’d noticed my wonder at a trash can of glowing garbage, in an unseeing crowd.

When she spoke again, it was in a low voice that was not Keeper, Guardian, nor even Little Girl, but simply Val.

“Well done,” was all she said.

I cried.

And cried again when she insisted I let the credits roll and, finding my name, clapped softly.

§

As I feared, bedtime proved a little uncomfortable. I offered to let her sleep in my bed, while I took the foldout couch, but she would have none of it. Without preamble she stripped and changed to her pajamas, with a child’s lack of modesty, there in the middle of the room. Once again, the sight of the marks on her light skin gave me a throb of sympathy. I busied myself by washing dishes to avoid that bit of awkwardness.

I changed as she brushed her teeth, wondering why I suddenly found modesty such an issue, after all we’d been through. The Keeper and me, rather. This was a different Val: more innocent, more vulnerable.

Then I returned to shut off the lights and tuck her in, by the light of the softly gurgling aquarium. And found myself stroking her hair again, as I had the night before, fretting about sending the wrong message. What was the right message? But I felt close to her, so close, in that moment.

§

Feathery cirrus clouds draped the morning sky as I drove west along the 101, toward the coast. The weather had finally begun to cool off, and past Calabasas we left the smoke pall behind for good. I lowered my window to enjoy the sweet, fresh air so full of promise.

Because her Audi was in storage, and a round trip to Santa Barbara was just outside the range of her fully-charged Batmobile, we’d taken my Corolla. But not before Val had insisted that we wash it; she couldn’t abide dirty cars and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bothered.

Val sorely missed her in-dash mp3 player, though. She spent several minutes searching the FM stations in vain before shutting off the radio. After that we cruised in wind-whipped silence until reaching Oxnard and the coast, where we stopped for a quick breakfast at Danny’s. This proved yet another assault upon Val’s aesthetic sensibilities, but she endured her Home Run Breakfast with an anthropologist’s detachment, as if bravely sharing a meal of roasted beetles with mud-daubed primitives.

Then another hour’s drive along the wild, scrubby coast. This was one of my favorite stretches of road, today made even more picturesque by the pod of dolphins Val spotted, just before Carpenteria. But there was no place to stop, so Val held the wheel as I watched their silver shapes arc joyously in the morning light.

It was a little past nine o’clock when I turned onto State Street, and found a public parking structure about a mile and a half inland. After our windy drive, the sudden calm rang loud in my ears. The air was cooler than I’d expected, about 75 degrees, with a breath of westerly wind. A feathery layer of cirrus clouds softened the sun’s rays.

Val seemed serene, even happy, in a way I’d never seen before. I stood a moment, admiring the sight of her.

“What?” she asked, noticing my gaze.

“Nothing. You look nice.”

Indeed, she looked adorable in the white halter-style tee and tan capris I’d persuaded her to wear. Only the barest hint of the lattice-scar on her left hip showed above the waistline. Getting her to wear that pair of white peep-toed flats had been harder. But she hated Crocs more, so I’d won that battle, too. The cheery ensemble and diffuse sunlight softened the angularity of her lean, fit body.

She smiled self-consciously. For the time being, at least, the Keeper was a million miles away.

As for myself, I wore a breezy yellow sun dress, with large bird-of-paradise flowers printed across the skirt. It slid pleasantly against my bare legs as I bent to grab my purse from the car. I shut the door and locked it, and we were off.

§

Today had proved too cool for swimming, but it was perfect for a stroll, and Val gave no complaint. It was a joy to simply walk along State Street as the sun climbed the sky. The immaculate white stucco of the Spanish-style store fronts cast a glow over the street, filling blue shadows with a warm bounce light.

We didn’t spend any money, and it was nice to simply window shop and people-watch. The demographic here was a mix of upper middle class and college students, a few surfers, and the occasional street performer or homeless person (to whom I unfailingly gave coin).

It was nice to get away from the din and grime of the big city. I could almost imagine this was some quaint town on the southern coast of France.

We gradually made our way west, toward the wharf, speaking of nothing in particular. I noticed Val was staying unusually close, in a way I found touching, but a little troubling as well.

At noon we backtracked a few blocks to have lunch at an Italian restaurant that had caught Val’s eye; a popular place, judging by the line outside. The interior was lovely, noteworthy for its warm, subdued lighting and blue neon accents around the bar. A reproduction of the Sistine Chapel was painted across the high ceiling.

The waiter brought our menus, and ran through the day’s specials. We ordered a bottle of Chianti.

Val raised her menu when he had gone, but I stopped her.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got this,” I said. “Let me guess what you’d order.” In a minute I had it. “The special, with a quarter order of Capellini Grilled Chicken and Brie. Caesar salad on the side. Right?”

“A fair choice.”

I felt a throb of satisfaction when she set down her unopened menu. As a doll I’d often selected Val’s meals, but that had been under the threat of punishment. This version of the game was a totally different experience for us both.

The waiter brought our wine and a basket of foccacia, then swirled oil and vinegar together in two small dishes before taking our order. Val stuck with my recommendation. I chose the Fettuccine al Pesto.

“What’s your plan for the day?” Val asked, as she tore off a small chunk of bread and dipped it in the the oil and vinegar.

“I have no idea. Chill I guess. Explore. I thought it would do us good to get out of the city.”

Twenty minutes later, I was glad when Val pronounced her food satisfactory. The wine and the fine meal had softened her mood, but she still seemed a little lost after so many dislocations.

Later still, we paid for our meal and stepped out into the warm afternoon air, warm enough that we decided to take the bright red trolley the rest of the way to Stearns Wharf.

There, on the beach side of Cabrillo Boulevard, we stopped to admire a lovely bronze fountain of three leaping dolphins. I struck up a conversation with a charming older couple from the UK, and persuaded the woman to take a picture of Val and me, after I showed her how to do it on my phone. Val slipped her arm about my waist and pulled me close, but only until the click. Before I could decide how I felt about her surreptitious gesture, I was busy returning the favor of a picture for the other couple.

