Stoker sighs as he gives the dress another once-over, praying it won’t be too revealing. Even he can only be expected to handle so many huge dik-dik problems in one day.
Chapter 7
Riya Natrajan
“You’ve got talent, kid,” Riya Natrajan says to the billionth auditioner to cross the stage today. Okay, maybe it’s only been a few dozen, but, oh, does time drag when you need a fix. The auditioner’s eyes light up bright, a young little thing with gracious Indian features, too smooth skin, a gorgeous mop of black hair, and stage presence up to here. Her heart dangles on a string. She reminds Riya Natrajan of herself when she was a young teen, craving even the slightest validation or encouragement from anyone and everyone. “Now clearly, that talent isn’t in singing or dancing,” she continues, “but I’ve got a good feeling about you. I’m thinking accounting or finance. There’s good money to be had there.”
The girl’s lip quivers, but she keeps herself together pretty well despite the huge bomb exploding in her chest. “Thank you, Ms. Natrajan,” the girl says in a voice so small and pitiful that Riya can’t believe it came out of the same mouth that had belted those notes half a minute earlier. Then the girl pads off, stage left.
“She was good,” Adam Patel says, her manager of six long years.
“Yes—too good. Too pretty.”
“She could have been the next you.”
“Nobody will be the next Riya,” Riya Natrajan snarls. She lets her head loll back to give her eyes a break from the thousand lights that make up the riya! sign that serves as a backdrop to the stage, all glimmering in a repetitive sequence that’s making her nauseated. “Put me out of my misery! How many more?”
“Let’s just get these last few done, and then we can take a break, okay?” Adam slips her a flask from his breast pocket. She tosses the water from her glass, then pours herself a double shot of whatever. She’s not picky, and Adam has good taste. Riya Natrajan pays him too much not to.
The next two auditioners she dismisses without hearing a note. Too much chest hair, she’d screamed at one. And the other one, dressed in a neon paisley ensemble, she’d accused of flagrant misuse of the color palette.
“Stop right there,” she says to the third, a twentysomething brooder with jet-black hair and tattoos of dragon scales all over her body. The brooder lets the audition drop off midnote and stands erect, hands on her hips, like a smidgeon of confidence had crawled up her ass and then birthed a million babies in her lower intestines.
Adam leans over to confer, eyebrows pitched. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Most definitely,” Riya Natrajan says with a sigh of relief. “Could you please move a little to your left?” she asks the brooder, who quickly complies. “A little more. Perfect.”
“Riya . . .”
“No, I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one to notice.” She points at the riya! sign, specifically the bottom-right corner. “It’s uneven. That side is hanging way lower. Get somebody in here to handle it.”
Adam clears his throat, then smiles apologetically at the auditioner. “What about Gwyneth?”
“I don’t care who fixes it!”
“No, her.” Adam nods in the brooder’s direction, then whispers, “She’s one of the best we’ve seen so far.”
“She’s knock-kneed, Adam,” Riya Natrajan says, not bothering to be discreet. “You know how I feel about knock-knees.”
“Her legs are perfectly straight.”
“Says you.” The pop star crosses her arms and stares off over her shoulder, waiting for the problem to resolve itself.
“Thank you for your time, Gwyneth,” Adam finally says, nicely as he can, but Riya hears the anger prickling in his voice. “All right, let’s take a thirty-minute break.”
“Kill me now,” Riya Natrajan moans and rolls her eyes.
“Fine, an hour. But if you’re late . . .” Adam starts.
“Then you’ll wait,” she finishes. And with that, she shakes the stiffness from her legs, blows Adam a kiss, and then struts off.
Nervous murmurs become frenzied shouts as she breezes through the auditioners’ holding area, flanked on both sides by bodyguards. Delta bots hover midair, their camera flashes going off like an orgy of fireflies. Their lazy masters lounge against the far wall, flirting and boasting and showing off press credentials. Those no-good bastards don’t even bat an eye when she leans forward to give the bots a good cleavage shot, tan flesh spilling over her leather corset, a brilliant shade of turquoise. Stupid bot labor laws. Half the fun of being photographed is getting a rise out of the photographer and seeing how far she can push the bounds of decency. Short skirts, no panties. Sucking giant lollipops with the sultriest innuendo. Wardrobe malfunctions and million-rand nipple shots. The further she went, the faster the camera flashes, but with these bots, she could be twirling her long black tresses or giving head to a bull elephant, and their shutters wouldn’t click any differently.
