by Sunny
"Thaddeus… I don't want to have your life change so drastically."
"It would change as drastically if another Queen took over," he said. "I doubt a new Queen would let you stay here."
"You could have a normal life," I said. "A normal human life. You could go away to Harvard, like your parents wanted you to."
"And let everyone here be taken over by a new Queen, or dispersed or combined with another territory? Not just ours, Mona Lisa, but Amber's also? Lisa, don't do anything hasty for now. Just give yourself time. Give us time. Stay here with us."
"The way I am? Weak, powerless, with no light in me, unable to Bask?"
"You are still our Queen, the one we all look to," Dontaine said, kneeling in front of me. "Let the men and me be your strength and power, and Thaddeus can Bask for you." He took it on blind faith, Thaddeus's outrageous claim.
"Then what do you need me for?"
"To be the heart and soul of our people. To be our Queen, our lady, our familiar head," Dontaine said. "Without your presence, the people might not accept Thaddeus."
Stay here and ease Thaddeus's transition to power, Dontaine was subtly suggesting. Help our people — and the High Council — to accept him. That, indeed, was a powerful reason to stay.
"Thaddeus," I said, looking at my brother, "your life would change forever."
He actually laughed. "As if it hasn't already, sis. I'm sure about this. It's what I want."
I looked from Thaddeus's earnest face to the others. "What do the rest of you want?"
"The same thing," Amber said. "Be our Queen, our anchor, and let Thaddeus Bask in your place."
"You can still seek help from the High Lord," said Dontaine.
"Hell is fine," Tomas added in a surprising about-face. My men had hated me going down there before.
"Just don't go back to NetherHell," said Chami.
When comparing Hell to NetherHell, I guess Hell came up smelling like roses.
"NetherHell sounds like a terrible place, milady," Rosemary mattered.
"Awful" Jamie said, grimacing.
"Stay," Tersa murmured softly.
All of them in accord.
"All right," I said. "I'll stay."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was hard to be human. I didn't know how normal people did it, being ill. Waiting endlessly for the days to pass, to heal, to get better. But unlike a normal human, I did not heal, not as they did, drearily slow though the process was.
I had been spoiled all my life, I realized now. A funny insight to have, considering the difficult time I had growing up in foster homes. But I had been. Since I was young, I had always had my strength, my speed, my sharper senses… always a little bit more than others. A lot more after I hit puberty. And I'd always been special in some way. I used to think of myself as different, but different is special. Only now did I see that, when I no longer was.
A week passed and I did not improve as I had hoped I would. A small part of me had thought that I would be able heal on my own. I was used to being strong. Used to saving the day. Used to being different, even among people of my own kind. I think that was the hardest part, having that special ness ripped away from me. What I was now was weak, normal, mundane. I was common now. No different from three billion other people, no different from any normal Half Blood in terms of strength, of power, of specialness.
I had been arrogant. I'd never known how much courage it took to be the weakest one. To live among others all stronger than you.
When it finally dawned on me that this might be it for me, this ordinariness forever, it changed everything. Nothing else changed, only in my mind. Only in my perception of myself — from strong to weak, from special to ordinary, from Queen to common Mixed Blood. Nothing else really changed, and it was harder than if it had. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
My blinders were off after one week of no improvement, of no healing. My people's blinders were still on. Those who were closest to me, they still treated me as if I were special.
Amber was here three days out of the week now, the other four days spent back in his territory. He alternated with Tomas and Aquila, who had become his pinch hitters during this crisis. When he was with me, the other two were in Mississippi. When Amber was gone, Dontaine was there, watching over me. My two Monère lovers. My personal protectors. They both treated me like spun glass, easily breakable. But in all other ways, they treated me the same — as if I was desirable, attractive. As if I were still their Queen.
Oddly enough, it was hardest to bear from Dontaine. Amber and I had a longer relationship, a love more deeply grown. My relationship, my love with Dontaine, on the other hand, was new, freshly fragile, much more easily broken. That it hadn't yet surprised me. That he persisted in his courtship made me feel guilty, if what I was beginning to suspect was true — that I would never again be what I once was.