It was nearly two o’clock. The cloud layer had finally burned away and left the sun to beat down on us with full force. By the time we reached the end of the wharf we were beginning to perspire. I’d stupidly forgotten to pack sunscreen, so I had to duck into one of the gift shops to buy a tube. Standing by the railing on the East Beach side, I squirted globs of the coconut scented lotion into my palm, applying them to Val’s arms, shoulders, neck, and finally her face. She’d probably have a slight burn as it was, from our time in the sun.

This was the first time I’d touched her face since slapping her, the night I ended my career as her doll. Her eyes shone at the touch. The scratch on her left cheek was almost healed now, only a faint line beneath my slick fingers.

And she kept that look, as she put lotion on me in turn. And when her finger lingered to trace the outline of the koi tattoo, it proved too much for me. I pulled away from her touch, but only after waiting long enough that she didn’t read the move as a rejection.

What was happening? She was so lost, so vulnerable. I yearned to hold her, yet I feared what might result. I knew her too well.

But it was so nice to be with her, without rules. Or perhaps that was just another rule. Our whole relationship had been based on breaking old rules, making new ones…I shrugged off the deepening thoughts, choosing rather to stay in the moment, so as to give Val…what? Deliverance maybe, a taste of unfiltered light, a little joy. Which is what I’d always wanted for her.

The sun began its slide into the west, making the waves glitter. Raucous gulls wheeled and swooped onto the railings and deck timbers to fight over dropped food. A tow-headed boy of about four ran crying from a tawny pelican as it chased him, demanding a bite of his churro. I found it both funny and heart-wrenching at the same time, and was relieved when his mother shooed the bird away.

Val laughed in a way I’d never heard before, a glissando of pure delight. With her shining face and wind-tossed hair, she appeared to be made of light. Time froze. This scene, here at the wharf’s end, could have been a postcard, or a frame from some plotless French film.

I became aware of a keening whine coming from my right, out over the water. As I turned to see the source of that sound, a dart-like object roared past, just above the waves. A fighter jet, three hundred feet beyond the end of the wharf, trailing bright white smoke like a Blue Angel. Then it roared up into the sky, fog flickering over its wings until it was fully inverted, thundering away in the direction it had come.

Squinting against the sky’s glare, I saw it was painted a mottled green and tan, with yellow wingtips and a bright red star on each wing. I turned to Val, who watched the mysterious aircraft with an enigmatic smile.

“Is that…Russian?” I shouted above the din, remembering the red stars.

“Those are Czech markings,” she shouted back. “But it’s just a private jet. No weapons.”

When the receding plane rolled upright I saw she was right, the wings were empty of bombs or missiles. A few people began to cheer, thinking it must be an air show.

About a mile out, the plane made a descending half-loop. I feared it would strike the water, until the pilot leveled out and came straight at us. With the noisy end facing away, all I heard of the plane was the same high-pitched whine that had warned me of its first approach.

Now people really began to freak, making sounds of panic as it bore down upon us, skimming the waves on an apparent kamikaze run. Several women screamed and ran toward the shore, dragging their children behind. I heard a man call 911 to report a terrorist attack.

“Christ, is that legal? Can he do that?” I asked Val anxiously. I’d never seen anything like it.

“No, he can’t. Isn’t it marvelous?”

And I saw that it really was aimed at the pier, a mickey-mouse silhouette of fuselage and twin air intakes. The water behind the plane was sandpaper-rough, churned by the roar of its exhaust. Just when my stomach clenched for impact, the plane leaped again into the bright blue sky, thin arcs of vapor curling from each wingtip. The thunder of its engine made my whole body shake. A hundred startled gulls exploded in flight, adding to the chaos.

The plane climbed and sped off toward Los Angeles. Soon all was quiet again, with loops of blue-white smoke drifting out to sea as the gulls calmed down and returned to the wharf.

Everyone was rattled, though a trio of college boys continued to whoop in exultation. Two grave-faced security guards stood with feet spread wide, speaking into shoulder mics.

“You don’t see that every day,” I said to Val, a little breathlessly.

“And probably never again, after they take his license. But for that moment he was more alive than all of us combined.” She had a dreamy expression.

“Anarchist,” I accused, jokingly.

She seemed to find that accusation offensive, but made no comment. I spent the next half hour being sweet, in the hope of undoing that blunder.

By the time we walked back to the beach, two local news trucks had arrived. Their ken-doll reporters were thrusting microphones at anyone who might have seen the rogue pilot’s antics. When one of them spotted us and moved purposefully in our direction, Val gave him a wide berth and strode briskly across Cabrillo Boulevard, back along State Street. I had to trot to keep up.

“How do you know so much about that plane?” I asked, a little out of breath, but got no answer. I followed her past a bike rental place with a huge velocipede in front. “Hey!”

Val stopped in front of the next building, a small coffee shop that also offered smoothies, sandwiches, and wi-fi. “I’m thirsty. How about you?”

She was being evasive. But I was thirsty after so long in the sun, and nodded.

She ordered a cappuccino. I got an orange-pineapple-strawberry smoothie despite the face Val made. We found an inside table and sipped our drinks, watching people shuffle past the open storefront. Presently Val excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.

A tall, thirtyish man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts walked into the shop and took off his sunglasses, letting them hang by a loop around his neck. I heard him order a latte.

Armed with his coffee, the man sat at the next table and fiddle with his Blackberry. He was handsome, if a tad brooding, with curly shoulder-length hair parted in the middle, the way Howard Stern used to wear it. The beginnings of a sunburn created a faint sunglasses-shaped mask around his eyes.

He looked up suddenly, and caught me staring.

“I remember you,” he said, sitting straighter as he looked up from the phone. A smile replaced his serious expression. “You were just at the wharf. You saw the plane, too.” He sounded Northwestern, maybe Canadian.

“Yeah. Pretty crazy, huh?”

He grinned, just as Val had, at the memory. “Oh yeah. That guy was out of his mind. Where’s your friend? I thought I saw…” His eyes went to Val’s cappuccino, across the table from me.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “The little girls’ room.”

