The Famoux Read online

  “How does it work?” I ask.

  Zoya presses a finger onto the silver surface, causing a keypad to appear, its buttons beeping red. She hits a few, and a hidden door swings open slowly. She then pulls a slender onyx stick from her belt and points it directly at me. “Your figure is going to be projected on the Fissarex screen out here, and I will use this to make my edits. Whatever I paint onto you will appear; whatever I erase will disappear. Erasing your skin might hurt a little, but it’ll only last a few seconds, I promise.”

  I gulp. “Will I need a lot of erasing?”

  “Let’s see.” She touches my hair. “Hmm. It’s just so dark.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I was thinking about making you blond. But I’ll need to pull it all out and restitch new strands.”

  The idea makes me light-headed.

  The sound of Norax’s heels clacking toward us eases my nerves. “Zoya is going to make your beauty shine even more, the way only the Famoux do,” Norax assures me. “Every member had to go through this. We enhance the features they already have. Find the perfection within and bring it out. And you’ve seen them now …”

  I have. They are perfect. All different kinds of perfect too. Between hair, eyes, and complexions, no two members look fully the same. I always thought Norax must’ve sifted through thousands of options to find people on this level of perfection. But in reality, no one is on that level. Zoya has made them this way. And now she will do the same to me.

  “They were good sports about the whole thing too,” Zoya adds. “Stood as still as they could. The less you fidget, the quicker I can get my job done.”

  “And the sooner it’s all over,” Norax completes.

  I have no more time to hesitate or protest as Zoya gestures me into the foreboding machine. The interior walls of the Fissarex are black—as dark as the Darkening outside. With the swift press of a button, Zoya makes the door slip down, entrapping me within the onyx void. Although I know the machine is only wide enough to barely fit my figure, it feels like the dark ahead of me is endless.

  Taking a deep breath, I go to smooth out my paper gown, but I can’t feel my arms anymore. I try next to touch my face, and it’s like I don’t have a hand or a face to me at all—as if my body doesn’t exist. My mouth opens to scream, but some kind of unearthly force compresses down on it before anything can come out.

  “We’re all warmed up now.” Zoya’s voice comes in from a speaker somewhere in the vast blackness. “Stay calm, stand still, and we’ll be golden.”

  “Try to distract yourself!” Norax calls out. “Think good thoughts!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, heart rattling in my ribcage so hard I can hear the clamors. Taking Norax’s advice, I start thinking. This is a distraction tactic I employ often, whenever I can’t fall asleep. I state as many facts I know about a topic until I’m too tired to think any longer.

  It feels fitting that the topic today be the Famoux.

  The Famoux was founded, I think to myself, thirty years ago, by a man named Lennix Geddes.

  Suddenly, the feeling comes back to my waist, and I quickly wish I was numb again. The pain all over my sides is unlike anything I’ve ever known. It’s like someone is carving remorselessly at my skin with a blade.

  Lennix had experience in management and wanted to use his expertise to—

  The end of that sentence can wait. The pain slowly slips down my legs, searing off flesh as it goes down. Immeasurable. Unbearable.

  In the agony, I forget what I was thinking of. I need a new fact.

  There have been only four eras of the Famoux so far.

  Pain all over my stomach.

  The Famoux switched to their current cast two years ago.

  Pain all over my arms.

  With the switch, Lennix put his daughter in charge. Norax, who—

  Pain in my chest, punching my ribcage.

  These new members are—

  Sweltering, white-hot pain all over my scalp. All thoughts break off completely. There is no room in the world for anything besides this pain.

  “We’re almost done, I promise!” It’s Norax, from outside. “This is the worst part, but you’re doing so well!”

  I can barely hear the end of it; the pain is all over my head now—hitting my cheeks, my nose, my jaw. It’s impossible to distract myself from this level of pain. It pounds at my skull, as if trying to drill into my brain.

  And perhaps it does. In a swell of agony, I lose all consciousness.

