Raine. Elizabeth Amber
point between EarthWorld and another world unknown to Humans. Called ElseWorld, it was home to creatures spawned by gods of a bygone era. Shrouded in mist and foliage, the portal’s rocky entrance lay hidden just through an outer gateway formed by three gnarled trees—the oak, ash, and hawthorn of Faerie lore.
If the phylloxera’s origins were unEarthly, it meant the more malignant creatures of ElseWorld had already somehow infiltrated this world. If he didn’t discover the means by which they’d done so, the pox was certain to eventually reach Satyr lands. The consequences of that could prove devastating.
For it was written that if the vines of the Satyr were ever felled, the gate would fall as well. And if that happened, ElseWorld creatures would spill into EarthWorld, wreaking havoc.
By the time Raine reached the landing, the huffing, puffing bishop lagged half a staircase behind him. Raine tried the first door he came to and stepped inside with the bishop hard on his heels. Both came to an abrupt halt at the sight that met their eyes.
Across the dimly lit theater, a man outfitted in white surgeon’s garb stood before a velvet stage curtain. An air of expectation permeated the well-packed audience that appeared to be largely male. With the man’s brisk tug on a cord, the curtains swung open to reveal two figures on the stage beyond him. He waved an arm in their general direction, announcing in a grandiose voice:
“Gentleman! I bid you behold—the hermaphrodite!”
3
When the curtains opened, all eyes fell on Jordan. She faced the audience for this initial inspection, assuming the semireclining pose Salerno had taught her years ago. Both arms were braced straight behind her, with elbows locked and her hands flat on the table, fingers outward. Her back was arched so the surrounding light caught her chest. Her knees were high and widespread. Salerno wanted the features of her body that were so at odds—breasts and phallus—to be prominently on display.
As always, there were gasps and murmurs.
“Aberration. Monstrosity. La Maschera,” they whispered.
La Maschera—The Mask. It was what Salerno had dubbed her in view of the bauta she wore as a disguise. He felt it lent an air of mystery and intrigue to the novelty of her, his prized exhibit.
Those in the back rows stood for a better look. Goosenecks craned. Avid eyes were eager for a glimpse of her—the human freak show Salerno had promised them all today.
Typically, most of the attendees were medical men, here only in the interest of scientific study. But there were also those who came hoping to be titillated or to gather an amusing anecdote with which to amuse other acquaintances in the days to come.
Inspired by her strangeness, some gawkers in the farthest rows would eventually turn silent and slump in their seats. Their hands, hidden under hats or coats on their laps, would begin busily working at their cocks.
In fact, the show today was exactly the sort of event that would appeal to some of her wilder male friends here in Venice. She dreaded that one day she might gaze into the audience at one of these annual spectacles and find Paulo or Gani in attendance.
Her greatest admirers had come early enough to garner prime seating in the front row as always. They were the ones Jordan privately dubbed the Worshippers, though they referred to their group as LAMAS, an acronym for the La Maschera Admiration Society. Comprised of a half-dozen men and women, they’d come every September for the past five years. They saw her as some sort of mythical goddess and occasionally wrote odes in her honor, which a disinterested Salerno passed on to her. They were an odd but harmless bunch.
After the initial wave of speculation and consternation waned, Salerno extended a hand in Jordan’s general direction. “Learned colleagues and interested spectators—I offer for your enlightenment a living specimen of ambiguous sex! One willing to be examined for the purposes of advancing science.”
Jordan lifted a hand and wiggled the tips of her fingers at the audience. A nervous rustling wafted across them. In general, medical men were more accustomed to attending lectures involving the study of cadavers that were far less animated than she. Only the members of LAMAS waved enthusiastically to her, tossing posies and small tokens onto the stage.
The artist stood suddenly, dragged his chair away, and shuffled through his drawings for a few moments. His footsteps were loud in the momentary quiet as he made to withdraw from the stage.
Jordan turned her head and watched him go. She saw that he’d finished the last sketch and left it positioned on the easel. He’d portrayed her genitals three times actual size. They’d been faithfully rendered. He really was quite good.
“Bear witness to this spectacle. This miracle of science,” Salerno went on. Like a conductor, his hands moved in staccato gestures to punctuate his words and lend them added importance.
Jordan looked beyond him, scanning the sea of faces blurred by darkness. Because of her, Salerno’s reputation had spread far and wide. Today the theater had filled to capacity. Several hundred were in attendance. Candles lit the stage, so they could easily see her. But beyond the candles, the crowd of onlookers appeared to her as shrouds with shadowed features.
“Hermaphroditism has never been as pronounced in any other subject, now living or dead,” Salerno was saying. “This is a rare opportunity, I assure you. The subject is nineteen years of age. Such cases rarely endure so long. Early death due to venereal disease or suicide are typically the fate of these creatures.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “No, really. Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings,” she muttered sotto voce.
It wasn’t that Salerno was being intentionally cruel to her. He didn’t care enough about her as a person to bother with cruelty. To him, she was merely a medical curiosity. A stepping stone to fame and glory in his chosen field. That she might also be a human being with feelings was immaterial. His lack of empathy made him all the more dangerous.
In time, Salerno grew weary of his own voice and called for the interrogation to commence.
“Why the mask?” a voice inquired from the crowd.
“It is a requirement the subject’s family insists upon,” Salerno replied. “Hence the moniker, La Maschera.”
“But why specifically the bauta when any mask would have done?” another called.
“I’ve always worn the bauta of Carnivale,” Jordan returned. “Even before the Austrians.”
Salerno shot her an annoyed look. She might have to obey him in most things, but she refused to play the silent victim he would prefer her to be. He should be accustomed to that by now.
Onlookers always questioned the mask, but it had taken on added significance this year. Because some Venetians who still rebelled against Austrian rule had chosen to disguise themselves behind Carnivale masks to make mischief, such masks had recently been outlawed. The festival that had for centuries been so integral to the city was now forbidden.
“Let me direct your attention to matters below the subject’s neck,” Salerno said, indicating her bosom. His hand was cold as he took the weight of one of her breasts between his thumb and two fingers, lifting. “Paired with what is displayed between the subject’s legs, such objects often draw titters from the crowd.”
Jordan cringed at the pun, having heard it before from him on every birthday since her breasts had developed. She’d had to bind them every morning thereafter to perpetuate the fiction that she was entirely male.
“They’re not much proof of sexual ambiguity,” a voice complained. “I’ve seen men with tits as big.”
“But only fat men, I’ll warrant,” Salerno quibbled. “And this subject is hardly fat.” He let her breast flop free.
“Let’s hear the subject speak further so that we may judge the quality and timbre of the voice,” someone called.
Jordan tilted her jaw to a challenging angle. “What