“Gotcha.” He took a sip and put down his phone. “What’s sad is the way everyone panicked. People freak at anything that doesn’t fit in their safe little world.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I admitted, tucking hair behind my ear and wondering what he thought of my own reaction; I had been a little anxious myself. “At least I didn’t scream.”

He laughed. “No, you were fine. How often do you look straight down the nose of an L-39 at full power?”

“Does everyone know more about planes than me?” I said, exasperated.

“No, I’m just a pilot. Say, do you live here?” he asked.

I shook my head. “We just drove up from LA for the day. We’re—”

I felt a grip on my shoulder. “We’re just leaving, unfortunately,” Val broke in, sweet but firm. She didn’t bother to sit again, or even introduce herself, but grabbed her coffee and used her other hand to lift my arm, urging me to stand.

Irritated, I did so. She let go and strode out of the coffee shop, leaving me to give the man an embarrassed shrug. “Bye, nice meeting you.”

He didn’t think much of Val’s brusque manner, but bid me a pleasant adieu anyway. Then I hustled to catch her as she strode up the sidewalk with purpose.

“That was really rude,” I snapped, when I’d caught up and grabbed her wrist.

She whirled about, but then her glare softened and she lowered her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Koishi.”

“Don’t spoil this, Val. We’re here to relax and have fun. Today is for us. For you. He wasn’t hitting on me anyway.” Well, he might have been, but what did it matter? I pointed back toward the bike rental place. “Let’s rent one of those pedal cars and see the beach. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

She acquiesced. I tugged her back the way we’d come.

After paying the rental fee and surrendering my license as collateral, the man gave us a brief lesson in pedal car operation. And we were on our way.

§

The afternoon turned breezy as we pedaled a couple miles down the paved bike path along the beach. On the way back we saw a news chopper hovering off the end of the wharf. Val guessed they were shooting footage for a news story about the rogue jet on tonight’s broadcast.

We stopped to buy shave-ice from a guy in a sombrero, selling ice cream from a gaudy, belled freezer cart that resembled those crazy Tijuana taxicabs.

It felt good to sit with Val on the grass, lips numbed by the fruit-flavored ice as the wind fluffed my dress.

The afternoon had taken that golden hue I associate with perfection, the kind of joy that suffuses fond childhood memories. In this halcyon light, Val’s eyes glowed the color of olive soapstone, her pale skin like fresh cream butter. I wished this day would last forever. Knew that it wouldn’t.

The palm trees stirred overhead. Two pelicans skimmed the water, flying east along the strand, their bodies straight as speed skaters.

I set my cup down. “What became of your fish?”

Val was a moment pondering my unexpected question. “The fish in my pond?” I nodded. “Yolanda helped me catch them late Wednesday. She took them home in two big buckets. Her daughter works for a hotel in Little Tokyo that has a koi pond. We spoke on the phone the next day, but she didn’t mention the fish. I assume they are well. Why do you ask?”

I gazed out to sea, wondering that myself. “I don’t know. I remembered them the other day and wondered if you thought of it, or had a chance to rescue them. What will you do with your maid?”

“I’m still paying her for the time being, if that’s what you mean. She’s unusually discreet, and that’s worth a great deal to me. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

I felt no warmth for the maid, who had always treated me with cool courtesy, when she deigned to notice me at all. But I could see how Val would prize the woman, given her own scandalous appetites and need for privacy.

Val leaned closer. “You’re suddenly full of questions.” Her nose rubbed my cheek.

“I’m just curious, is all.”

She nuzzled more forcefully, breath hot on my skin. With a hand she turned my head into a prolonged kiss.

Here was the moment of decision, from which many paths led. But I was paralyzed by the conflicting needs of mind, heart, and body. So I allowed the kiss, perhaps out of the memory of what had been. Or not wanting to dispel the delicate magic of the afternoon. Or simply for her kindness in saving the fish. But I didn’t return her energy, and presently she drew back, to gaze pensively over the water.

I feared this truly was the end, yet I didn’t want it to be.

The weight of the moment became unbearable. I stood up, straightened my skirt, and tossed my cup into a nearby trash can. Which, I saw, was conspicuously empty of glowing ice cubes.

“We should get back,” I said.

§

The dashboard clock said 7:57 when I shut off the engine. The last rays of twilight were fading and the air still smelled faintly of smoke.

Emerging from the sunken garage, we passed into the courtyard between the middle two condo buildings. It was tranquil here, with lines of hooded landscape lights and a watery blue glow rising from the swimming pool. Overhead, the first-quarter moon shone white as milk, lending the scene a kind of elven magic. As much as I desperately wanted to sell my stupid condo, I’d miss the beauty of this courtyard at night.

Wearily we climbed the steps to my landing, and I unlocked the door. Standing close enough to brush against me, Val chastely kissed my cheek. “Thank you for a splendid day.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said, unlocking the door. We stepped into the darkened room. After setting my keys and purse on the kitchen counter, I flicked on the living room light, which made us squint.

We took turns in the bathroom, and changing. When I’d done, I found Val sitting crosswise on the leather couch with one of my coffee-table art books open on her lap.

I still felt that weight in the air, the imbalance between us, and desperately needed something to do, a reason to get out and secure some quiet time alone.

“I’m going to the laundromat to wash this,” I announced a few minutes later, plopping my big blue lotus-print comforter on the counter. I scooped a handful of quarters from my change dish under the wall phone, and put on sandals.

Val, sitting crosswise on the couch, looked up from her book with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little late for laundry?”

“If I do it now, I can be lazy tomorrow.”

Val shrugged, not wanting to impede my sudden industry.

I grabbed my keys, stuck a John Grisham novel in my purse. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can you get the door?”

With an effort I manhandled the soft, ungainly armload down the stairs, and heard the door close behind me with a click.

§

The interior design of the U-Wash-It Laundromat, with its fake wood paneling, Baby Poop Yellow walls and Toothpaste Green accents had never been stylish, even when new. But a decade of zero maintenance, and the change to fluorescent lights—one of which flickered at a seizure-inducing rate—rendered the place absolutely nauseating.

