A week before the big event, Jasmine, Pretzel, and Veronica flew down to the island with Cosmo and his boyfriend, a Las Vegas magician with an impossibly golden tan named Johnny LaRock. Pretzel was hugely impressed with the beach house—it had the biggest hot tub she’d ever seen in her life. For the most part, the place was decorated with pirate goodies, nautical oddities, and quirky little statues of what looked like scrawny dogs with scales and batwings.
She told Veronica to fire up the hot tub and then headed for the bar in the living room. The Gilmans kept an enormous supply of liquor on hand, including some odd green bottles shaped like conch shells and sea-horses. She opened one of the conch shell bottles and took a sip: some sort of dark beer, it seemed. Rather sweet, with no bitterness at all. She drank half of the glass sea-horse’s contents in three swallows. Bottle in hand, she went to see how the tub was coming along.
Veronica was already lounging in the bubbling water. “I see you found the Essence of Anemone,” she said. “Come on in. The water is perfectly lovely. Just strip down and jump in.”
Pretzel was beginning to feel lightheaded. “Essence of what? Anne who?” She finished the bottle and slipped it into the water to let it swim. As she removed her top, a button came off in her hand and she realized, with a giggle, that she didn’t care. She couldn’t even remember who the designer was, or why it even mattered. Before she knew it, she was as naked as a coffee bean and brewing in the big yummy cup with Veronica.
Jasmine entered the room leading a handsome, olive-skinned middle-aged man. “Pretz! Ronny! Look who showed up!”
Pretzel smiled at him. “Ali Baba?”
“Veronica,” Jasmine said, “I’d like you to meet my gentleman friend, Farouk Alhazred. Farouk, this is my friend Veronica Gilman, from Innsmouth. It’s in New England somewhere—”
“I am familiar with Innsmouth.” Farouk’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “And with the Gilman name.”
Veronica’s huge eyes narrowed to slits. “Hello, Mr. Alhazred. Read any good books lately?”
Jasmine put her hands on her hips. “Do you two know each other?”
Farouk turned to her. “Do you recall, my precious lamb, my telling you of an extraordinary book written many centuries ago by one of my kinsmen? The Necronomicon?”
“Vaguely. Has it come out in paperback yet?”
The Arab simply stared at her.
“When it does,” she said, “tell them to put Fabio on the cover.”
“The Necronomicon is a book of ancient wisdom, of secrets from beyond the stars and beneath the sea. It tells of evil beings who long to degrade, to torment, and ultimately, to destroy all of humanity.” Farouk turned his stare toward the Innsmouth girl. “I am leaving now, but I shall return. And I expect you to be gone, Daughter of Dagon. Return to the black mud of the ocean floor. That is the only home this world can offer for you and your filthy kin.”
Pretzel laughed nervously. “Farouk darling, please ease up on the girl. Veronica is going to be very big. She’s having lunch with Giorgio Armani next week. That’s one of his suits you’re wearing.”
He placed his firm, tanned hand along the blonde woman’s jaw, cradling her face. “Pretzel, you are a child, a lovely spoiled child, and you are playing with a serpent that has crawled out of the depths.” He brought his lips close to her ear. “She wears those gloves all the time, yes?”
Pretzel thought for a moment. She still felt extremely groggy from her sea-horse cocktail—it was difficult to gather her thoughts. But yes, Veronica always wore those gloves, those black gloves with the fingers cut out. She looked up and realized with a jolt that the girl was still wearing them.
In the hot tub.
Farouk bowed toward Jasmine. “When I return, you can expect a gift of jewelry. A traditional necklace of soapstone stars. It has powers to protect the wearer from evil.”
The Arab left the room. Jasmine waited to be sure he was out of earshot before she turned toward Veronica. “You’ll have to excuse Farouk. I’ve never known him to be superstitious or—well, so B-movie. He must have had you mixed up with somebody else. I’ll go have a talk with him.” She smiled apologetically and then followed her boyfriend.
Veronica moved with an eel’s grace to Pretzel’s side. “And what do you think, my salty, twisted friend? Do you think I am some sort of naughty sea serpent?”
“That’s depends.” Pretzel took the girl by the hand. Then she quickly grabbed her glove by the cuff and pulled it off.