But some fool in Parliament had decided to drop the stiff labor tariffs on delta bots, allowing them to enter freely into the workforce as long as they’re supervised one-on-one by humans. They do the work better and faster, and humanity reaps the benefits, right? Riya Natrajan smacks her lips. Don’t even get her started on alpha bots standing in line for hours to get autographs for “devoted” fans. She’s busted more than a few pairs of good pumps on those.
Riya Natrajan flips the bots off for good measure, then retreats to the quiet of her dressing room. Rife’s waiting for her there, leaned back on the velvet chaise lounge, legs crossed and hands clasped behind his head like he owns the place.
“Heya, little girlie,” he says, voice sexy yet sexless. His blond hair is spiked now, his silk shirt just a bit too tight across the chest. It’s good to see him again, but Riya Natrajan’s not one for warm hellos.
Her eyes dart to the brown paper bag sitting on her ivory vanity. “That’s everything?” she asks.
“Cha, mama. And then some.”
“Did anyone see you come in here?”
“A dozen people. ’Bout the same of bots.”
Riya Natrajan cracks a smile. Usually Rife comes and goes as easy as the breeze. That’s what he’s known for, but she always makes him strut for the cameras. It’ll be good for the gossip rags, starlet seen with suspected drug dealer after thirty days of rehab. And then when her balance shifts and she stumbles while getting out of her limo, or when her foot goes numb and she falls onstage, they’ll all think she’s high or drunk or both. But they’ll still buy her albums and sing her songs and pry into every moment of privacy, every secret except for one.
She’s been struggling with multiple sclerosis since the age of twelve. Yeah, she’d had the T4–20 series of immunizations, effective 99.999 percent of the time in preventing a whole assortment of illnesses and disease, but then again, Riya Natrajan has always known that she’s one in a million. So she gets her pot and pain meds from a dealer instead of a proper pharmacist, though she could easily get prescriptions for both. It helps with this “jaded starlet” persona she’s constructed around her true self. On those days when she’s paining so bladdy bad, she can be a cruel bitch, mad at the world, and no one knows the difference.
Riya Natrajan dumps out the contents of the bag and rolls up a fat joint while eyeing a small vial of blue powder. “What’s that?” she asks as she lights up.
“An early birthday present.”
Riya Natrajan spins around, caught off guard. She’ll be thirty this Sunday. Nobody knows that but her and God. The rest of the world thinks she’s a pert twenty-four, born the fourteenth of October. Compliments of good genes from her mother’s side of the family, and a little help from Dr. Arvin Dandekar.
“Hmmm,” she says. She’s been doing this too long to tip her hand. “Very early.”
“Cha, mama,” says Rife, but his cool smile lets her know that he knows he’s right on time.
She passes him the joint and, curiosity getting the best of
her, picks up the vial.
“You’ll be so light, mama. Won’t know a bit of pain. You can dance like the old days—sing like the old days, too.”
“Nobody wants to hear music like that anymore,” Riya says with disgust. “They want gossip and raunchy lyrics, ass and tits. Why even try?”
“Because you’re an artist.”
Riya Natrajan huffs and tries to pop the top off the vial.
“Careful with that. You might lose your inhibitions.”
“Glad to know you think I have some.” She bites her lip, wedges into the chaise, and drapes her leg over his.
“I might be the only one,” Rife says with a sly wolf’s grin. He brushes the hair out of her face, then traces his finger along her collarbone.
“Hush!” she says, giggling. Heat rises in her cheeks. Her insides cramp up, a welcome ache in the most delicate of areas. Riya Natrajan is strong. She has to be to live the life she does, but somehow she doubts she’ll have the resolve to turn thirty alone. “Stay with me tonight. Room service. Champagne. Bubble baths.” She tucks the keycard for her hotel suite into his slacks.
