“Hello, Beulah,” Marti said. “Hello, Pecks. Hello, Guns.”
The woman—who stood at least eighteen inches taller than me—raised an eyebrow. One of her biceps—probably the size of my skull—twitched.
Marti gave a hesitant laugh. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder. In our plan, we’d anticipated a cold reception, but not two extra guards.
“Pecks and Guns will take you to the Patio,” Beulah said. She smiled with false sweetness, as if the Patio were where children and small animals went to die. “It seems you got lost last time, and we wouldn’t want that to happen again. Now would we?”
“Uh, of course not,” Marti said.
Pecks led us out of the room. Guns followed. We walked between them, down the old-smelling hallway with the red carpet. The terra cotta walls seemed much closer together than they had the last time I’d walked and driven through them. We didn’t see any of the hovering limos.
Marti leaned in close to me and whispered.
“Say as little as possible.”
“That was my plan,” I said.
“The first time I met the Council, I nearly punched them out. So, try to stay calm. Let me do the leading.”
It only took a minute for us to pass through a wide set of double wooden doors, out onto a wide patio. Along its edges, torches burned atop long poles, and their oily smell mixed with seawater. Dozens of people lay on beach chairs or sat at tables or on plush couches. A fair number of people wore bathing suits, but just as many wore full clothes. In fact, a few sported what looked like gowns and doublets you might see in a Shakespearean play.
Bushes with pointy leaves crept over the edge of the patio as if they wanted to join the party. Palm trees leaned in as if trying to get a better look at the people in swimming suits.
A splash over my head and a light spray of water on my face made me look up. A bean-shaped swimming pool hung in the air—it just floated there, as if on an invisible pedestal within glass walls and floor—except the water on the sides and bottom wasn’t flat. It rippled out from the edges in six-inch waves that then folded back into the pool.
Half a dozen couples played chicken in the shallow part. The shifting water distorted the shapes of their legs and bodies, reminding me of ocean animal documentaries. The laughter and screams of women trying to stay on their partners’ backs almost covered the thumping of a techno beat.
On the opposite end of the pool, at the deep end, a woman in a bikini climbed a thirty-foot ladder toward a high dive as a man in a speedo dove off the low springboard and cut into the water like a dolphin. For a second, it looked like he might descend straight through to the bottom of the pool, and come out onto the people lounging on chairs at tables below him, but he curved his body up, and kicked toward the surface of the water.
“Close your mouth,” Marti said. “It’s not polite to gape.”
I widened my eyes at her, let my mouth open further, and pointed at the pool.
“That pool,” I said, and didn’t know how to finish, other than, “hovering.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “Look at the beach.”
My eyes hadn’t even wandered that far, but they went there. Fast. It probably wasn’t more than fifty yards away, beyond the pool, the edge of the patio, and a hedge of low, pointy-leaved bushes.
The light of the nearly full moon kissed the crest of waves against the white sand, where another several dozen people perched atop pillars of what looked like sand. The columns shifted and churned, like the sand fell away every second, only for more sand to rise and take its place. Some of the people sat, others stood, but all of them watched the man and woman who danced with light on the sand below them.
No, they didn’t dance. They cast spells. Shapes hovered all around them in a mixture of colors. For some reason, the brink dripped in great globs. Wherever it hit the beach, the sand turned shiny, as if transforming to glass that reflected the colorful shapes hovering above them. It looked like the spell casters pranced over a bed of vibrant stones.
“What. Is. That?” I said.
“Dueling,” Marti said.
She yanked on my arm, pulling me after Pecks.
“I want to try it,” I said.
“You can’t even draw a spell to wipe your own nose with. Dueling would kill you.”
Pecks led us down some steps to the patio level. We passed along the edge of the tables. I nearly tripped over Marti as I gaped at the floating pool. We moved around groups of people standing together or lounging in chairs. Every person watched us. Some of them snickered and pointed at us, while someone laughed on the other side of the pool.
I felt on-stage. No, not on-stage, because when I was on-stage I felt welcome. At Intersoc, I felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s performance, and no one wanted me around.
At the opposite end of the patio, near the low hedge, Pecks led us to a set of four patio couches facing each other, where eight people sat around a low table. As we approached, five of the people stood and withdrew—but not far. They lingered near, whispering to each other and not even pretending not to stay nearby just to listen in. Two men and a woman remained seated.
Pecks gestured at Marti and I, and looked at the three people who still sat.
“Here you are,” Pecks said. “They didn’t try to pull any shenanigans this time.”
One of the men didn’t even look at us. He stared straight ahead, eyes wide. He wore all black, including the liner around his eyes and mouth. His face seemed pale enough that he probably wore white makeup. His hair stuck up in a line of spikes from his forehead to the back of his neck. I should have recognized him.
The other man, sitting on one of the couches alone, motioned for us to sit down. I swear, Marti actually growled and rolled her eyes as she moved around the couch to sit. I followed her example, and realized as I did who the second man was. His black turtleneck and short gray hair gave him away—and it surprised me so much that as I sat I nearly missed the couch.
