Excerpt

It seemed like Hell had frozen over when Lourdes was finally pulled away from her sequence of lucid dreams. Her skin tingled all over as her ears picked up the ubiquitous murmur of female voices, embellished by coughing, the occasional sneeze, and some odd, nervous laughter. The antiseptic smell that filled her nostrils also filled her with dread. Was she still in the operating room? On the table?

She opened her eyes with a gasp, immediately struck by her acute nearsightedness, her ability to only make out the flaxen, slender pillow that cradled her right cheek.

On her side, crooked halfway toward a fetal position, she lay under a thin, coarse covering that was more of a large rag than a blanket or sheet.

As her senses gradually sharpened, the enveloping noises became both louder and more discernable. The phony laughter she'd thought she'd heard now emerged from the surrounding cacophony as the hurried talk and frightened squeals of a woman trying to fend off a would-be violator. Too late for that now, Lourdes thought.

That woman was somewhere behind her, perhaps off in a far corner of the broad room bathed in the static, dim provisions of fluorescent lighting. As her sight's range expanded, Lourdes focused on her nearest neighbor—a brunette woman splayed on a gurney, under no sheet. Presently, her head was turned away from Lourdes, but the square, wrinkled face of the lanky woman towering over her was in full view.

The old woman wore a nurse's uniform: an off-white frock with pale-blue fringes and a white cap with salmon-pink markings. The cap's central symbol wasn't a cross, but something more elaborate, something even Lourdes's clear vision couldn't decipher.

The withered nurse alternately shouted two-word commands at the recumbent woman while jabbing her in the midsection with what appeared to be a silver antenna—long, shiny, and possibly sharp. "Wake up! Snap out! Get up! Hurry up!" The moaning girl flinched and writhed like an unearthed worm and seemed just as incapable of standing.

Another woman in a patient's dressing gown constellated with faded floral prints stumbled into her view, jerkily wandering about like a sleepwalker with failing knees. Lourdes shifted her head, watching the young woman with bated breath, as it seemed she was on course to stumble over a janitorial mop bucket and wringer someone had left near a load-bearing column. Reaching neither obstacle, the woman's knees buckled—but a nurse rushed forward and grabbed her by the elbow, prompting a surprised shriek from the rescued woman. The nurse jerked her upright, prompting another shriek, this one more clearly an expression of pain. The frocked woman dragged her out of view as the shrieking continued at a faster pace.

It was as good an alarm clock as any. With a grunting effort, Lourdes sat up, swinging her legs over the side of her slab. She, too, was in a patient's gown and had been lying on what appeared to be a bargain-basement gurney serving as a cot. Fitting, as the scene around her had the feel of a basement that had been temporarily converted into the recovery section of a field hospital. At least they were surrounded by bricks and columns rather than canvas—but it was only a faint nod toward any true sense of safety.

Full-length mirrors were scattered about, along with mops and brooms, folding chairs, and portable tables bearing cleaning supplies, maybe even some medical supplies. Amid all this were other gurney-cots, probably nine in all, one for each flitzel.

The sidebars of each gurney had been removed, as if it no longer mattered whether any of the women fell onto the floor and injured themselves. Such a tumble might be viewed as a necessary first step in getting the help off the premises now that they'd fulfilled their promises and were no longer of any use.

At least half of the other performers-cum-patients were already ambulatory; all were wingless. Only two women seemed to be having adverse post-surgery reactions. Others appeared like Lourdes felt—as if forcibly rousing themselves after having been knocked unconscious in a hit-and-run.

Her surgery had probably gone well enough. Her wings had been plucked, and she was neither screaming in agony nor crying at the loss. Despite her most recent memory, the devices weren't fused to her being; they hadn't become one with her natural body. At the end of the day, they'd remained artificial attachments, no matter how much a part of her they'd felt after the violet-eyed woman had sung at her.

There were at least twice as many nurses in the room as patients.

Some of the nurses darted this way and that, occasionally barking at the shuffling women while ostensibly helping them move about, getting good circulation in their legs and clearing their heads. Other nurses stood with crossed arms or folded hands, glaring at the nuisances.

A rapid snapping of sandals sounded behind Lourdes, getting louder. Someone was approaching. Fearing it might be a nurse, she took a breath and squirmed, preparing to lower herself onto her feet, but only wincing and releasing the breath with a groan as she irritated the tenderness of her backside. Panting until the pain subsided, she realized the nurses all wore soft-soled shoes and moved around like ghosts.

Whoever was fast approaching was not a caregiver.

"Been meaning to ask you," said a grating voice behind her. "Why are you here?"

