Page 39 of Razors & Ruin
But it’s fucking sinister and decadent and only covers half my face, so I’ll be able to whisper my honeyed words into the ears of rich sluts with no papier-maché to impede my powers.
Nellie watches as I make a bundle, putting the good clothes and the mask out of sight in the center. As I change into clean but plain barber’s garb, I catch her staring at my naked chest, her jaw slack.
“Unseemly.” I wag a finger at her. “Don’t be such a thirsty whore, Nellie. Tend to yourself if you must, but I’m late.”
She walks over to me and flips my collar, fussing it between her fingertips. Then she reaches below her skirt.
“What did I say? I have no time for?—”
She wipes her damp fingertips over my neck on each side, like she’s applying cologne. I smell of her and me, my come and hers mingled, spicy and wild.
“You think I should go to a party stinking of your sex?” I ask as she kisses my cheek. “That’snasty, pet. I like it.”
She bites my lower lip. “Yes, I do. Now, have a good evening, and fucking behave yourself.”
I pick up my flat cap and doff it at her. “On my honor.”
She rolls her eyes. “On yourwhat? Forget it. Go.”
It’s not as easy as it seems to hire a carriage, especially on the Beadle’s tight-fisted allocation.
I duck into the tavern and ask around, settling for a horse and cart to drive myself. The owner doesn’t mind what time I’m back as long as I tie the nag up when I’m done.
The fog is freezing on my cheeks as I ride. The Regent isn’t far, and I should be right on time. The horse’s hooves are too loud, ringing off the cobbles as I pass beneath the lamps.
If I can hold my tongue and my temper until the humiliating bit is over, I might get around to enjoying this.
Nellie told me all about The Regent’s Ball, and I liked what I heard. The notion of rubbing shoulders, and maybe other things, with the elite? A man like me, with no business getting so close?
I shiver, but it’s not the cold. To warps like mine, infiltrating a space and sullying it with my presence brings with it a sensation of arousal, and I enjoy the flush of heat that pulls up from my abdomen like a sickness, pebbling my skin with gooseflesh.
Johanna will be found in ashes or in glorious life. I don’t dare to hope she’s happy; I just need toknow.
If she’s miserable, I could save her, like I tried to save her mother. I only wanted to free Veronica from the wretched life she knew, to take her away from her beast of a husband and see to it she knew no more pain.
But it all went wrong, and my child was lost to me, lost to this steel-colored hellscape through which humanity skips and plays, oblivious to the grinding pointlessness of it all. Each of us is on the make, the take, the grift.
I told Nellie to get her damn business in order, and she set to it. That’s her occupied for the evening, behind her ‘closed’ sign, reducing Uriah to a heap of potential profits. The wet stuff, for under the pastry, turning useless eaters into useful eatings.
I want toloveher, I just don’t know how. But I admire her truly and deeply, and I’ll tell her so when I return.
The concierge at The Regent doesn’t attempt to hide his disdain.
“Mr. Todd. I see.” He gestures with a claw-like hand for me to follow. “This way.”
He accompanies me in the elevator but stands as far away as possible, keeping his eyes straight ahead. In my long sleeves and with neatly-brushed hair, I look normal, if a little poor, but he’s being a rude cunt for no reason.
Am I or am I not the special guest of Beadle Higgins, the founder of the fucking feast?
We leave the elevator on the fourth floor, and he marches me to wooden double doors, tinkling laughter and chamber musicmeandering to my ears from inside. He’s barely got it open before the Beadle descends upon me, pungent with gin and, to my disgust, ambergris.
“Mr. Todd, my dear fellow!” He claps me on the back and leads me into the fray, leaving the hapless concierge in the doorway. “Come and meet my friends.”
I spot the back of a shiny jacket with a bald spot above it that’s just as reflective in the low lamplight. The woman beside him turns aside, giving me her aristocratic profile—upturned nose, broad forehead, curls cresting her full cheeks.
Her mouth is too generous, her laugh too self-conscious, and, as it catches my eye, I realize her bosom is positively scandalous for the company.
Her husband’s laugh is horribly familiar, but it’s too late. He swivels on his heel at the sound of the Beadle’s voice, and as he clocks me, the ruddy-cheeked joviality in his face drains as fast and as surely as if I’d slit his jugular.