Between each finger stretched a half-inch of translucent, lightly veined webbing.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Pretzel whispered.
Veronica edged closer, smiling. “Not feeling well? Nurse Ronny knows what to do. You’ll love it—better than a B-12 shot.” She opened her mouth wide. Two thin, flexible pink spines lanced out from under her tongue, embedding themselves in the soft flesh above Pretzel’s left breast. The blonde woman passed out a moment after the hot fluid began to pulse into her body.
* * * *
Pretzel spent the next two days in bed with a high fever. Every now and then she stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, or gulp down glass after glass of cold water. She found it impossible to rest. Whenever she did manage to fall asleep, she would soon find herself having nightmares about horrible, nauseating things—worm-riddled sailor corpses, babies with tentacles, giant yapping clams with eyeball-covered tongues. She also dreamed of a super-old stone building that seemed somehow to be inside-out and backwards. Frog-faced fishpeople swarmed in and out of the place, laughing and plotting and singing froggy songs. Somewhere inside slept a giant snot-covered bat-lizard-monkey-devil, a snake-bearded boogeyman that called out to her in a voice like poisonous syrup. It told her that it loved her, and that she would soon be more beautiful than she could ever imagine, and that she would have luxury and pleasure and power forever and ever. Then it told her to find Dagon. Yes, Dagon would know what to do…
At one point, Jasmine came to her room to check on her. Pretzel noticed that she was wearing a necklace of stone stars. She found it unspeakably repulsive and screamed that it was tacky, hideous, a piece of trash. Furious, Jasmine stormed out of the room.
At last the fever passed, and Pretzel felt better. Better than ever, really. Jasmine went out of her way to avoid her, but that was fine, perfectly fine, so long as the plump woman wore that ghastly necklace.
* * * *
“There you are.” Carrying a sketch pad and several notebooks, Cosmo Sarkazein crossed to the kitchen counter next to Pretzel. He was a slim, elfin man with short red hair and seven small gold hoops in each ear. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I had to get away from Johnny. He’s driving me crazy, bitching and moaning just because we left his conditioner behind. Anyway, do we have a final line-up—a definitive line-up—for the big event? I hope we’ve got Yasmin Le Bon. She’s super-nice, she really is. Why’d she ever marry that huge prick Simon?”
“I think you answered your own question, darling.” Pretzel opened a drawer and after a moment’s searching, pulled out a melon baller. “Jasmine used to look like Yasmin, you know. People thought they were sisters. But then Jasmine discovered food. As for the line-up: big names. All the big names, except big fat Magda and tiny little Kate. Oh, and no Yasmin—she’s got a sick kid. I told her to give the brat an aspirin and she hung up. We’ve got Naomi. Niki. Brandi. Cindy. Eva. Linda. Claudia. Nadja. Irina. Tatjana. Saffron. Shalom. And of course, Veronica, lovely Veronica at the center of it all.”
Cosmo examined her face. “You know, I never noticed before, but you kind of look like Veronica. Around the eyes, I think.” He then looked down at what she was doing. “Oh. My. This is interesting. Are you making sushi? Are those even fish?”
“Veronica had these delivered. A pretty island boy brought them by. You’d have loved him.” Pretzel dug her fingers into the mass of chopped sea-life on the marble countertop. “There’s something about all this fresh salt air that makes me feel so alive. A
nd so hungry.” She dug out a few green and red strands and thrust them into her mouth. Then she began to gnaw on a large, juicy, dark-orange egg sac. “Want some?”
Johnny LaRock popped his golden-maned head into the room. “I thought I heard voices in here. What are we having for dinner?”
Cosmo turned toward him, his hand over his mouth. “I’m never eating again,” he muttered from between his fingers. He rushed past Johnny, away from Pretzel and her sea-feast.
The tall, tanned magician moved toward the blonde woman, studying the array of minced goodies before her. “That’s quite a spread you’ve got there. Are those local delicacies?”
Her slime-streaked lips stretched into a smile. “I take it you’re not as squeamish as our Mr. Sarkazien.”
