With porcelain-pale skin and white hair cut to thecontour of his jaw, he had a distinct aura. Ghostly. Inhuman. Or holy.
He wasn’t dressed like a priest or a saint. His suit was sleek and dark with the jacket slitted open up the back so a massive pair of wings could emerge. The white-feathered things arched above his shoulders, glittering with powdered gold. My attention roamed from those to his face, made of features so fine and smooth they might have been carved.
I’d never seen anything so perfect.
When he turned toward us, I braced for the affront. The order to leave. The confirmation of what I’d known from the start: I was not welcome here.
But as he approached, his polished black shoes striking the ground with marked precision, I had a second thought.
What if he could help me?
Since Beck’s rejection, I’d all but given up on the idea of rescue. The Dollhouse was my home, and this was my life. I was nearly resigned, but not completely because my traitorous heart drummed at the prospect of a divine savior.
Angels were good. Maybe this one would be good to me.
He arrived before us, towering overhead by several inches. Everything about him was overwhelming, overpowering, and I shied away from his inspection.
Pale gray eyes flicked up and down my form, seeing everything on display.
My smile faltered, so I tried again, pressing my lips together and thinking so hard about my expression that I was certain it came out wrong.
“Narcissus,” Maslow greeted. “Come down to say hello?”
The angel—Narcissus—frowned at Maslow before motioning toward me. “Just making sure you brought it.”
It?
I glanced over one shoulder then the other, searching for the object in question. But there was nothing, and Maslow’s hands were empty save for the one curled like a vise around my wrist.
It.
Did he mean me?
“How could I forget?” Maslow replied with a wide grin. “A salesman should never leave the house without his sample.”
The casino’s hum dulled around us. The clink of chips, the melodic ding of slot machines—none of it touched the space we stood in. Passing people parted around the angel like fish swimming downstream. A few turned their heads or slowed to gawk at Narcissus, but most kept moving.
Narcissus looked at me again, slower this time. I shivered despite the heat of the lights and the blood Maslow’s grip forced to my fingertips. If I weren’t tethered, I might have wrapped my arms across my chest, tried to cover up. Not that it would’ve helped. I got the feeling Narcissus’s icy eyes would have stripped me down regardless of how much clothing I had on.
“Do they all look like this?” The angel waved his long, pale fingers in my direction.
Maslow cocked his head to consider. “There’s a variety. Something for every taste, I’d say.”
I looked down at myself, at the mesh swathing over long stretches of skin, the painted nails, and the golden collar. I looked, and I tried not to curl inward. Every word and gesture being exchanged pushed me further toward that invisible shelf where I could be tagged, priced, and posed.
A doll.
A toy.
An object.
That point was being driven straight into my chest. Deeper still when Narcissus gave a curt nod.
“Good,” he said. “We maintain a particular aesthetic here, and that red is garish.”
My free hand moved to the scarlet locks resting against my collarbone. My fingertips felt foreign as they brushed my skin. Not at all the way Beck touched me.
He’d liked my hair, hadn’t he?