“Can’t, mama. Duty calls.”
“I’ll let you tell all your friends you fucked me.”
“I already do.” His finger drifts down between her breasts. She believes him, too, but trusts him to keep the secret that truly needs discretion. He knows. Maybe not her exact diagnosis, but he senses she’s in real pain, Riya Natrajan is sure about it. He connects to her like no one else can, and yet there’s the beauty of no attachments. She doesn’t have to pretend to be something she’s not. Maybe that’s why she gives herself so easily to him. Well, that, and Rife’s a damn good lay.
Underneath a curt smile, she cusses his name. Every hetero male over the age of thirteen and a half would die to get into her jewel-studded panties. Rife makes her beg for the privilege. She doesn’t beg long though—not after she guides his hand up her sculpted thigh, fingers navigating around lace and rhinestone until he’s knuckle-deep inside her.
“Please,” she moans, lips barely giving breath to the word. It angers Riya Natrajan that he has this effect on her—but in all fairness, Rife knows a thing or two about addiction.
And now he fills her up, both literally and figuratively, their flesh occupying the same space in a slick dance of primal urges. Her fingertips slip across the muscles of his bare chest and then glide down the ripples of his abdomen, traveling over the scars of his livelihood so boldly on display . . . unlike all of hers, hidden neatly away. He’s as tough as they get, but now he’s gentle. Too gentle. She tells him so.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, warm breath sliding past her ear and down her neck.
“I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”
“True, mama.” Rife doubles the beat, slipping deeper inside her. “Sing to me.”
She does, and together their moans form a melody so sweet that the world beyond them disappears completely. And then there it is, that lyrical crescendo in high C, when all her body knows is pleasure. It ripples through her, a fading rhythm, an echo, then nothing.
He crashes down beside her, and they both catch their breath, like two sardines pressed together on that thin chaise lounge. She wriggles her skirt back down to cover her thighs and tucks her B-cup breasts into a miraculously padded D-cup bra.
Rife’s not one for warm good-byes. He fishes around on the floor for his boxers. “You’ll fly, mama,” he says, then presses the vial back into her palm.
She grasps it weakly and closes her eyes, daring to relive that sweet moment a dozen times. When she opens them, he’s gone.
“I’m Felicity Lyons and I’ll be singing ‘Ass Without a Name’ by, well, you.”
Riya Natrajan rolls her eyes. “No, you won’t,” she says, then dismisses the auditioner with a flick of her hand. If she has to hear that damned song one more time . . .
“Please, Ms. Natrajan. If you’ll just let me perform a different song, I promise you won’t be sorry.” She’s got impressive calves in those heels, Riya will give her that. Beefy girl, but a diva to the nth degree.
“Go ahead. Give me a couple bars of something.” Oh, she’s getting too soft. Underneath the table, she fondles the vial, pops the top. She’ll fly, Rife had said. She shudders at the thought of him, phantom throbbing causing her to moisten all over again.
She taps a small amount into her palm, then feigns a yawn and snorts it. It stings good, and she feels lighter almost immediately. Happy birthday to her.
Felicity does a number, old old school, Aretha Franklin. She’s amazing, tromping around in that golden sequined dress, voice hitting pure notes Riya Natrajan hasn’t heard in a long time. Her foot starts tapping, the groove resonating through her bones—toes to legs to spine to arms. Then Riya Natrajan does the unthinkable. She claps her hands. Only they’re not hands. They’re wingtips. Shit, Rife! Could have warned her about the hallucinations. Her heart flutters around in her chest, mind moves a million ways at once. She feels buoyant, like her body is working with her instead of against her for a change.
She jumps out of her chair and gives her wings a flap. Behind her trail long feathers, the most beautiful blue with black eyelets staring back at her and details to rival any couture gown. A peacock. Prized symbol of India, the homeland of her ancestors, so many generations back now. Fitting in so many ways . . . well, besides the cock part.
She joins Felicity onstage, cutting in and riffing together, harmonizing and upstaging each other all at once. “Respect,” “Chain of Fools,” “A Natural Woman” . . .
