Sitting in the back of the bus, I gaze out the open window without really seeing anything. It’s all a blur of dead cars, junk, broken and burnt buildings.
Until we drive cautiously by two black SUVs.
The SUVs have drivers in them even though they’re parked. They’re keeping watch, and they look ready to move at a moment’s notice. Three men are fiddling with something on the ground by the side of the road. It’s so small I can’t see it clearly.
As we drive by, I get a good look at the drivers. At first, I don’t recognize them because of their newly blond hair. But there’s no mistaking the freckled faces of Dee and Dum.
I remember the letter I wrote to the ferry captain in case I didn’t have enough time to talk to him. I yank it out of my pocket and stare hard at the twins, willing them to see me. They’re watching us carefully as we go by, and their gazes snag on me.
I shift my body to block the guards from seeing what I’m doing. I hold up the letter to make sure Dee and Dum see it and then I slip it out the window.
It falls to the ground, but their eyes don’t follow it. Instead, they keep their cool and continue their surveillance of the rest of the bus. They don’t get out of their cars to pick it up, even though I’m sure they saw the letter drop.
I casually glance at the guards to see if anyone noticed what I did. The only one watching me is my girl look-alike sitting beside me, and she doesn’t look like she’s about to tell anyone. Everyone else is watching the Resistance group with an intensity that borders on paranoia, if anything could be called paranoid any more.
We all watch the guys by the side of the road until they shrink to a dot. My guess is they are setting up cameras of some kind for their surveillance system around the Bay Area. It makes sense that they might want a few cameras along the highways.
It takes a while for my heartbeat to return to its normal pace, and I actually have to suppress a smile. I never thought I’d think good things about the Resistance again. But if anyone is going to risk their necks and pull off a major rescue, it’ll be those guys. No guarantee it’ll happen but it sure beats counting on Look-Out-for-Number-One Captain Jake.
Chpater 49
HALF MOON BAY is bordered by a crescent-shaped beach on the Pacific coast. The earthquakes and sea storms have trashed the coastline to the point of being unrecognizable. Half Moon Bay now looks more like Crater Moon Bay with all the recent dents and bumps along the coast.
The new aerie is a posh hotel that used to sit on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Now it sits on a piece of the land that miraculously didn’t get washed away with the rest of the cliffs surrounding it. A narrow land bridge connects what’s left of the bay with the hotel island, making the whole place look like a keyhole.
The land bridge isn’t the old road that used to go to the hotel. It must have once been part of the golf course. Whatever it was, the drive is as bumpy and jittery as my emotions as we approach the sprawling, estate-like hotel. Being this close to the sea, it’s amazing the hotel is intact.
We drive past the main entrance, which faces a big circular driveway with a colored-light fountain that is oddly still running. The driveway is at the end of a road that now leads off a cliff.
We drive onto the grounds from the side, where the pavement is still solid and most of the golf course sprawls over the spectacular view of the ocean below. The grass is both green and mowed as if it was still in the World Before.
The only thing marring the illusion is an empty swimming pool hanging halfway off the cliff on the edge of the grounds. As we drive by, a freakishly large wave crashes against the cliff, fanning into a spectacular spray and taking a chunk of the pool with it as it recedes.
The main building looks like a country estate from a Regency romance novel. Once we park, we’re herded into the rear entryway. We walk up the stairs and into a cream-and-gold banquet hall that’s been turned into what feels like the backstage of a play.
Wheeled racks of costumes are everywhere. Flapper dresses, demi-masks with peacock and ostrich feathers, 1920s hats and sparkly headbands, zoot suits, pinstriped suits, and elegant tuxes. As if that isn’t enough, there are gossamer fairy wings of every color hanging from all the racks and fixtures around the room.
An army of people in hotel uniforms fuss over the costumes and shell-shocked females. Women and girls sit in front of mirrors, putting on makeup or sitting mutely while someone else works on them. There are also females being dressed and then paraded in front of the staff in glamorous speakeasy dresses and old-fashioned heels.
Makeup artists rush from mirrored station to station with powder and brush in hand. One station has so much hairspray and perfume in the air that it looks like a fog has moved into that spot.
Costumes are being rolled around so fast it’s amazing they’re not crashing into each other. They give the impression of feathers and sequins zipping across the room with nervous energy. Everybody is visibly jittery.
There are far too many women here to serve as Uriel’s twin trophies. Although there must be at least a hundred people, hardly anyone is talking. The tension is more like that of a funeral home rather than a prep room for an elaborate party or play or whatever this is.
I stand by the entrance, staring. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I like the chaos. It might give me a chance to sneak away and look for Paige or Beliel. It gets even better when Madeline seems to forget about us and marches off to give orders to a group of hairdressers.