  × × ×

  When I come to, the door of the Fissarex opens for me, white light pouring onto my face. I welcome it graciously. No more darkness. I’m through with darkness.

  My balance falters as I step out. It’s like I’ve never used my legs before. “Careful!” shouts Zoya. She brushes dust off my gown. “Don’t wreck the beautiful new body I’ve made!”

  It clicks. New body. I glance around the room for a mirror, but there are none in sight.

  “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Different.”

  Just standing here feels foreign, like my posture has changed. I feel several inches taller too. I wonder if I am.

  Norax is wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh, Em,” she breathes out. “You’re absolutely remarkable.”

  “Of course she is!” Zoya twitches the paintbrush at us. “I create only remarkable things.”

  Norax leads me out of the reformation room to a new one with a mirror that stretches the length of a wall. I try not to predict anything, but my mind can’t help but wander to thoughts of the current Famoux members, how perfect they seem to be.

  When I step into the room my eyes meet themselves first. Same eyes, I notice. Same eyes, but a completely different person.

  My face is that of a stranger’s. New cheekbones, sharp and defined. New eyebrows, dark and plucked to perfection. New, full lips, tinted a permanent rosy pink. My complexion has no spots, no blemishes. Flawless.

  The gown they’ve dressed me in is boxy, but even with it on I can tell my waist is lean, my stomach flat, my legs thin and muscular. No longer are my arms weak, but toned, as if I’ve exercised for years to make them this way.

  And then there is my hair. The biggest change of all. Like a pale sort of gold, cascading down the papery gown and framing my face in layers. When I reach out to touch it, it’s soft and glossy, a thousand threads of silk.

  “Bree’s entire structure was different,” Zoya says, referring to data on a clipboard. “She had that dark hair. A rounder face too. Less angular. You need not worry about people comparing you on this level.”

  “How could they ever compare her?” Norax says, touching my new, perfect cheek. “She’s got this whole different essence to her. Rebirth, adventure, youth.” To Zoya, she notes, “She’s younger than the rest, you know. Sixteen.”

  The others aren’t much older—most are around eighteen or so. But Zoya jots this fact in her clipboard. “Youth will be a welcome change.”

  The way Norax gazes at me through the mirror is unreal. I have never been looked at in such a way in my entire life. “You’re a lumerpa.”

  “A what?”

  “A pretty little bird from myths of the world before us,” Norax says. “I love old-world things, don’t you?”

  My mouth drops open. The Famoux is so modern, I wouldn’t guess it. “I do.”

  “A lumerpa’s one and only purpose in life is to illuminate. Legend says it shines so brightly it soaks up everything dark, even its own shadow. Darkness cannot dare extinguish it,” she tells me. “When I first saw you in the crowds, you and those eyes, I knew right then. A beautiful lumerpa. And now, here you are.”

  I look back at myself, the way I glow. She’s right. The gold of this hair, the sheen on my skin, even in the bright and unforgiving lights. A lumerpa. That’s it.

  “I’m telling you, Zoya, the entire world is going to absolutely fall in love with this girl,” Norax declares, proud. “With … Emeray.”

  “Emeray?” Zoya asks.

  “That’s the name. Emeray Essence.”

  Zoya scribbles this down. Just like that, it is set in stone. Emeray Essence. It sounds so new, so sophisticated. A name no one’s ever used to taunt me.

  Norax squeezes my shoulders. “Emeray!” she squeals. “Emeray Essence, member of the Famoux!” The room is buzzing with so much joy and excitement that the floor seems to be shaking. Maybe it’s just standing on my new legs. New legs.

  Even as Norax is thanking Zoya and whisking me away again into a car, I can’t say much of anything—all I can think about is my new reflection, my new identity. My eyes can’t resist the urge to scan my arms and hands for details. Even in the darkness of the car, my skin still glows like it’s made of a thin sheet of shimmer. Then I notice finer details. Gone are my pores, gone is the freckle on my wrist, gone is the scar from when I turned around too fast in the kitchen and Brandyce accidentally swiped my arm with a kitchen knife …

  Brandyce.