Rounding the gurney, the woman—garbed in a gray hooded sweatshirt and black track pants—stopped in front of Lourdes and assumed a wide stance as she placed her hands on her hips, her elbows jutting like shark fins.

Lourdes shook her head dumbly as she studied the woman's perturbed, diamond-shaped face framed by messy waves with dark-blue highlights. Glynis, Lourdes thought her name was.

"I mean, how old are you?" Glynis asked as if it were the same question as before.

Still confused, Lourdes again shook her head but managed to push a word over her numb tongue. "¿Qué?"

Glynis's eyes narrowed. "Speak American." She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You're obviously older than the rest of us. By at least ten years. And you're alright-looking, but you're really not all that pretty. So what are you doing here?"

The fog was beginning to lift in her head. "Same as you . . . prob'ly." She kept her voice low. "My agent set up an audition. The event planners liked what they saw."

"Agent?" Glynis wrinkled her nose as if unfamiliar with the term.

The droplets of fog in Lourdes's skull seemed to transmute to glitter. She attempted a sneer. "Maybe you call yours a pimp."

The woman's nostrils flared as she removed her hands from her hips. She made no attempt to raise them, let alone lunge forward. Bold as Glynis sounded, she looked to Lourdes as if she knew better than to start a fight in here—a physical one, anyway. Instead, she raised her chin. "I better not see you at any other project I'm in. Your kind tarnishes the whole enterprise. The hag who's past her prime, out of her element, dragging the rest of us down."

The more she tore on, the more the chemicals in Lourdes's brain seemed to unbalance, pooling someplace underneath. That voice—it was like a barbed wire of sound dragging through one ear canal, shredding bits of her skull and brain, and leaving the deposits in the chemical soup before exiting from the opposite ear. Lourdes tasted something metallic. Blood.

"I swear," Glynis continued, jabbing a finger toward Lourdes's nose, "I see you again, I'm going to be looking into you. I'll have you blackballed from the circuit. Now what do you think about that?"

Lourdes furrowed her brow and met her eyes without blinking. "I think you'd better stay in your lane, or I'll have someone give you and your daddy a spanking."

Glynis was taken aback, but not as much as Lourdes—who hoped she didn't show it. The taste of blood had subsided, as had the nasty burst of adrenaline. The fog crept back into her head and fatigue settled as Glynis sniffed, turned, and stalked away without another word, only to be replaced a moment later by another tall, young woman, this one wearing striped leggings and a cable-knit turtleneck. She stood a little to Lourdes's left, swaying like a reed amid gentle, conflicting breezes.

Tanja. A teal-streaked blonde. She'd been the first to introduce herself to Lourdes. She'd also claimed to be a professional dancer. And despite refusing to divulge further details about her résumé, she'd been one of the more talkative among the women when they'd all first gathered, before the event planners had enforced the you-speak-only-when-we-speak-to-you rule.

"Don't worry about Glyn," Tanja said drowsily. "She's messin' with everybody. Came at me first. Told me I was too thin."

Unsubtly looking her up and down, Lourdes thought that Glynis maybe had a point with that one. Glynis maybe even had a good point with Lourdes. But it was odd. Edging to be top cat after everything was over? This hadn't even been a competition. They were essentially all just party decorations, each of them getting paid to do the same thing. She considered maybe that Glynis's confrontations were her unique reaction to the post-operative pain relievers that had been pumped into all of them. And yet . . . Old. How much longer could Lourdes keep these party tricks up?

"Saw what you were doin' out there yes'day," Tanja slurred. "Way you was movin'. People, the insecure . . . threatened by originality."

As wasted as she appeared, Lourdes had to remind herself Tanja was just like the rest of them—drugged and tired.

"I—" Lourdes's throat was thick with mucous. She swallowed, twice, tried again. "I saw some of the men, during the performance, calling at you." She tried to say how she admired the fact Tanja had kept her cool, kept on performing. Her song had even been a beautiful one, original. Which may've been part of what had attracted the attention but not what had kept it.

Tanja's eyelids got heavier as she shrugged. "Yeah. I heard 'em. But they paid good money. They can do whatever they want."

Lourdes's tired shoulders slumped even farther. Yeah. Just like the rest of them.

Tanja tottered off, perhaps to console the next woman Glynis was harassing. Lourdes looked away, her eyes traveling the room, searching for the offender. She was limited by the stiffness of her neck, the soreness of her joints; but what the hell—she didn't need to see the woman again. The voice was still with her.