The magician checked his reflection in a silver soup ladle he’d found in the sink. “Cosmo’s a very sheltered person. He hasn’t seen that much of the world.” He wiped her mouth with his thumb and forefinger, then licked the juice from his hand. “I’ve seen a lot more of it. I get around.” He gave her a wink and pointed his finger like a gun-barrel at her. “I’m Johnny LaRock. The name says it all.”
“We haven’t known each other very long,” Pretzel said, “but I think it’s safe to say that you’re a complete bastard. A vain simpleton with more hair than brains. More tan than tact. And by the way, Mr. Magic: I predict that you’re going to say ‘ouch’ in the very near future.”
The magician smoothed his eyebrow with his left pinky, which sported a ruby ring that once belonged to Liberace. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I say —”
Pretzel grabbed his elbow in a grip of iron and pulled down, so their faces were at about the same level. She opened her mouth, aiming for the base of his throat.
* * * *
“I’m worried,” Jasmine said.
Pretzel looked up. She was sunning herself on a huge beach towel—the fundraiser was only two days away, and she wanted to be rested so that the event wouldn’t tire her out. Not that she was feeling the least bit tired since her recovery from the fever. “Is that a fact? Well, I’m worried, too. Worried that your sense of style has completely evaporated.” She pointed to the necklace. “What next: earth shoes?”
“Farouk made me promise to keep it on. Humor me.” Jasmine sat down in the sand and sighed. “Everything’s going wrong. First Farouk went weird on me. Then you were sick, then Johnny and Cosmo got sick…then you and Veronica started treating me like utter crap. The models arrived a few days ago and now most of them are throwing up—at least, more than they usually do. I hired a private nurse and sent her to their hotel to look after them. I’m beginning to think this whole Easter Island idea was a complete mistake.”
“Well, of course you think that.” Pretzel stood up and gathered her beach towel. “Because it was Veronica’s idea. A fabulous idea. This stomach-flu thing is nothing. A bug that’s going around, that’s all. Face it, sweety: you’re as jealous as hell. Jealous because she’s thin and in, and you are stout and out.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying all this. I’ve always been nice to Veronica, and I’ve been working my ass off for this fundraiser. You haven’t even noticed. All you can talk about is Ronny, Ronny, Ronny. Good God, you’re even starting to look like her.” She got to her feet. “We are friends, no matter what you say. We’ve known each other for years. You’re just mad at my silly old Farouk and taking it out on me. Talk to him when he comes back.” She stepped forward to give Pretzel a hug, but the blonde woman moved away from her.
“Farouk? I’d thought he’d left for good after he dropped off that—” Pretzel waved her hand at the necklace. “—that rubbish.”
“He wants to be here for the fundraiser. He thinks something is going to happen because it’s on May first. Beltane.”
“What’s that? Some quaint Middle-Eastern holiday? The day they pray to Allah to send more fat chicks?”
“Now you’re being cruel. Beltane is an ancient fertility holiday. He told me all about it. Sacrifices. Orgies. Fucking in the fields.”
Pretzel walked away from Jasmine. “Your precious Farouk has gone insane. Just keep him away from me.”
Once she’d returned to the house, Pretzel chopped up some sea urchins and jellyfish and had lunch. Then she went straight to Veronica’s room.
She found the Innsmouth girl and Cosmo sitting on the edge of her bed, drinking Essence of Anemone and studying a chart drawn in his sketch pad. “Progress report?” she said, lounging on the bed behind them.
“Things are coming along swimmingly,” Veronica said. “I’ve taken care of Naomi and Linda, and I’ll be seeing Claudia this afternoon. Cosmo has worked his magic on Nadja, Niki and Saffron.” She consulted the chart. “You handled Eva and Irina, yes? Johnny is making himself useful—he’s already tended to Tatjana, Shalom and Brandi, and he’ll finish up with Cindy later today. All with time to spare. I love it when a plan comes together.” She poured a glass of the liqueur and handed it to the blonde woman.
“I’m really learning to like this stuff,” Pretzel said. “By the way, I talked to Jasmine before lunch.”
“Life would be so much easier if she would just take off that necklace,” Veronica said.
“Can’t we just kill her and be done with it?” Cosmo said. “We could shoot her, or poison her.”