I took refuge in my book while waiting for the buzzer, trying to ignore the ghastly linoleum floor tiles. A mockingbird subjected to lethal gamma radiation might lay an egg with just that speckled pattern.

After the wash cycle, I fluffed out the comforter with some difficulty, and started the dryer. Rather than return to the molded fiberglass chair bolted to the floor, I stepped outside to give my ass (and eyes) a break.

It was a glorious night, despite the mundane view of the busy intersection, the luminous island of a gas station at the corner. I watched a steady stream of customers park in front of the liquor store next door, to leave a minute later with booze and cigarettes in black plastic shopping bags. It was like watching time-lapse footage, but without the time-lapse.

It gave me time to mull over our fate, Val’s and mine. I doubted she’d ever lose her taste for dolls; it was an integral part of her. Could I stay with her, knowing she was keeping other girls? Probably not. But maybe all she needed was some fertile ground in which to plant her delicate emotional seeds. Maybe then her other appetites would fade.

In the same way that, perhaps, Hitler wouldn’t have turned to politics if he’d won that art scholarship at the Viennese Academy, instead of his rival Oskar Kokoschka. I’d actually preferred Hitler’s shy, delicate style to the other’s crude and (I thought) self-indulgent expressionism.

And, I recalled with wry amusement, Kokoschka had actually commissioned a life-sized sex doll of a woman who’d loved and left him, only to destroy it later in frustration, at a party. Ah, the crazy things I learned in art school. Mother would be proud.

Mother. I’ll never understand why you stopped seeing that nice boy, Brent, I heard her say.

Deep, cleansing breaths.

I played puzzle games on my cell phone for half an hour, until I lost interest. I remembered Paul and his offer to see a movie, and realized I had yet to return his call. As I scrolled down the list of contacts I glimpsed the entry for Pizza just below Paul. That was Val’s work number, the one I’d hidden with the fake name, and scrambled, in case Val should peek at my phone.

What was at the other end of that number? Sudden, burning curiosity consumed me. Maybe it would help explain why Val was the person she’d become.

I clicked on Pizza and saw the number. The area code had really been 310, not the 818 I entered. And I’d turned the numbers around, reversing both the 3- and 4-digit parts individually. That was easy enough.

I’d simply call the number and see who picked up. It was after hours, so I’d probably get some kind of voice mail. No matter what, I could hang up and no one would be the wiser.

But I felt a spasm of paranoia as I began to dial. What if they had Caller ID and recorded my number? Too risky.

I recalled seeing a pay phone next to the liquor store, and I had a pocket full of quarters. I found the phone and lifted the handset, carefully reading the instructions. I hadn’t used a pay phone in years and had forgotten how to use them. After dropping in two quarters, I punched in the number and waited anxiously as it connected.

It rang several times.

A woman’s voice answered:

“Thanks for calling the office of Doctor Manendra Sharma. We’re currently closed right now. Our business hours are ten to seven on weekdays, and noon to seven on Saturdays. If you’d like to schedule an eye exam, press 1. If you’re calling about—”

I hung up. An optometrist’s office? And why would this number be listed as Gordon on her phone?

Wait, the area code had been 213, not 310. I remembered now, it was a downtown number. With another deep breath I plunked in two more coins and carefully dialed again.

This time it rang only once.

“Operator.” It was a man’s voice, no-nonsense.

Pay dirt.

I wanted to say something, to squeeze more information out of the call, but only drew a blank. I didn’t trust myself to lie convincingly. The moment dragged on as the man waited silently, then I heard keystrokes in the background.

I hung up.

Way to go, doofus.

I spent five minutes calming down, thinking about what I’d learned, which was effectively nothing. Or was it?

An operator was someone who answered calls, redirecting them, connecting to other people. Or gave some sort of assistance. But the way he’d said operator suggested the only people calling that number already knew who—or what—they wanted.

The word, and his manner, suggested infrastructure, organization, professionalism. He’d been sitting at a computer, hardly a surprise. Did the Mafia answer phone calls that way? No, I’d made contact with some sort of agency, though maybe not strictly governmental. What were they called? Contractors. Like those Blackwater creeps.

His voice had betrayed no hint of an accent, either. He’d been an adult American, possibly Caucasian, and sure of himself in a way that didn’t require airs.

Whatever that number was, it was an inside line meant only for intimates, not the general public. I would learn nothing further from calling there.

None of this greatly altered my original suspicions of the last few months.

And that, I thought with a sigh, was the end of my career as a private investigator. I’d exhausted every lead without learning the least thing about Val and her work. In a way it was a relief. Now I could let it go and wait to ask her in person, if our relationship held together long enough for such questions to become possible, or important.

I deleted the Pizza number. Then I called Paul.

“Hello mystery girl,” was his warm greeting.

“Hey, Paul. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. To answer your question, I’d love to see the movie with you, but I’m helping out a friend who needs a place to stay for a few days.”

“No worries. That’s really kind of you, to help your friend.”

“Things will free up by the weekend, though. I’ll let you know. I just didn’t want you thinking I blew you off, okay?”

“I’d never think that. Little fish gotta swim.”

He was referring to my tattoo, but the endearment sounded too much like Val the Keeper. I hoped it wouldn’t become a habit. Then the dryer announced its end-of-cycle with a buzzer twice as irritating as the legal limit.

“I gotta run, my laundry’s finished. I’ll call you before the weekend.”

“All right, Koishi. Take care,” he said cheerfully, and we hung up.

§

It was almost ten when I got back. After putting the warm, fresh-smelling comforter away in my closet, Val and I made chamomile tea and chatted lightly. The trip had tired us both, and we decided to turn in early.

Once again I found myself tucking her in, and spending a moment with her, in light of the aquarium, before going to my own bed. I thought I saw The Girl peering out through her eyes. But I said nothing, for fear she’d vanish like the moon’s reflection in still water, rippled by a stone.

Why couldn’t I shake this feeling of doom?

The sleep that took me in my lonely bed was not rest, but surrender.