I spent more time with Tersa and Jamie, keeping them company. Or rather the other way around — they kept me company while they did their chores. They refused, utterly refused, to let me help them. Had been horrified, in fact, when I had offered to lend a hand. When I realized I was not only slowing them a great deal but that my hovering presence was making them feel terribly awkward, I gave up my attempt to seek comfort for myself. And it had been comfort I had been selfishly seeking. I wanted to be with others as weak as me. To see and understand how they did it — moved around a world where others were so much stronger.
My brother was thankfully more comfortable in my presence, and we carved out a routine, grabbing a drink and snack at the diner near the library just before sunset, then driving back home in time for the main meal. I treasured that time spent with Thaddeus, but he wasn't truly weak like I was. He was a Mixed Blood, but he was special as I had been and no longer was.
Only among other humans did some of that tension ease in me. Only among them did I finally relax. Only among them was I among people as weak as I.
I started venturing out more to New Orleans. Nothing like the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter if you wanted to be among people. But not on the days when Amber was with me. On those days, I was, for the most part, happy and content to stay at home and be with him. I'd taken him once into the city, into the rowdy French Quarter when I had gotten restless, and it had been a disaster. Amber had flinched at every sound. Hated the casual chaos, the vast number of people, and what he saw as an overwhelming number of threats to my fragile self. He'd actually growled at people who had lightly brushed me in passing. By the time we left, a short ten minutes later, he had been sweating, his entire body tense as if he had just endured an arduous ordeal.
Funny that what made me feel safe, being lost in a crowd of people, made him feel most threatened — not for himself but for me. One person, he said, could not guard me adequately enough. He had gruffly offered to bring along more guards the next time I wished to venture into the city. I had smiled and said I was happy to stay at home… on the days he was with me. When Dontaine was with me, though, that was when I quenched my need to bury myself among people.
Maybe it was growing up here and having so much Monère-owned business based in the city that gave Dontaine the ease he had, moving among the crowded populace of New Orleans — because he'd done it all his life. Whatever the reason, he walked down Bourbon Street, Royal Street, and the rest of the crowded thoroughfares of the French Quarter as if he owned them, guiding us through the crowds with an ease and surety that Amber had not possessed.
The first day we lingered at Jackson Square, listening to a jazz band playing there, then wandered through several antique stores where all the salespeople, for some reason, had been most attentive. In the third store we stopped in, Dontaine asked if I wanted to bring the jewelry box, an exquisite piece that I had stopped to admire, back home with us. I told him that I didn't have enough money on me to make the purchase. Even if I did, I would never have bought anything so expensive. It was fun to look at, but I had no interest in buying anything
so pricey. When Dontaine said that I didn't need money, that I owned the store, I suddenly realized why they had all been so attentive. They had recognized Dontaine.
I glanced at the price tag. A mere five hundred dollars — and I wasn't being sarcastic. The jewelry box was one of the least expensive items in the store. A second clerk was busy ringing up the sale of a twelve-thousand-dollar antique writing desk that another couple had just purchased. I know because I had glanced at the price tag when we had first walked in. Frankly, I couldn't imagine paying that much for a desk. To find out that I owned the shop, with all its outrageously expensive items, was even more shocking.
"People actually pay these outrageous prices?" I don't know why I asked. Proof was being rung up right in front of my eyes.
Dontaine smiled, while the saleswoman's eyes darted nervously to the couple making the purchase, obviously hoping they hadn't heard my gauche remark, and soured the deal.
"There are always people willing to pay for quality," Dontaine murmured quietly and steered me out the door, to the saleswoman's relief.
"What about the first store? Did I own that, too?"
Dontaine nodded.
When I asked, "Any other stores here?" he pointed out a gift shop and a small bank.
"I own a bank?"
"You did not know?"
"No. Aquila wants to introduce me to all my holdings, but we haven't gotten around to it yet. One thing or another always comes up." More like one disaster after another, but I didn't say that.