  My eyes dart up and I notice that our car is passing the Fishbowl. Then we’re passing the forest where Clarus Creek is. Then we’re passing streets and streets of concrete houses, and I know one of them is mine.

  The very hand I was just examining presses instinctively against the window, as if I could reach for my family. The car is moving so fast that I can’t pick out my house. But they all look the same. This one with the porch light on may as well be mine.

  They must realize I’m gone by now. What are they thinking? Will Brandyce smile at the chance I’ve given her, or will she regret what she said, and how it pushed me out?

  No. It won’t be the latter. This decision helps them as much as it helps me. I’m freeing them of the burden. They will thank me for this. I have to believe it.

  Norax picks up on my turmoil. She asks me what’s the matter. When I tell her I don’t want to talk about it, my voice catching in an attempt not to let out a sob, she doesn’t pry further. Instead she slides over a little closer to me in her seat, puts her arm around me, and starts telling me about the fun little facts and features about the private plane we’re about to take to Betnedoor. The reason the furniture inside is all powder blue, the meanings of all the handpainted designs on the walls, how the plane’s engine is the most advanced in the world and cuts standard travel times in half—apparently we’ll get all the way across the ocean to Betnedoor in three hours, as opposed to the eight or so it used to take.

  I lean into the warmth of her arm. I wonder if she, too, uses facts to calm herself down, or if she just somehow knew exactly what to do to console me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When we get on the private jet, Norax insists that I get some rest after the long day we’ve had. The Fissarex took a toll on me, so falling asleep is no trouble at all. I’ve completely passed out under a blue cashmere blanket before the plane leaves the ground.

  The flight is shorter than I’d anticipated, so Norax has to stir me awake before the plane lands. Outside the window, the next morning’s sunrise is just beginning to break through the darkness. Even at this early hour it’s the brightest, cleanest shade of orange I’ve ever seen.

  A Betnedoor sunrise.

  The view is far more encompassing up in the air than on the floor of my mother’s favorite house. From this height, it’s like I’m living inside it—like I could scoop out the color and hold it in my hands. As the minutes pass, the color only deepens. My heart swells up. Now that I’m Emeray Essence, a Famoux member, this will be my everyday sunrise. Someday I’ll even grow used to it.

  “Good morning, lumerpa!” Norax’s voice draws my attention away from the sky. She stands next to my chair holding two mugs, the scent of lemon and nectar wafting with the steam. When I take the mug, she looks almost triumphant. “Enjoy the last couple minutes of relaxing, because we have an even bigger day ahead of us than yesterday. But first we need to stop at the hideaway so I can take care of some managerial business,” she declares. As she has me change from my Fissarex gown into a pair of nondescript black pants and a white shirt, Norax tells me all about how much the members relish the return to their little hideaway on the edge of the city when the Darkenings are over.

  I’ve seen it in pictures, so I know it will be a large house, but I’m not fully prepared for just how massive it is.

  Using the word hideaway to categorize it seems a bit of an oxymoron. A mansion like this couldn’t possibly hide, not even deep within the woods. It sits upon a huge sweep of land at the top of a hill, a skyscraper in its own right. As we go up its winding driveway, I feel glad that the Darkening is over, and that I can glimpse this oxymoron and all its fine details in the light of day.

  Not the typical Betnedoor-modern in the slightest, it must be an imitation of some grand, old-world palace in which kings and deities once lived, with towers and columns and tall gates of golden metal. Thick vines snake up the exterior of the first few floors, breaking away to reveal a stunning expanse of stone and mortar. The very top of the house is painted a shade of ebony, like dark candle wax pouring over the parapets. I get an intrusive thought of what it would be like to see the wax-like details on fire, but I shake it away, moving on to the grounds.