Speak American. The native language. Yeah, she knew that one, and all sorts of others, including the language of self-disregard, the language of those who viewed themselves as having a place, just one role in life—and anyone who challenged that position was a threat. Anyone living their life beyond their own perceived place, they were also a threat. Threats had to be met, challenged, and destroyed, even if the one who felt threatened lost their own lives in the struggle.

Performing at these illicit gatherings was just another side of the American service industry, the side where mushrooms grew, a side dark and moist with the perspiration of those who worked for others, who lived for others—and nothing else. Serve until death.

But something had happened here, something that had made Lourdes move beyond herself while being berated. That metallic taste . . . She hoped she didn't have an infection.

She needed a mirror. She needed to get somewhat decently dressed. It would be the first significant step to getting the hell out of here.

A large nylon laundry sack sat next to her cot. She ruffled through it, spotting her jeans, bra, sweatshirt, and shoes. Someone had thoughtfully stuffed the sack with the clothes she'd arrived in. Her panties were missing, as she was already wearing them; her T-shirt had no such excuse. And none of what was in the sack had actually been laundered. Not that she felt fresh enough to don clean clothes anyway.

She stood, woozily, then bent to lift the sack, using the extra weight to counter her lightheadedness and maintain a sense of balance as she made her way to the closest unattended mirror.

Her face was a blotchy mess, but her eyes drew most of her attention. The hazel irises, with their shades of brown and green, seemed to favor more of the green than usual.

She dropped the sack and, with effort, removed her gown. She carefully turned this way and that, examining the bandages. The ones on her back and shoulders provided a decent enough explanation as to why her caretakers had left off her bra. The areas were numb, perhaps due to a local anesthetic. Perhaps due to whatever substances they'd pumped into her pre- or post-surgery.

She got another look at herself and sighed. She'd done what she could to keep the pounds off: exercising to accentuate her few curves; foregoing meals; ingesting dietary aids advised by certain trusted sources on the net and those her agent even more forcefully recommended. Whatever it took to help maintain the illusion of being ten years younger that she actually was.

In reflective glass, her own eyes were never fooled. But she kept getting work. She must've been doing something right.

Today, however, there were signs of her body stretching in the wrong direction. She felt bloated, as if she were carrying something more than flesh and blood—something she half-expected to begin seeping out of her scars in liquid or vapor form, out of the old scars that were no longer hidden by the body makeup. Seemed like it would be easy to rip the skin, even that which had been supposedly made tougher by covering up old wounds.

But there'd be new wounds, just as there would be new medical bills incurred by her preteen. The inevitable injuries to come . . .

The violations.

Did she, did any of these extreme artists really appreciate the meaning and consequences of the v-word anymore? Could they even recognize them all?

Some infringements, though, were quite clear, and clearly reprehensible. In the mirror's reflection, distantly behind her, a man shaped like a bowling pin had oozed into the room. He wore a smoking jacket and what appeared to be pajama pants and slippers. His upper and lower garments were both zanily patterned, yet—due to their different colors—wildly clashing.

Fritz. The chief event planner and front man for the party's mysterious host. Yet another leering goon. No surprise he would find his way into a room that, before his entry, had been all women, half of them underdressed and drugged up.

Lourdes hurriedly reached into her bag, fishing for her bra. She found and clumsily fastened it—after having to turn to the mirror for assistance in seeing what she was doing, and even then having it not fit properly due to the bandages.

Fritz made his rounds, leaning in and whispering to each of the former flitzels in turn, his eyes never meeting the gaze of any others', not even hers when he approached—which was to her benefit, as she had no warm or friendly expression she could even fake for him. Shambling like some clueless woodland creature attempting to sneak up on wounded prey, he neared from behind.

She froze.

Fritz stopped when close enough and reached forward, laying both of his hands on her tender shoulders. He pulled her back two unsteady steps and leaned in close, his pockmarked, jowly face crowding hers in the mirror—a cratered moon infringing upon one more gaseous. The pressing of his stomach against her back repulsed her, making her half-wish her skin was numb again.

"Good work, girly girl," he whispered in her left ear. She held her breath, not wanting to take in too much of his, laced with scotch.

She anticipated him snarking about her almost faltering out there, perhaps using it as an excuse for a reduced payment; instead, he said, "When they wire the final payment to your agent, I may see if they can include a li'l extra for you. We can talk about it later. I'll have someone give you a call. 'Kay?"

In the reflective glass, she noticed his bloodshot eyes fixated on her breasts, which were only partially covered by the awkward bra.

The fat, greasy shit.

She eyed him as he oozed away to stroke the arm and push foul whispers into the ear of another girl, younger and prettier, even without the aid of any makeup to cover her sickly pallor.