31     questions

SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED bright and cool. For the first time in weeks, the sky was graced with soft cumulus clouds, tinted pastel by the rising sun.

Val had already risen when I emerged from the bedroom. The couch was folded up and she had dressed in jeans and a blouse.

“I’m driving ho—” Val began, and caught herself. What had been her home had flown away on the wings of the Phoenix, leaving only charred spoor behind.

“I’m going to check for anything worth salvaging,” she said, by way of correction.

“I’ll get dressed,” I said.

“No, stay. I don’t expect to find much. Do you have an empty cardboard box?”

That was a sobering thought: one box to hold what remained of her possessions. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing the smoking hole that had been Val’s home. Yet I insisted, as I handed her one of the spare boxes I kept folded flat in my studio closet.

“Really, Val, I’ll go.”

“I need to do this alone. There will be other trips, and you may come then.” Very nearly her Keeper voice. I could only acquiesce.

“Well, won’t you at least eat breakfast first?”

But she was determined to go, and after touching my cheek and giving a kiss, she was gone.

In the ensuing silence, I poured myself a bowl of Cere-O’s and ate them at the counter, sitting on a stool.

Then I surfed the web.

Made a grocery list.

Took a shower.

Went to the store.

§

It was nearly 11 o’clock when I pulled up to the parking lot gate and waited for it to roll open. The Batmobile was parked at the curb. I’d given Val the spare key so she wouldn’t be stranded outside.

I thought about calling upstairs to ask for help with the bags, decided to handle it myself. After parking, I opened the trunk and began to hang the bags on my left forearm, starting near the elbow, heaviest items first. It was a trick that let me carry several bags of groceries upstairs in one go. The two bags that wouldn’t fit on my arm I gathered in my right hand, and used my elbow to close the trunk.

At the top of the stairs Val opened the door and took the bags from my right hand, leaving it free to lift and carefully lower the grocery bags onto my counter. When I wriggled that arm free, it was marked by lines from the bag handles.

“Well? What did you find?” I asked as we put the groceries away, a process complicated by having a second person in that small kitchen. We bumped into each other a couple of times.

“As you’d expect. Not much worth saving,” she said frostily. I could hardly blame her, given the circumstances. I didn’t press for details. Later.

Once the cupboard and refrigerator were stocked, I collected all the flimsy plastic bags and stuffed them under the counter, where I had amassed quite a collection.

Being Sunday, there was absolutely nothing on TV, not even cable. We sat on the couch as I flipped through five hundred channels of utter dreck. A dozen talking-head shows, with swollen pundits shouting at each other from their corners of the screen. A stupid pre-game show for the Lakers vs. the Jazz. A behind-the-scenes look at the movie Twilight. A food-channel travelogue about bacon. It just went on and on, until I heard a small sound of interest from Val. It was a program about skinny, bitchy fashion models being made up for a bizarre zombie pinup shoot, in the most incongruous high-society settings. I let it run.

“That crap just baffles me,” I said with a sneer. “It’s like the whole fashion industry gets off on mocking their audience.”

“Oh?” Val said in a challenging tone. “Why do you say that?”

“Fashion’s just an engineered cultural virus. It's the Emperor’s new clothes, turned back on ourselves. And what’s with the whole death and violence thing?”

“You don’t approve, I take it,” Val said, in what I thought was a darkly amused tone.

“It’s either a total failure of imagination, or a test to see how much crap we’ll buy before we wise up. Which apparently is a whole lot,” I said, waving at the screen with disgust.

“Careful, now, can’t have our little Eloi thinking too much. Have you considered they might do it because it’s profitable?”

“Whatever. The whole fashion business is stupid.”

I rose and stuck my head in the fridge to look for something to drink. The options weren’t numerous. At the store I’d spontaneously resolved to cut down on soft drinks, and now regretted it.

“You didn’t say that about the photo shoot I did for that art magazine a few years ago. I recall you rather liked it.”

My kingdom for a Coke, I thought, pushing condiment bottles aside, searching in vain.

“Because you were in it, silly,” I said over my shoulder. Indecisively, I fingered the six-pack of Perriers I’d bought as a healthier alternative. “That was art, not fashion. Hey, you want a mineral water?”

She laughed. “I think you were more interested in my friend Gary.”

I gave up and took a Perrier from the carton, twisted the top off and put it in the trash beneath the sink. “Gary? The guy? You mean Gabri—”

I’d walked into the living room, around the divider that ran from floor to ceiling, to find Val standing beside the couch, her eyes locked on me like the sights on a gunship.

Oh shit.

We had never spoken about the Chamber shoot.

I froze, a deer caught in bright headlights.

“That’s right, his name is Gabriel. And I’m curious how you know that.”

“I…” I began to protest.

“He and I are still friends, you know. We talk now and then, as we did this morning. Imagine my surprise when your name came up. Now: how do you know about my Gabriel?”

My mind whirled as I tried to rewind the story to a meaningful starting point. It was the scrapbook. It was…

“Milton,” I blurted. “The pictures, at Milton’s…”

Another step closer. “Milton, hmm. So you’re poking around his things, too.” Her voice was unnaturally flat, controlled, yet I heard something feral behind it, fangs bared.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

“Last night you used a pay phone at the laundromat to call my work.”

I raised my hand to my mouth in shock. This was all going horribly, horribly wrong.

“Who. Gave. You. That. Number.” Each word a dagger.

I began to tremble. “I…I peeked at your phone. I know it was wrong. I’m sorry!”

Hypnotically she drew closer and closer, eyes aflame. Without looking, she pointed toward the phone on the wall.

“And now, messages from someone named Paul. Who is Paul. What does he want. What did you tell him about me. Who does he work for.”

Her words were measured, low, filled with menace. Terror rendered me mute, and each unanswered question was an admission of utter betrayal.

“Are you fucking him,” she hissed. Her face clenched like a fist, and I saw cold fury in her eyes.

In a blur of movement, a jackhammer seemed to strike me in the chest, knocking me back. My arms shot out instinctively, and I felt an electric shock in my left forearm. The Perrier bottle, now gone from my hand, struck the wall.