“She’s the one,” Riya Natrajan proclaims after they wrap up with a chord sharp enough to crack glass.
“Indeed,” says Adam, smiling ear to ear.
Felicity squeals and wraps her arms around Riya, their bodies pressing together with a force that would have crippled her any other day. Whatever this new drug is called, it’s nothing but a godsend. The pain is gone, not just covered up, but gone. And her mind is sharp, maybe sharper than it’s ever been. Riya imagines her new concert tour—bigger routines, longer sets, more extravagant choreography. Bless this peacock!
And speaking of cocks, they’re going to have to do something about Felicity’s. A less clingy dress would be a good start, but don’t worry, dear. Riya Natrajan is good at keeping secrets.
Chapter 8
Sydney
Sydney’s a sucker for old movies. She remembers the first time she’d seen one, in black and white, when movies were starting to get sound. Even back then she hadn’t had more than a handful of believers, but South Africa was filled with strife, injustice, fear . . . and fear can recharge a demigoddess’s powers in a pinch if there’s enough of it. So she’d willed her skin white, unkinked her hair, and had just enough ire left over to draw herself vaguely European facial features. She’d looked a hot mess, but no one blinked an eye when she’d strutted past the yellow sign proclaiming for use by white persons only in English and Afrikaans, straight up the plush red carpeting to purchase her ticket, and then sat down in that theater with a smuggled bag of popcorn in her lap.
And now, those old movies have become her escape from this dull excuse for an existence. She watches her television now, rapt in her hovel of an apartment as the corny, old-time music crackles through her stereo speakers. She laughs at the slapstick comedy and tries to put her crappy day at the nail salon behind her, while avoiding thoughts of the custodial overseer job she’ll go to this evening.
“Please,” comes a weak voice from the man currently stretched across her coffee table. “I beg of you. Let me go.”
And then there’s that distraction.
Sydney’s surprised he still has the strength to speak, much less the will to live with all the hell she’s put him through—skin flayed like a tuna, legs bent at half a dozen impossible angles. She tunes his moaning out and savors the fear lapping at his skin like viscous waves breaking on the beach after an oil spill. She absorbs it—foul, thick, and d
ark.
“Please,” he begs again.
“Shhhh!” Sydney says to her meal, though she keeps her gaze affixed to the screen. It’s just getting to the good part. She props her feet up on the coffee table, her heels smearing through his blood. That coffee table is the only connection she has to her former glory as one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the face of the earth. At the table’s base is an ancient slab of ebony wood with thick iron spikes jutting up in a simple yet pleasing checker pattern. Suspend a man over it, and it becomes an effective torture device, breeding fear by the bushel. Top it with a nice piece of beveled glass, toss in a couple of coasters, and ta-da! Perfect place to rest a drink or TV dinner.
“I won’t tell anyone. I won’t call the police.”
It’s bad enough he’s bleeding all over her floor, but interrupting one of her all-time favorite movies . . . now that’s just plain rude. Sydney rolls her eyes, then gestures with her hand, a graceful swoop. Her meal rises up and smacks the ceiling with a wet thwack. She then gingerly removes the coffee table’s glass top and props it up against the side of her sofa.
“Another word, and I’ll drop you.” She gorges on the surge in fear as it pushes back that empty space inside her, recharging her like a battery fighting to live past its shelf life.
“Why are you—”
Another gesture and his lips zip shut. Sydney fluffs her sofa cushions, then gets back to the movie.
I know what you are, come his thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a witch,” she says mockingly. She really doesn’t want to kill him, not just yet. Who knows the next time she’ll be able to feed? Too many people start disappearing and the cops start asking questions and canvassing for leads. Sydney’s getting too old to move. She’s lived in this apartment for almost six years now, probably longer than she’s lived anywhere her entire life. Well, at least the last century or so of it. She keeps to herself so maybe her neighbors won’t notice that she hasn’t aged since she’d moved in. Blending into the woodwork has become second nature. It’s all she can do to survive day to day, let alone expending the energy to rebuild a following.
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