Lourdes wondered what exact payout the others were getting. Not that she'd ever ask. Or complain. She could only silently pray this gamble fully paid off. As for answering that promised phone call later . . . She would have to pray on that as well. Dealing with the wealthy business types was always a nasty venture, triply so when dealing with those who had feet and hands planted deep in the underworld.

"Alright ladies! Hurry it up!" a plump woman in a pale-blue frock bellowed from the center of the room. Lourdes immediately assumed she was the head nurse.

"We have two hours to clear space!" The woman raised her hands above her head and made flourishing motions as she turned a quarter clockwise and counter, gestures assisting the attempt to render all other noises inferior to her voice.

"If you're still lounging about when we sweep up, expect to find yourself in the bin with the rest of the dust and garbage!"

Older women decked out in dingy nurse outfits assisted those who seemed the most ready to get on their way. The crones hurried to the girls' sides and forcibly escorted them toward the two trestle tables that flanked the open-door exit, where they were given a bag then directed toward the hallway portal with a none-too-gentle shove.

"Need some help, missy?" To Lourdes's right stood a tall, glaring nurse with frizzy hair and folded arms.

Lourdes shook her head then did her best to hurry with her sweatshirt and jeans. She picked up the nearly empty bag and limped back to her gurney-cot. The nurse kept her arms folded but stepped forward, approaching methodically.

Lourdes sat on the gurney to put on her shoes. When she began to stand, the nurse lunged forward, snatching for one of her arms. Lourdes released an annoyed yelp as she reflexively swatted her off; the sudden movement seemed to reopen the tender wounds in her shoulder.

Through clenched teeth, she said, "I don't need your damned help," then sucked in as much air as her nostrils and the narrow gaps between her back teeth would allow. As the pain subsided, Lourdes shot the woman another look. The nurse neither backed away nor tried to reach for her again as Lourdes shuffled toward the trestle tables. The nurse followed, but at a comfortable distance.

Two women manned each table. One stood; the other sat. As a nurse led another once-flitzel to the table on her left, Lourdes guided herself toward the one on her right.

A blonde woman sat behind the table, its top messy with an assortment of items. A clipboard lay in front of the blonde, who flipped back and forth through its pages, making marks with a blue pen and writing short snippets, none of it making any sense to Lourdes's eyes as she stood on the other side of the table. The blonde neither paused nor looked up as she asked, "Name?"

The blonde had a nasally voice. Lourdes tried not to mimic her as she responded. "Ruiz. Lourdes."

The blonde flipped to a page, scanned across it with a pen, then made a mark as she said, "Number eight."

The nurse standing behind the table, a lanky woman with sallow cheeks and nicotine-stained fingers, looked at the canvas duffel bags on the floor, scanning to her left and to her right, until locating one that may've been tagged with the number eight. She stooped, rechecked the tag, then lifted the satchel and slung it onto the table. With a loud sigh, she pulled it open and grabbed items from the table, tossing them into the bag without much care as the nasally blonde scribbled on the clipboard and seemed to read her markings aloud as she did.

"The bag will contain extra bandages and a week's supply of medications and ointments that, if applied according to the detailed instructions—also included in the bag—will permit no permanent scarring. Your purse and phone are also inside."

And now at the bottom of everything just now flung in there, Lourdes thought. Both purse and phone had been confiscated when she'd first arrived.

"Remember," said the nasally woman, "don't remove the bandages for at least twelve hours. You'll want to replace them before you turn in for the evening. Try not to get them wet before that. Though you will most certainly need a shower well before then."

The sallow-cheeked nurse pulled the duffel bag's string, tightening it. She then heaved it up and slung it forward so that it landed a foot closer to Lourdes, who gritted and grunted as she picked it up. With both hands, she held it by its handle strap. The strap was designed so that one could carry the bag over their shoulder, but Lourdes wasn't ready for such a burden.

The nurse who'd followed her from the gurney stepped forward as if ready to shove her toward the exit like the others. Lourdes shot her a look; the nurse hesitated.

Lourdes swallowed, diluting the copper taste on her tongue, and said, "I'm leaving—but don't consider me down and out."

She turned and continued on, hoping that her tone would overshadow her obvious frailty. The threat was serious enough, but the words were chosen so as to not invite a confrontation she knew she was too weak to handle.

As she passed through the doorway into the brick-lined hallway, following several feet behind the woman who'd proceeded her, she allowed the duffel bag to gradually meet the floor. Dragging it along, she tried to think less about her wounds and bandages, even less about the nasty nurses and nastier business she was leaving behind, and more about her future.