Discontinuity.

My next perception was paralyzing pain in my chest, as a great weight pressed my ribs. My chin was being forced up and back, and something sharp pressed against my exposed throat. A woman’s laughter coming from the TV. A liquid chugging sound to my right: Blorp blorp blorp.

But the center of my universe was the demon face above me, its features twisted into a hateful mask. Val’s knee pressed harder, so hard I thought my ribs would crack.

The sharp thing pricked my neck as I vainly tried to breathe past the agony.

No, please, no. My mouth formed the words, with no air to give them voice.

Starry black crowded the edges of my vision. There was wet carpet under my right hand, and I remembered the Perrier. Something smooth and hard met my groping fingertips: the base of the bottle. But as I fumbled for a better grip, it slipped and rolled away. I tried to pull Val’s hand from my chin, but it was no use.

Darkness coiled about me. I knew with absolute certainty I was going to die.

A spasm took Val. Her eyes widened in sudden horror and she gasped, “Oh my god.” Then she was off me, stumbling into the kitchen, out of my narrow cone of vision. I heard a knife clatter in the sink.

The agony in my chest blunted slightly and I lay gasping like a fish, taking thin sips of cool, sweet air. My hand went to my throat; slickness there, but no great injury that I could detect.

There came another sound, so foreign that at first I couldn’t identify it. Val was weeping: deep, soul-wracking sobs that spoke of infinite remorse.

Get to the door. Get out of here.

When I rolled over to get up my left arm gave out, forcing a mew of pain. I moved across the carpet on three limbs. I crawled past the threshold to the kitchen, and the sobbing ceased. Val had seen my attempt to get away.

She came at me.

I squealed and scrambled away from her. My progress was checked by the aquarium stand, and then she was there, grabbing for me. I beat at her with my one good arm, holding the other close to my body.

“Get away from me! Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Koishi, stop,” she said calmly, eyes full of purpose. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Let me help.”

I remembered that voice, the one which always followed a whipping, the one who took care of me. Her hand stroked my leg reassuringly.

I cried then, the hard ice of my terror shattering into a flood of nameless emotions.

“Shhh. I won’t hurt you ever again.”

32     reset

AFTER CLEANING ME up, Val drove me to the emergency room and stayed with me, helped with the forms. It was a long wait.

The nurses asked pointedly about my injuries, especially the bandage on my neck. I told them I’d fallen, lacking the wits to spin a convincing lie. They didn’t believe me, but I didn’t care, and eventually they stopped pressing the matter. Val, for her part, said nothing.

It was a long, long evening of waiting, and pain, and more waiting. After the first X-ray, they said I had a nightstick fracture of the left ulna. The pain of setting the bone was appalling, far worse than anything I’d suffered under Val. (And I was glad there were no marks on my body to explain, this night.) The second X-ray verified the position of the bones, and they put on my cast. Another endless wait while it set.

Val kept quiet watch through all of it, with the same singleness of purpose she must have when assassinating someone, or interrogating them, or hacking their computer—whatever the hell she did for a living.

As for me, I simply endured.

It was nearly nine o’clock when they released me, after instructing us on what to do for the next 72 hours, and giving me a pain pill, with a prescription for more.

Val drove me home, after stopping to fill my prescription at my drug store’s drive-through window.

She opened the front door, guided me to the couch and helped me sit. Per the nurses’ instructions, she got pillows to elevate my arm and got ice for the swelling. I was zoning out from the pills, the pain, everything.

She came to me. Without a word, Val sank to her knees and hugged my legs in mute supplication. We stayed like that for a long time, while I tried to sort out the rubble heap of my feelings, and failed. It was too big, too fractured.

“He’s the one who gave me the tattoo,” I said groggily, answering her question from hours before.

“Who is that?” Val asked as she stroked my leg.

“Paul. He did the koi. The one I got for your gift. And I never said a word to him about you.”

That struck her. A minute passed before she spoke:

“He left a message while you were out. He warned you to be careful, that something bad might happen.”

That forced a chuckle out of me, and it hurt all over. “He has a way of knowing things.”

Time flowed sluggishly.

“Shall I go? Or do you want me to stay with you tonight?”

“Stay,” I said, not wanting to be alone, not knowing who else could fill that hole. “But tell me why. Why did you do it, Val?”

She shifted her position, and the answer was a long time coming.

“Koishi. You and I live in very different worlds. Mine is not safe. Bad things happen when I make mistakes, to me and others.” She hesitated. “But I trusted you. This morning that trust looked like a very big mistake.”

I waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “Dammit, Val. I’m not… I’m not a threat to you.”

She gave one dark chuckle at that, almost a grunt.

“But you stopped,” I pressed, needing more.

“I realized the nature of my error,” she said coolly. Her dispassion was strangely reassuring.

Val set about cleaning up the place, after turning on the television. Maybe it took her an hour, maybe longer, I couldn’t say for sure.

§

There was no sleep for me that night, only a fog of restlessness and pain, as I lay uncomfortably on my back with my arm raised. Part of every hour I had to put a big zip-lock bag of ice on my cast.

When she wasn’t helping with these things, Val became a silhouette in the window, keeping quiet watch in the chair she’d brought from the living room. When I grew thirsty, she was there with a glass of cool water. Once, she helped me to the bathroom.

Somehow I didn’t fear another attack. Val was entirely calm, protective, dutiful, and even penitent in her way. But neither was she really Val anymore. The Little Girl, the Keeper and Guardian, even the simpler Val I’d gotten to know in the last couple of days, all had gone away, as if on a ship across the sea. What remained was a gentle, selfless automaton.

When dawn arrived, it was not with a sense of renewal, but of night leaching from the sky, to be replaced with something not-dark. My soul was a thin membrane stretched taut over the frame of my aching body. Nothing seemed real.

Later in the morning I called work, to tell Carl about my mishap.

“Jeez, I give you a week off and you go kill yourself?” he bitched with exaggerated insensitivity. Most people considered Carl an asshole, but I’d grown fond of his gruffness. “Please tell me it’s not your right arm. Hammerfall needs your mouse hand. I need your mouse hand.”

