Page 41 of The Debutantes
Piper eyes the staircase like she’s worried it might fall apart under us. “Is this safe?”
“Y’all are the ones who begged to come here,” he snaps. “Look, from here on out, don’t ask questions. And don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. Okay?”
We all stare at him, silent. Apparently satisfied, Milford turns and starts up the winding staircase. I get a creeping feeling, but I try to shake it off. This is a Krewe of Deus thing. The group is made up of people like our dads and their friends. Plenty of Mardi Gras stuff is culty. How bad can it really be?
The velvet muffles our steps, and as we get closer to the top, I can hear muted jazz. We end up at a small landing with another door, this one manned by a guy who could be a waiter at a fancy restaurant, except for the mask. It’s black, with a nosethat curves down into a long beak, like one of those old-timey plague masks.
I swallow, trying not to show how skeeved out I am. It’s like a game, I tell myself. And if there’s one thing I know about winning, it’s that you can’t let your opponent see your confidence slip.
“I’m here for the feast,” Milford says again. “I’ve brought guests.”
The masked man’s eyes drift over the three of us. Then he nods, pulling open the door to reveal another small room. This one’s lined with the same plush carpet as the staircase, only much darker, almost like blood. Victorian-style wall sconces cast it in fake candlelight. The jazz is louder in here, too. I can almost feel it in my teeth, like drums during a Mardi Gras parade.
We follow the man inside. Without a word, he disappears into an alcove to our left and comes back with three garment bags draped over his arms.
“You can change in there.” He nods at the velvet curtain on our right. “One at a time.”
Another cult alarm bell goes off in my head, and I shoot Milford a look, but he’s fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. No one else moves, so I step up, taking a garment bag from the man and going through the curtain. Behind it is basically a normal dressing room, only with a weird gothic-vampire feel. Two more wall sconces throw shadows on the long mirror.
I unzip the garment bag and hold my breath. The dress inside is gorgeous, emerald green silk with a slit up one thigh. When I slip it on and catch my reflection, the breath whooshes out of me. It’s perfect, bringing out the red in my hair, hugging my curves in all the right places and making me look like some kind of movie star. It’s not until I slip on the black heels thatcome with it, a half size too small, that I stop to wonder why it fits so well, how the man knew it would. Who I’m really getting dressed up for.
This is for Lily,I tell myself.We’re doing this to find her.But as I step back out of the dressing room, I don’t feel any more confident.
Piper goes next, coming out in a sky-blue chiffon dress with a lacy snowflake pattern. It’s perfect for her, turning her into some kind of winter princess. April’s next in simple black satin, nineties-style with spaghetti straps. She could be the bad-girl star of some grungy teen TV show, if she didn’t look like she wanted to dissolve on the spot.
“Shoes,” the masked man orders.
April looks down at her feet, the ratty Converse she’s still wearing. She swallows.
“We have a dress code,” the man adds sharply.
Milford shoots April an anxious look. “Just put them on.”
April disappears back through the curtain. When she comes back again, she’s wearing black kitten heels, but somehow, she looks even shorter.
“Phones,” the man says, holding out his hand.
I grip mine tighter. This is almost definitely the next step in the whole cult thing, but at this point, I know it’s not a match we can win. Either we follow the rules or give up on this whole thing. And even though the second option is starting to sound better and better, it’s not really a choice, not when that message is still burned into my brain.
We all know how hard it is to keep a body underground in this city.
If there’s even the slightest chance that this place has something to do with Lily disappearing, then there’s only one thing we can do.
We hand our phones over, and the man slips them into what looks like a row of mailboxes on the wall. He locks them in and then gives us another once-over, seemingly satisfied.
“This way.” He leads us to the door and whatever’s waiting behind it.
14APRIL
JANUARY 1, 1:15A.M.
The Pierrot is an attack of jazz and smoke and noise. It’s like stepping onstage at the ball, only so much worse, because all these people are faceless, hidden behind masks, their eyes watching us through the plastic and shimmering fabric like we’re the next course in their Michelin-star meal. As we enter, the din of conversation hushes to a low murmur, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the music crackling through invisible speakers.
We’re not the only women here. Milford saidno girls allowed,but there are plenty of us in ball gowns and sparkling masks—now, though, I understand what he really meant. Just like Les Masques, every woman here is on the arm of a man.
Just like Les Masques, it’s clear who’s really in charge.
One of the men approaches Milford. In one hand, he has a glass of amber liquor, and the other is wrapped around a young woman’s waist. A slow grin spreads on his face.