"Would you like me to show you all your businesses here in the French Quarter?"
Maybe not my businesses for much longer, I thought.
I shook my head. "No need. Let's just enjoy the night." And we did, wandering leisurely around, soaking in the sound, the music, the atmosphere.
The second night, he drove me to the garden district and parked at a street corner. It was more residential, without the hustle and bustle of tourists.
"What are we doing here?" I asked.
"Do you remember when you said that you did not see us as equals in terms of beauty?"
I nodded.
"I thought of a way to remedy that."
I glanced at the beauty salon where we were parked. "What did you have in mind?" I asked with enough wariness in my voice to make him smile.
"Nothing so terribly bad. Just a haircut and a manicure. Painless procedures."
"Maybe for you," I muttered, "not for me."
I hated change. I really did. Having things change beyond my control was one thing. Bringing about deliberate change when there was no need to — that was another entirely different matter. And not only did I hate change, but I was a miser at heart. I didn't like spending money on myself when I didn't need to. On other people, fine. On myself, no. The jeans and T-shirt I had on were over ten years old — old, worn, and comfortable. Familiar, like old friends. And my hairstyle — long, usually in a ponytail, but more recently left loose to please the men — was not only easy but cheap for me. I didn't have to cut my hair often, just trim it a couple of times a year.
"A haircut and manicure are not going to make me as pretty as you, Dontaine."
"You do not know until you try."
For a moment I thought he was joking, but he wasn't. He was utterly serious.
"Why waste everyone's time, effort, and money on something that isn't going to work?" I asked bluntly. "It'll be a dreadful waste of money."
His answer was just as practical and blunt. "You own the store, you won't have to pay." His tone softened, turned cajoling. "I know you do not feel inclined to do so, but can you not try this for me? Will you not at least allow me this attempt?"
He was shooting for a miracle, and that just wasn't going to happen, not with just a haircut and manicure. But looking at him, so hopeful, so handsome, so fair, with that tender, hopeful look in his eyes, it was impossible to say no.
"Okay," I said, gritting my teeth, "we can try this."
He didn't wait for me to change my mind. Faster than I could blink, he was out of the car and holding my door open. I found myself hustled inside the salon with almost indecent haste. There were quick hellos — everyone seemed to know Dontaine — then I was seated in a chair, a black crape snapped around my neck quicker than you could whistle. It was a highly effective strategy. Harder to say, "Sorry, I changed my mind" wearing that black crape around you. But then that was just probably my suspicious mind. They were probably as speedily efficient with all of their customers.
Once I was seated and draped, the stylist appeared. He was a trim little man in his later thirties, stylishly clothed and groomed. "Fabulous to see you, darling," he said, air kissing Dontaine's cheeks.
I raised an eyebrow. Darling?
Dontaine's laughing eyes told me to behave. "This is Melvin," he said, introducing us. "The premiere stylist of New Orleans, a true artist in the field. And this is Lisa Hamilton, my good friend, the lady I told you about."
"Ah, yes," Melvin said, giving me a quick, thorough scrutiny. "A real challenge, but lots of potential, as you said. Daphne," he said to the young woman who had seated me. "Let Antoine know I'll be busy with her for two hours."
When she left to do his bidding, the premiere stylist of New Orleans ran his hands through my hair, checking its texture and thickness, lifting it and letting it fall from his fingers.
"You can't cut it short," I said, wanting to make that clear before he started.
"Yes, yes, sugar. I know," Melvin said, still concentrating on my hair and what he wanted to do with it. "Dontaine told me I had to keep it at least shoulder-blade long."
I relaxed and didn't say anything more after that. I mean, what could he do, length-restricted as he was? Not much more than trim it, right?
Wrong. Really wrong. I got an idea of just how wrong I was when he left and returned with a hair-coloring chart composed of different strands of hair ranging from jet-black to white-blond.
"You're going to color my hair?"