“No, no, the mouse hand is fine,” I said wearily. “I just need a couple days off.”

“Well, if you have to,” he said dramatically. “But I don’t want you driving with a cast. Shelley lives in Agoura, you two can carpool.” And he gave me her number.

It turned out Shelley was happy to help, especially when I offered to help pay for gas.

As for calling my parents, that could wait.

§

The whole of Monday was not entirely real for me, but Val was there to help navigate.

Tuesday was better, and I decided I’d go to work the following day. By evening I had begun to wean myself from the pain pills, even though I hurt like hell.

Sitting in my oval living room chair, I felt strong enough to call Mom. She was predictably concerned.

“I’ll drive down,” she said.

“Mom, no, it’s okay. I have a friend helping me.” But how complex, the reality behind that last sentence. “And it’s only a nightstick fracture,” I added dismissively, hoping she’d take that as reassurance.

“Still. I should come.”

“Dad needs you. And anyway, I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

Then Dad took the phone, and I repeated everything I’d just told Mom. We talked for a half-hour. He went on about the new book he was reading, some expose of the Federal Reserve and the destruction of the gold standard. I made sounds to convince him I was interested. At least it wasn’t another Robert Ludlum novel.

During this call Val stood behind me and began to comb my hair, just as I had for her the night ants invaded her home. Her touch felt good, and it went on and on, like a soft summer shower. Then she began to tie my hair in a braid. After saying goodbye to my parents I sat with closed eyes, letting Val’s gentle tugs lull me into a trance.

When it was done she lightly held my head against her stomach, tracing the outline of my tattoo with a fingertip.

Her voice was soft as a ghost’s. “Why did you pick this tattoo, Koishi? What does it mean to you?”

It had been Paul’s idea, but I didn’t say that. “It’s what you call me. I found the picture and thought it was pretty.” A tear ran down my cheek.

After a moment she said, “Were you aware there’s a great deal of meaning behind this tattoo?”

I shook my head and sniffed. She stroked the tattoo in silence, then said:

“The koi is a strong swimmer. To the Buddhists it represents courage. Determination. Overcoming adversity. A koi doesn’t struggle on the cutting board. It takes the knife bravely, like a samurai.” She lightly drew her nail lightly across my neck, as if it were a blade. “And the Chinese have a legend that any koi which manages to swim up the waterfall at the Dragon Gate becomes a dragon itself. I had Grace research it for me, after you came to me on the pier. I just assumed you knew all this.”

I shook my head, no, and found myself crying without knowing exactly why. I pressed her hand to my cheek, and feared to let go.

33     dragon

WEDNESDAY MORNING AT half-past eight the phone rang; Shelley was parked at the curb, waiting for me.

I gathered my purse and keys from the kitchen counter, and turned to say goodbye to Val.

“Okay, I’m goi—”

And was surprised to find her standing right there, framed in the shafts of morning light which poured through my dining room window.

“—Oh,” I blurted, a little off-balance.

Val arranged my hair, studying me closely.

“Have a lovely day, Koishi,” she said, the way a mother might send her daughter off to the first day of school. She kissed me lightly on the forehead, moisture cool on my skin. “Remember to call if you need anything.”

I nodded, unsure how to respond, before stepping onto the landing and closing the door behind me.

§

I didn’t see Val’s car on the street when Shelley dropped me off at 6:30 that evening, an ominous sign. She had planned to start hunting for an an apartment while I was out, but it seemed a little late in the day for that. And when I unlocked the front door, my fears were realized.

Oh, no. No no no no no.

Val had gone, and left no trace.

Except for her pocket watch, which I found on the counter, oriented with Val’s usual perfection on top of an envelope.

I moved the watch aside.

On the front of the envelope she’d written, simply, Koi.

I flipped it over and held the left corner down with my cast, so I could run my index finger under the sealed flap—and managed to give myself a paper cut in the process. Sucking at it, I extracted the folded sheet of lined paper and read the words written in Val’s crisp hand:

Koishi,

There are too many things I can’t tell you, and too much of my life which stands between us. For a brief, wonderful moment I believed, until I was proven wrong. This is not what I want to do. Yet I cannot bear to hurt you again. And I am sure that, at some point, I would hurt you again. It is better that I am gone.

Thank you. Thank you for giving me so much and reminding me of the sort of life that I fight every single day to keep safe and preserve. Thank you for being my conscience and my inspiration. I wish I could share more with you, Koishi, but even if I could, it would only make you run away. No matter how much I might wish to be part of your world, I simply can’t. You must trust me in this.

Forgive me for leaving a letter. Sometimes words don’t come easily to me, and I don’t want to make this any harder than it must be. Just remember that you made me happy, Koishi.

In case of a real emergency, you still have my number. You’ll know the if and when of using it. Stay safe.

You swam up the waterfall. Now become a dragon.

—V

I slumped on the couch with the letter clutched to my chest, and wept for a very long time.

34     coda

“WHAT’S THIS?” PAUL asked, bending close over my shoulder. I liked the scent of him. He reached around me to lift the plastic ice cube from under a computer monitor, leaving a square hole in the fine layer of dust I hadn’t noticed before.

“A memento.” Nostalgia lent a huskiness to my voice, and Paul noticed.

I took the ice cube from him and gave it a brisk slap against the palm of my left hand, for the first time in two years. To my surprise, there was still some juice left.

He studied it for a minute. When he was done I shut it off, then spun it between a thumb and forefinger like a globe, deep in thought.

“I came to tell you I made popcorn,” he said. “The movie’s queued up and ready when you are.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Just let me save this and check my mail.”

He pointed to the screen. “How’s it coming?”

