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“Send the rest of the Numbers in,” Konrad says, his deep voice echoing around the grand hall, making me jump.
Two arched wooden doors swing open, spilling light into the space from the hallway beyond. A couple wearing barely any clothing walks in. They both appear to be around my age, and both smile warmly, as though me sitting in the centre of this banqueting table is entirely normal.
“I’m Three, and this is Seven,” the woman says, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, the ends kissing her chin. Her dress is knee length and a deep scarlet. Like her male counterpart, she is naked beneath it, although he’s wearing sheer trousers and nothing else. Heat blooms in my chest and I pray with everything that I am that no one notices.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Seven says, dipping his head, a flop of curly blonde hair dropping in his eyes.
“Three is a dancer, like you, though she specialises in Flamenco and latin dances. Seven is a Tenor,” Konrad explains. “They often perform together.”
“Fuck together too,” Leon adds.
I don’t respond, I simply watch the beautiful couple take their place at the table, aware of their eyes on me.
“You’ve already met Four and Eight,” Konrad says as the two familiar women step into the hall. Four has her long blonde hair piled up on her head, and her arm looped through Eight’s. They’re both wearing blue, though the floor length dress Four wears is the shade of the ocean, whilst Eight’s is the colour of an inky sky just before night takes hold.
“Hello again,” they sing-song, their bare breasts jiggling with every step as they take a seat.
“Four is a violinist and Eight an artist, the kind that uses brushes and paint. Both are exceptionally gifted like all the performers in The Menagerie,” One explains.
“How does a portrait artist perform in a show?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“You think that I’m incapable of entertaining people, or keeping their interest?” Eight asks, her voice tight as she helps herself to a glass of wine poured by Renard. I hadn’t even noticed that he was in the room.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, the answer to your question is simple. I paint as Four performs. Whatever the client wants, whatever image they require, I paint it.”
“She’s very good at it,” Four adds, smiling at Eight adoringly. “Sometimes she uses the Numbers as a canvas too. It’sthrilling.”
Any further questions I might have are prevented from being asked when two blades thud into the table top either side of my hips. A scream rips out of my mouth and everyone laughs, with the exception of The Masks and the woman who strides into the room wearing absolutely nothing but two leather straps criss-crossing her chest, and heeled biker boots. She’s small, lean, muscular, with tiny breasts, a boyish figure, and skin the colour of warm molasses.
Konrad leans across the table and pulls the knives from the wood, grinning widely. “This is Five, our little knife thrower. Don’t piss her off.” He spins the knives in his hand and offers them to Five over his shoulder. She takes them from him, her strange golden eyes pinned on me, a long black braid hanging over her shoulder. I wonder where she’s from. I’ve never laid on anyone as exotic or beautiful. She’s stunning.
“Thank you, Master,” she retorts, her voice quiet, respectful, and I can’t help but wonder why she doesn’t slide that knife across his throat and set us all free. Taking a seat at the table she dips her head reverently at both Leon and Jakub before tucking the knives into her leather belt next to a third that’s nestled there. I could look at her forever, fascinated by her exotic beauty, except I’m forced to stop when an equally beautiful woman steps into the room. She’s stunning, but the total opposite to Five in every way.
“And this is Six,” Leon explains, his gaze lingering on the curvaceous woman who steps into the hall. She has a wild mane of curly dark auburn hair that falls over her voluptuous breasts, accentuating her curves. She’s wearing a cream slip and looks like a woman from one of those Botticelli paintings, unapologetically female with rounded hips, stomach and thighs, and more than enough sexiness to send even the most restrained man wild. She’s walking sex. She oozes it, and yet she’s the first person I’ve met this evening that doesn’t appear wholly comfortable being here.
When she reaches the table, she holds her hand out to me, offering a gentle smile. I take her hand, noticing how our skin is the same pale shade then remember it was her that Nala borrowed the foundation from.
“Pleased to meet you,” she says, gently squeezing my hand before letting go. Passing by Leon, she takes a seat to the right of Five. He watches her settle at the table.
“Six is a Contralto. Her voice is puresex,” Leon explains. “She fucks like she sings too.”
Six remains impassive, her hand reaching for the glass of wine Renard has set before her. She doesn’t acknowledge Leon, the other Masks or any of the Numbers, and I immediately feel a kinship with her. I’d bet my life she’s not brainwashed like the others.
“And this is Nine, Ten and Eleven,” Jakub interjects, a dark scowl forming on his face when One leans over and whispers something in his ear. He grits his jaw, anger burning across his face at whatever she’s said to him.
Noticing, Konrad continues with the introduction. “Nine is a contortionist. Ten a mime artist, and Eleven a fire eater. They arrived at the castle at the same time three years ago. Triplets, if you hadn’t already guessed.”
“You make it sound like they weren’t kidnapped like all the rest,” I mumble under my breath, my gaze flicking between the three women. They’re all tall, willowy, with wavy brown hair and wide green eyes. Their only defining difference is the beauty mark that adorns a different spot on each of their faces. Otherwise, it’s almost impossible to tell them apart. All three wear matching gold gowns, their pear-shaped breasts and neatly trimmed pubic hair identical.
“Hello,” they giggle, even more saccharin than Four. Despite their apparent lightheartedness, there’s an absence in their gaze. It’s disconcerting. They take a seat next to each other, still giggling, though their amusement is short-lived when another woman enters the room. She commands the space, her sheer silver dress floating about her legs as she strides across the room in strappy heels, a diamond choker at her throat. She’s the only one I’ve seen wear any jewellery.
“Zlodziej,” Jakub snaps. “Thief!”
Konrad’s gaze flicks to the women entering, his eyes narrowing. Jakub grits his jaw, but when One rests her palm on his arm he bites back whatever he’s about to say next. Instead, he stares at One’s hand, snarling. One pulls back as though burnt.
“I am Twelve. You must beZero,” she asks, cocking a perfectly arched brow, her accent similar to One’s, her demeanor much the same. I instantly dislike her.