Veronica nodded. “Yes, and then chop her up and throw the bits into the sea. She’d be quite a chum then! Wouldn’t take more than a minute.”
“Well, if you think that would—” The blonde woman stopped and shook her head. A frantic little voice—what are you THINKing?—echoed through the oily black abyss of her mind. “No, no, no. Of course not. She’s no danger to us. She doesn’t know a thing. Besides, I can make her change. I know it. I’ve done it before. She used to be bulimic, and I fixed that. Too well! The real problem is Farouk. Jasmine said he’ll be returning for the fundraiser. Should we be alarmed?”
The Innsmouth girl crossed to the window and looked out over the ocean. “Forewarned is forearmed. I am not worried about this mad Arab.” A slow smile crept over her full lips. “He is a big man, and his complexion is like rich coffee with a dollop of cream. I shall have his skin made into a bolero jacket and some kicky capri pants.”
* * * *
On the day of the fundraiser, the skies over Easter Island were filled with private jets and helicopters. Everybody who was anybody was at the church, along with swarms of pop stars, paparazzi, high-class pushers, callgirls, partyboys, hangers-on, has-beens and wannabes. The pews had been removed from the nave, replaced by director’s chairs sprayed gold metallic.
Johnny LaRock studied the crowd over the edge of his glass as he sucked down his Manhattan. Like Veronica, he now wore black gloves without fingertips. He turned toward Pretzel and smiled. “I can’t believe this crowd. Wall-to-wall movie stars and socialites.”
“An army of aging rich-bitches,” she said. After much deliberation, she had finally decided on Chanel couture for herself: something tailored and powerful. To suit the theme of the event, she’d pinned a gold sea-horse on the jacket. She watched as the magician moved through the crowd and sidled up to a chubby old salt-and-pepper brunette dripping with emeralds.
Pretzel tried to find Jasmine in the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. Where was she? And more to the point, where was that troublesome bastard Farouk? A waiter with a food tray passed by, and she snatched up some morsels of sushi with a gloved hand.
In the ladies room, she watched as a world-famous newswoman, a lesbian tennis star and an upscale hooker from Brazil snorted up lines of coke as they gossiped. She joined the group and invited them to try a sea-green powder that Veronica had given her the day before. Before long, the three women were writhing happily on the floor. Pretzel locked the door and gave each a dose of her venom—the Kiss of Dagon, as Veronica called it.
When she returned to the nave, the fashion show was already underway, and Veronica and Naomi Campbell were sauntering down the catwalk i
n fishnet and black lace evening gowns. Waitresses in gold metallic bikinis offered the guests fluted glasses of Essence of Anemone. Some bouncy Euro-disco dance mix was blasting over the sound system. Suspended from the ceiling by gold chains were video monitors, continuously running underwater scenes of sharks feeding, lobsters fighting, octopi lazily gliding over the ocean floor.
Pretzel slipped backstage, where Cosmo was frantically primping the girls preparing to go on. “Have you seen Jasmine?” she said.
“I don’t have time to worry about your fat friend.” He sighed hugely. “This church is a nightmare. It’s too damp! Claudia’s hair is all frizzy! The whole place smells like cheese!”
One of the girls tapped Pretzel’s shoulder. “Jasmine’s on the phone in one of the dressing rooms.”
Pretzel found her planted in front of a tray of hors d’oeuvres, alternately shouting into the phone and cramming her face with calamari. She noticed with exasperation that her friend was still wearing the star stone necklace.
“Please, just stay away. I mean it!,” Jasmine cried. “It’s only a fashion show, for Christ’s sake, not some crazy cult conspiracy! If you and your—Farouk? Farouk?” She hung up and flung the tray to the floor. “Stupid bastard! He’s going to ruin everything!”
Pretzel could feel a jumbo-migraine coming on. Calm down, she told herself, nothing’s as bad as it seems. “What’s he going to do?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “He’s on his way here with some stupid freaked-out holy soldiers and they’re going to take the place by storm.”
Pretzel shook her head. I stand corrected. “We’ve got to tell Veronica. And the bouncers. But first we’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Me?” Jasmine put her hand to her chest. “I’m the only one Farouk will listen to. Why in the world would you want me to leave?”
Best Little Witch-House in Arkham Page 17