I zoomed out and showed him the entire image, a deep underwater scene far below the reach of sunbeams. Two exotic mermaid-like beings swam close without touching, in a yin-yang configuration. The descending creature had flowing blond hair and a perfect human torso blending into a the graceful curves of a dolphin tail. Her ascending counterpart, however, was a frightening deep-sea creature with inky skin and bioluminescent spots, trailing a hundred tendrils whose bright tips shone like tethered stars. Her nightmare face was little more than a mouthful of dagger teeth and two glassy eyes, unblinking as security cameras. Yet for all that, she had a kind of terrible beauty. The spiral dance of these two aquatic beings suggested mutual desire, but also the possibility of violence, feeding.

“You’re a complicated woman, Koishi Paz,” Paul said. “What do you call it?”

“Fathomless, I think.”

“Hmm, that’s deep.”

I turned to punch him playfully. “Yes, you dork. It also means unknowable.”

When he’d gone I studied it critically, then took a breath and clicked File > Save As…, giving it a new version number. Then I verified the backup drive was still doing its job. A hard drive meltdown last year had taught me the importance of archiving, the hard way.

I opened a browser and checked my email.

There was an important business proposal from Barrister Mewro Ghali of Nigeria, which I quickly marked as spam, sight unseen. The same fate befell the breathless notification of a FREE IPAD RESERVED IN YOUR NAME!

The next email wasn’t spam, but rather a message from Milton:

Congratulations are in order. Someone sent me a link to your interview in DigitalVisions last month.

(I could guess who that someone was.)

Let me be the first to say ’well done’. Your work continues to be sensuous, challenging, and technically impressive. Keep it up.

Which reminds me. I was recently approached for a commission, by a person with very (ahem) specific needs. My plate is quite full, and that article convinced me his project is right up your alley. With your permission, I’ll send him your contact information. It could turn out to be quite lucrative and lead to further work down the road. He has excellent connections.

Josie sends her love.

All the best,

Milton

Dear Josie. No direct mention of Val though, which was both a mercy and a thorn in my heart.

I owed Milton a great deal, first for giving me the courage to start Luminous Garbage Studio, and then helping me get up and running with advice and contacts. I still took freelance compositing work from Carl in the slow times, but the art commissions were picking up, and Paul had complete faith in my abilities. Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors for you, Joseph Campbell had said. So it did, though I had passed through some very strange places along the way.

My finger stroked the ice cube as I pondered all that had happened to put me on this path.

After sending Milton a quick reply expressing thanks, and my interest in the commission, I stiffly rose to join Paul in the living room.

“What’s the movie?” I asked, curling up against him on the couch.

“V for Vendetta,” he said.

Hugo Weaving was brilliant, even with his face hidden behind a Guy Fawkes mask the whole film. I cried when he told a tearful Natalie Portman that her new reality had no place for monsters like himself.

My epiphany came when she reluctantly threw the lever sending the train—and her beloved tormentor—to certain destruction, a fiery midwife to the birth of a better world.

I could not have thrown that lever. I would have held tight until the bombs went off, squandered everything he had fought for, and destroyed us both to no good end.

That is why Val had gone. I was the most dangerous thing in her world, the one who picked the lock of her self-made cage and freed the monster, to the peril of all.

I imagined her then as a dark, fanged predator running with her pack-mates in dire places. Hunting unknown enemies, keeping us safe. Keeping me safe, from herself as much as those nameless foes.

Touching my neck where the koi tattoo still swam, I thought of dragons and prayed that someday Val, too, might find deliverance.

August 24, 2011

afterword

THIS WORK IS a gift. It comes to you from tears, from demands, from discipline, from the whips of the tongue and the heart and the mind. The inspiration that gave birth to this gift is bloody in its own way, and I am the knife that cut it free. Therefore, it is only fit that I offer it a blessing as it goes out into the world.

Some time ago, Sandra and I crossed paths. I was pleased with her literacy, her education and her perspective, and our association grew over time. The work that you have just read is, in many ways, the sum of that association. Sandra has been scorched and scourged with inspiration over months and years now, and I have watched over her as she composed. I have been demanding, exacting, brutal and caring by turns. I have driven her onward when she weakened and dragged her up again when she failed. Her failures as well as her dreams are in the words you have read, and I have pulled both of them from her again and again until she was finally done. From the start, this book was meant to be mine, and she has given me every word.

This work is a gift, offered to me without reserve or condition, and I accept it without reserve or condition. And yet, in the end, it is I who am humbled by this act of service. So, with red-stained hands, I bow my head and acknowledge the fruit of Sandra's dedication to me, and I smile to think that the work might inspire some among you to adore what she and I have done.

—V

author's note

THIS IS A work of fiction, not a manifesto or blueprint for any sort of relationship.

If the dominant/submissive or BDSM lifestyle interests you, be aware there are right and wrong ways to go about it. Much of what transpires in Dangerous falls into the “wrong way” category. I implore you to learn about the concepts of Power Exchange, SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and RACK (Risk-Aware Consensual Kink) before attempting anything. Do the research, and use your head. There is much information to be found on the internet, but also a lot of nonsense.

acknowledgements

I AM INDEBTED to Anne Desclos, whose infamous novel set a fire in my young mind, and Catherine Robbe-Grillet and Elizabeth McNeill, who added fuel to that fire and, without meaning to, showed me the way.

Also, my heartfelt thanks go to the many people who offered inspiration, advice, and encouragement. They include (but are not limited to): V, Lotus, Andy, Suzanne, Gen, Cheryl, Kat, Mare, Mary and Stu, Amy, Ramona, Jester, Steve, Jason B, Shannon, Arnold, Carla, Belle, Annie, Juan, Heather, Ricercar, Tara, Roxanna, and Brannon. And of course my family, for putting up with me the whole time.

Table of Contents

part one

part two

part three

hymn to aphrodite

1 luminous garbage

2 hungry

3 leap of faith

4 training

5 tasting

6 elements

7 tangled

8 brunch

9 commission

10 millie

11 details

12 debut

13 milton

14 breach

15 adrift

16 grace

17 houston

18 party

19 scrapbook

20 gondriel

21 keeper

22 dislocation

23 clubbing

24 hooky

25 chamber

26 instructions

27 masks

28 closure

29 holocaust

30 halcyon

31 questions

32 reset

33 dragon

34 coda

afterword

author’s note

acknowledgements