Melvin sniffed. "I do not just color people's hair." He held up different shades of brown against my hair, my skin. "I blend colors together like a palette, not just one color but several. Now, hush-hush. Let me concentrate."
I hush-hushed and let him concentrate… until he held up some lighter color samples against me.
"Not blond," I said.
"No, sugar." He rolled out the last word, dropping the r, so that it came out sounding like sugah. "Dontaine said you weren't likely to agree to that." Making me wonder if all that fast efficiency when we first stepped inside hadn't been good strategy after all. "Though you really would look lovely as a blonde," he said hopefully.
"Forget it," I said, scowling.
"Then we will simply lighten the color and add in some highlights."
He lied. It wasn't simple at all. He brushed this alarming rust-colored paste into random bits of my hair, and wrapped it in foil. Then he started to slather this yucky blue paste over all my remaining hair. When I asked if he was dying my hair blue, Melvin laughed, hush-hushed me again, and proceeded to make me look like this bizarrely painted alien antenna. I wondered briefly if all that aluminum foil crunched up around my head would draw lightning during a storm. What a stupid thing that would be, to get struck by lightning. Maybe I was being paranoid but weirder things had happened to me lately. But no storms came. And no angry lightning bolts zapped down from the sky to strike my head.
For once I was thankful for my diminished sense of smell — all my senses were duller now. Even so, the chemical smell was foul. I don't know how Dontaine stood it, but he did, sitting nearby in a chair they had brought out for him. He flipped through a fashion magazine, smiling at me when our glances met — mine uncomfortable, impatient; his soft and tender, indulgent. A look that, along with his attentiveness, screamed boyfriend. I got a lot of envious looks from the salon girls, all of them young and pretty. And even from a few older clients busy having their hair done by other stylists.
When Melvin had fin
ally finished applying all the dye, a girl named Tammy came out and did my manicure while the dark wet goop stained its way into my hair.
When she asked me what color nail polish I wanted, I said, "Clear." She glanced at Dontaine. When she got his nod of approval, she briskly and efficiently got down to business, finishing up just as the timer for my hair dinged. They washed the dye out, and sat me back down. I had a brief glimpse of my turbaned head before Melvin spun me around so I was no longer facing the mirror. He took the towel off, and with little scissors in hand, began snipping away. He trimmed the ends, a very simple straight cut across the bottom. I assumed he was finished. He wasn't. He was only getting started. He gathered up a hunk of hair, holding it straight up and out. Snip, snip went the scissors, and a clump of hair at least three inches long fell to the floor.
"I thought you were keeping it long."
"I am, sugar. Just adding in some long layers. Lightening up all that thick weight."
He was very detailed and meticulous in his cut. Quite different from what I was used to. At one point, he actually rolled and twisted up different sections of my hair, cutting across the ends of them as he let them untwirl. He spent over an hour on me, the longest haircut I'd ever gotten. No doubt the most expensive, had I had to pay for it.
When he was done cutting, yet another girl came out and set up a camcorder and tripod. She pressed a button and a red light came on.
"You're recording this?" I asked.
"Yes," Melvin said. "So you'll be able to see what I'm doing and duplicate this style later."
"Why don't you just show me how to do it now?"
"It's a surprise, darling," he said, eyes twinkling.
A surprise. Sure. But I could be tactful sometimes. I kept my mouth closed while he gooped up his hands with styling gel, and proceeded to rub it into my hair. Yuck.
The blow-dryer whined as my hair was pulled in all different directions by a twisting, twirling brush. If Melvin or Dontaine thought I was going to do this every day, they were delusional.
Finally, the whining blow-dryer clicked off. My neck was dusted off, and the protective cape removed. Finished, I thought. But I should have known better by now. Before I could move, another little man came striding up. He was pretty like Melvin, and flamboyantly gay. Shadow accented his eyes, mascara darkened his lashes, and ruby color brightened his lips and cheeks. He was darkly complected, both skin and hair, with a slim oval face and these really high, sculptured cheekbones like Prince, the singer, before he became know as the Artist Known as… whatever.