Fortunately, I am excellent at sitting on couches, and managed to not fall off.
He was Billy Blake, a huge contemporary artist from the seventies and eighties.
“Who is this?” the woman said.
She held her chin high, and I almost blushed just looking at her because of her short brown skirt and tight red tube top. But I did look at her, and this time I actually did fall off the couch from the surprise.
She was Wanda Lovejoy, the biggest star of the sixties. My grandpa had more of her albums than Mom had pairs of shoes. Wanda was at least seventy years old, but looked like she could be Marti’s sister. Lots of surgeries, I guess.
The crowd around us laughed as my butt hit the ground. Pecks and Guns, who started to head back the way we came, were the loudest.
“Get up, you idiot!” Marti said.
She helped me back up onto the couch. Well, she gave my arm a sharp yank that didn’t really help me, but that probably improved her mood.
“You’re that rock star kid,” Billy Blake said. He turned his lip up in a sneer. “Van Bender’s son. The one from the YubeTube.”
I nodded, knowing by now that I shouldn’t open my mouth. Not unless I wanted to embarrass myself further.
“It’s YouTube,” the guy in makeup said. He still didn’t move his gaze to any one person. “YouTube. Not freaking YubeTube.”
Billy waved his hand. “Whatever.”
“Well,” Marti said, with only slight impatience. “What can we do for the Council, tonight?”
Wanda flicked a hand in my direction. “Did you receive permission to bring him here?”
“No,” Marti said. “I haven’t. I haven’t had the chance to ask.” She turned to me, and gestured at the three. “These are entertainers of the diamond level and comprise the Council of Bamboozlers.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Council of what?”
Other people had gathered around us, so that at least forty listened to the conversation. Wanda glanced around at them and sighed�
�well, growled.
“We really should change the name,” she said.
“We can’t change the name!” said Mr. Makeup. “The King wouldn’t like it.”
“We changed the names of levels,” Billy said. “And the name of the order. Why can’t we change the name of the Council?”
Marti jumped in. “But since we’re here, I might as well ask if he can join us. Is that okay? I’ll vouch for him.”
They looked at each other. Well, Billy and Wanda did. Mr. Makeup just stared ahead, his mouth wide like a fish.
“He’s not welcome here,” said a man standing in a nearby cluster of people.
“And neither are you,” a woman chimed in.
A rumble of agreement rolled through the crowd, just barely audible over the thump of the music and splashing of the water. People poked their heads out of the side of the pool, to look down at us.
I got the feeling that no one really wanted us there. Call it a hunch. A sixth sense. Whatever. But I felt it as surely as I knew Mom would flay me if she knew I’d come to Intersoc again.
Marti gave me a sharp look, as if to keep me quiet. Like the people all around me hadn’t already accomplished that with their warm and sunny reception.
“This is Richie Van Bender,” Marti said, sitting up straight. “He’s sold more albums today than most of you have sold in your lives.”
I looked around, again. Were all of these people standing around the pool, sipping drinks and wearing swimming suits or Shakespearean costumes—were they all artists? Musicians of some sort? I looked through their faces as they glared at me. None looked familiar.
One-hit wonders, probably.
Except for one man who stood opposite me, in the midst of a crowd wearing Renaissance clothing. He wore an enormous hat that drooped over his head, almost like a deflated chef’s hat, except purple with wide red stripes, and a green feather sticking out. He had his eyes locked on me, and he smiled and nodded when our eyes met.
He looked familiar. I stared at him, trying to figure out who he was, but without success.
“She’s right,” Mr. Makeup said, “even if she’s wrong about me. But she’s right, otherwise. Van Bender, here, has sold a lot of music.”
The crowd continued to rumble. Jealousy rolled off them. In just a few short years, they’d all been outsold by a no-talent hack who’d gotten famous on YouTube.
“I say he stays,” Mr. Makeup said.
The crowd grumbled.
Billy rolled his eyes. “We still have the matter of your last visit here, Marti. You were specifically asked to come to us, and yet you did not.”
Marti coughed into her hand. “Ah, um, during our last visit we were on quite an urgent errand. My apologies.”
Billy raised his eyebrows at her. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
Marti nodded. She reached a hand over and squeezed my knee, to shut me up. As if I would have said anything, anyway.
Everyone around us fell silent. A breeze rustled the trees. Above us, the water flowed in around itself, making the sound of an ocean beach. Or maybe that sound came from the beach not far off. I couldn’t be certain.
“Oh, give the girl a break,” Mr. Makeup said. “We all know how it is to be in a hurry and not want to be interrupted.”
Marti clamped harder on my leg. I wanted to tell her I had no plans to say anything, but just sat there, gritting my teeth, trying to look innocent.
“That,” Wanda said, “has got to be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. I say that both of them go. Their prior insolence can’t be tolerated. Neither can their music.”
The crowd mumbled their satisfaction. I didn’t look at them because I realized that they were voting. Mr. Makeup, Billy Blake, and Wanda Lovejoy were voting on whether or not I could stay at Intersoc.
“Oh, give it up,” Marti said. She rolled her eyes. “All of you, just give it up.”