  Flanking every end of the mansion are miles upon miles of snow-capped acreage, spanning the whole stretch of the hill. The scene is somewhat ghostly with all the white from winter, but I have little doubt that spring sings a different tune of grassy fields and flowers in abundance.

  “A lot to take in, isn’t it?” Norax asks.

  “It’s …” I wrack my brain for the proper word to describe it before settling on magnificent. But even that seems too simple.

  “You’ll get the grandest tour of it all once the day is done,” she assures me.

  The Famoux mansion is but a small pit stop on our larger itinerary for today. In fact, we’re in such a rush to get to the city that Norax has me wait in the car while she retrieves a few forms and files. She thinks I’m disappointed that I can’t go in yet, but secretly I’m thankful. The Famoux members usually leave the Fishbowl and board their jets the second the sun rises after the Darkening, so it’s unclear if they’ve returned yet from Eldae to decompress after the Darkening, and I wouldn’t want to take my chances and run into one of them. Norax aside, I’ve never actually met a celebrity before. Even just seeing the members through the glass was enough to make my whole body feel like static buzzing. I’m not quite sure how I’d react if the crowds and the glass between us were gone.

  Norax emerges from the entrance with a young man by her side. He wears the same dark, nondescript garb as the people stationed on their side of the doors. A guard.

  “This is Gerald!” she exclaims when they enter the car. “He’ll be your personal bodyguard while you learn the ropes of being a celebrity.”

  “I get a personal one?”

  “He’ll be escorting you everywhere!” she says. Then, her voice drops low. She presses a button and the partition between us and the driver goes up. “As your personal guard, he knows about your … transformation. He’s aware of how big this change is for you, and it’s his job to help make things run as smoothly as possible. But not every staff member is privy to such info. You understand, it’s quite a secret to keep.”

  “Oh,” I say. Right.

  I get a good look at him. He’s even younger up close—probably only a few years older than me. His hair is jet black, and it pokes out from under a uniform cap. He looks stern, ready for anything. If his eyes were gray, and not chestnut brown, he could’ve fit in with the Greyhounds.

  “Hi,” I say, somewhat intimidated. “I’m Emeray.”

  Gerald’s mouth twitches up into a smile, dissolving my fears. “I do know that already.”

  Our car continues right into the heart of Waltmar, the capital city. Everything about Betnedoor strikes this aura of refinement for me. Eldae is still covered in ruins, and Notness is shrouded in pollution, but every road here in Waltmar is clean and precise, and the sky is a pure, magnificent blue. It’s a marvel to look at—almost as impressive to me as the mansion.

  “It’s so refreshing to return here after a Darkening in Eldae,” Norax says. “All those shades of the same drab color give me a headache after a day or two.”

  Much to my surprise, the car stops in a dark alleyway. The kind of area I imagine Norax would avoid, not willingly bring me into.

  “Are we in the right place?” I ask her.

  “This is the back entrance.” Upon my still-confused face, she says, “We certainly can’t take front entrances with you just yet. Do you want to be seen?”

  I don’t, of course. But the next thing I know, I am being seen, fully seen by five pairs of eyes all crammed in one small room. Norax and three guards by the door watch as Swanson, the head Famoux seamstress, helps me strip down for the measurements she’s about to take of my body. They claim I have nothing to be bashful about, but my cheeks are a permanent shade of magenta the whole time.

  Swanson is a stern, precise woman. Like Gerald, she must be in her twenties but has an air about her that tells me she’s lived a thousand lives, and her mouth seems permanently curved into a prescowl. It’s this exact expression she wears as Norax explains how many gowns we’ll need for me. I’m not going to be revealed until after the gala, but once I am, I’ll be going everywhere. I’ll need a whole special-event wardrobe to match.

  “Don’t worry about time constraints,” Norax adds. “We aren’t going to be revealing Em for another month or so. We still need to hold our audition process for the new member.”

  The seamstress only laughs. “How many gowns would you like?”

  “It’s your call.” Norax motions to me. “She’s the muse. How many dresses can you make for a face like that?”