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.”