I drift around the room among the ribbons and sparkles. The only whispered conversations I hear repeat the same mantra: “Get yourself an angel protector, or else.”
I find myself melting into the group of matching females who are being prepped in one corner of the ballroom. My look-alike is already there. The women are made up in pairs to look like identical twins, which several of them are.
So this is why Uriel’s trophy women looked so terrified when I saw them at the last aerie. They’d been drafted from the jail cells of Alcatraz and had probably known about the horrors awaiting them if they didn’t please Uriel. I thought the aerie club scene was surreal when I was there, but now I realize how insane the whole thing must have been to the girls who came from that nightmare factory.
Just when I think we’ve been orphaned enough for me to sneak off, Daniel, Madeline’s assistant, rushes in to talk to her. His voice carries over the eerie quiet.
“ ‘Brunettes. Small, but well-proportioned,’ he says.” Daniel gives her an I-told-you-so look.
Madeline scans the group of girls standing in pairs. Everyone freezes like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop down. The girls all try to escape Madeline’s notice by shrinking and looking anywhere but at her.
She looks at me and my matching pair, Andi. We’re the smallest of the brunettes. Her lips thin out into a stubborn line.
“You’re not really going to risk all of us, are you?” asks Daniel. He sounds as if he thinks she will. “We have to give him the closest thing we’ve got to what he wants. You know that.” Fear vibrates off him through the intensity of his eyes and the tension of his shoulders.
Madeline closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Whoever Doc is protecting must be very special to her.
“Okay,” she breathes out. “Get them ready.”
Daniel looks over at us. Everyone follows his gaze and watches us. I don’t like the mix of sympathy and relief in their eyes.
We get special attention even though the workers look frazzled and harried. After a whirlwind of showers, lotions, perfumes, haircuts, dresses, and major makeovers, we stand in front of Madeline.
Our masks are sparkly makeup rather than a plastic disguise. Playful ribbons of blue and silver makeup tease each other from our temples and curve around our eyes and over our cheekbones.
We wear matching dresses with silky drapes of burgundy that cling to every curve. Headbands with plumes of peacock feathers. Thigh-high nylons with elastic bands to keep them up. Shapely, sparkly, gorgeous but uncomfortable heels.
People are fighting for their lives on the streets, and I’m here minding my p’s and q’s in four-inch heels that pinch my toes.
Madeline walks in a slow circle around us. I have to admit, we look like twins. My hair has been cut to Andi’s shoulder length, and there’s so much gunk in it that it would take hurricane-force winds to tweak a strand from the matching curled halos around our heads.
“Nice touch with the eyelashes,” says Madeline. We wear shockingly long fake lashes tinged with silver at the tips. I doubt that Uriel would remember me from his brief glimpse in the old aerie basement, but it’s reassuring to know that even my own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me now.
Madeline nods after she finishes her inspection. “Come with me, girls. You’ll get the next shift with the archangel.”
Chpater 50
URIEL’S SUITE is spectacular. The living area is enormous—the kind of thing you see in Hollywood movies. Two of the walls are lined with large windows that give a stunning 180-degree view of the ocean. A bank of fog is rolling in over the horizon, curling and tumbling above the water. The view is breathtaking, and we can’t help but slow down to gawk as soon as our heels hit the plush carpet.
“Over here, girls,” says Madeline. She walks to the grand desk that sits on one side of the room beyond the tan leather sofas and chairs. She points to either side of the desk by the wall. “While the archangel is in his suite, you stand in these two spots. Do not move unless he tells you to move. Not like a statue—you are a statue. You’re allowed to breathe but that’s it. Understood?”
We walk to our spots. There is a subtle piece of tape on the floor that marks where we’re supposed to stand.
“You are living art. You are the archangel’s trophies, and you’ll remain on either side of him while he sits.”
We take our positions. Madeline stands tall, pushing out her chest, dropping one shoulder and emphasizing her curves to show us how we should look. We mimic her. She comes over and adjusts us, putting a hand on my thigh, tilting my head, arranging my hair. I’ve seen storekeepers do this with their mannequins.
“When the archangel leaves his suite, you follow. Flow around the desk and all obstacles in unison. Walk two steps behind him at all times. If you find yourselves falling behind, do not run. Gently pick up your pace until you are caught up. Grace at all times, ladies. Your lives depend on it.”
“What if we need to go to the bathroom?” asks Andi.
“Hold it. Every few hours, you’ll get a quick break for food and bathroom runs. Someone from our team will come for you with food and makeup kits to freshen your hair and makeup during those times. Sometimes, the archangel will remember to give you a break before a long meeting. He can be good with his pets as long as they do what they’re supposed to do.” Her voice makes it clear this is a warning and not a reassurance.