And so far one had voted for us, and one against us. Only Billy’s vote remained.
I licked my lips, and tried not to look like a beggar as I met his eyes. He still had his eyebrows raised and his lips tight.
Chapter 36: The Code of Intersoc
He’s insufferable. And I hate his dad. But in the end, I can’t help but think of my first time at Intersoc.
-Billy Blake
“I guess,” Billy said, and he shrugged and flipped a hand toward us. “I guess you can stay.”
The crowd erupted in disbelief and surprise. Billy silenced them with a raised hand, and spoke to Marti.
“But before you do anything else, teach him The Code.”
Wanda glared at me. “And he doesn’t tell anyone about us.”
“And,” Mr. Makeup said, “he doesn’t diss the Council.”
Billy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “And, most importantly, teach him how to use brink. I don’t want any accidents, like happened with Beau Lasseter.”
I blinked. Beau Lasseter was the bassist for a popular death metal band. He’d disappeared a few years before. Everyone had assumed that his band had offed him and hidden the body.
Apparently not.
Marti stood and dragged me to my feet. “We’ll get to that.”
Billy raised his hands. “No—don’t get to it. Do it right now. I don’t want him vaporizing himself.”
“We’ll get to it,” Marti said, trying to move away.
“Yes,” Wanda said. “You’ll do it right now. Or you’ll both leave.”
Marti sighed and shook her head. “Fine. I’ll go teach him right now.”
She pulled me away by the hand. I grinned at the Council as I left. They rolled their eyes. I looked again at the man in the doublet and with the feather in his hat, to try and figure out who he was. From the smile he gave me, he clearly knew me, but I couldn’t place his face.
Marti and I walked back up the patio toward the building.
“Take your fame in stride,” Billy called after us. “You’ll be a nobody again before much longer.”
“Ignore them,” Marti said. “That’s how they treat anyone who hasn’t sold a least a trillion albums.”
As we climbed three stairs, I looked back at them, trying to keep from smarting at Billy’s prediction. I sure hoped my musical success would continue indefinitely. Maybe all artists feared that their next albums would bomb, and they’d be through.
As we made our way along the back of the terra-cotta building, the crowd resumed its rumbling, and most people turned their attention away from us. I realized that I was in the club, or whatever it was, but that I wasn’t really a part of it, yet.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.
We rounded a corner, and she released my hand as we entered an expansive enclosure, open on one side, with a high ceiling. Stone arches made it feel like a church, and the dozen chandeliers made me think of an art gallery I’d once seen. I had to look twice to be certain, but candles lit the chandeliers, and ropes and pulleys connected them to the ceiling.
A line of several people stood at the edge of a wide red carpet, behind a velvety line that dangled between poles. The red carpet extended all the way out of the space, and around the corner toward the pool area.
From the hallway opposite the closed side of the space, one of the limos drifted into the space, and came to a silent halt right at the head of the red carpet. A man wearing a tuxedo and white gloves helped a woman in a bikini out of the passenger side of the car, then turned to the line of people running down the edge of the carpet.
“Her Lady, Trixie Sugar,” the man said. Announced is more like it.
Behind me, the people on the patio fell relatively quiet. They looked to Trixie Sugar, a mildly successful pop star whose fame was beginning to wane, and clapped. The man who’d sat in the car with her, came around the front of the cart, took her hand—which she held up at her shoulder level—and led her down the red carpet.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“Nope,” Marti said. �
�These people take themselves very, very, very seriously.”
She led me up the carpet. Trixie passed us, going the other direction, and didn’t even glance to the side at us.
A pair of people at the front of the line jumped into the cart and sped off. There were still seven or eight people ahead of us.
“We have to wait in line?” I said.
She nodded. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Most people who leave are only going to the bathroom. And there are lots of cars.”
I looked back at the floating pool and made up my mind. This place was insane.
“So,” Marti said. She turned her back on the rest of the line. “The Code. It’s a simple guideline for members of Intersoc. Pretty simple rules. Stuff like, ‘don’t abuse the power,’ ‘use the power for good,’ ‘be excellent to each other.’”
“Sounds strict.”
“They were established a lot of years ago.”
“They said something about changing the name of the order. What was the name, before?”
“It’s still called the same thing, but the shortened name is different. It used to go by IMHO.”
I laughed. “IMHO?”
“I know, right? It was IMHO long before there was IMHO in text-speak. It’s full name is Intersociety of Magical, Honorable Offerings, or IMHO for short. But texting changed that because no one wanted to be known as humble or opinionated. So, now we go by Intersoc.”
“And the orders they mentioned?”
“There are several levels of entertainer—or magician. They didn’t like the name ‘magician,’ and so changed it to entertainer a few years back, at the same time they changed the levels.” She glanced back at the line of people, and lowered her voice. “There used to be five orders. Magician, conjurer, sorcerer or sorceress, warlock or witch, and shaman. They felt that sounded way too Harry Potter-ish, and so changed them to copper, silver, gold, platinum, and diamond.”
“I bet you’re the highest level there is, right?”
Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) Page 16
