television, of course – ever since the Erosion they had
become common all over the new islands of Europe – but
this was the real thing, a Hawaiian luau, one dating back
from the old days. Before the Erosion. Before the waters
came.
The dancers were the most beautiful girls I had ever
seen. Dark-eyed, with smooth coffee-colored skin, they all
seemed to belong to the same world as the flames and the
flowers – exotic, mysterious. They were not from the
California Isles – they were not the sort of people I was used
to, overwhelmed by their smooth chrome gadgets and
gliding cars. No, life here was simpler than that; I had
discovered it already. The Cutter Imperial Hotel of Oahu did
not offer, as the Angel Island branch had done, high-tech
virtual reality rooms to their guests at dinnertime, in which
those paying for the most expensive suites could adjust their
walls to make it look like they were being served fois gras in
Paris, or pasta in Rome. Instead, they offered the same
evening entertainment they had done for decades, even
centuries: an evening luau beneath the full moon. My mother
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KAILIN GOW
had been Event Director for seven hotels in five different
countries – I had long grown cynical when it came to the
luxuries provided by high-end hotels. I had seen her clean up
every VIP's mess; I had peered behind the scenes at every
celebrity-studded affair or the corporate launch party of the
latest microcomputer prototype. I was jaded when it came to
the lavish, the over-the-top. But this was different. This
struck me as none of the other events had struck me – this
simplicity, this beauty. I felt something stirring within me as
my eyes fixed on the flames, transfixed by their heated
splendor. I belonged here, I felt, leaning my face into the
flames. This place was meant for me.
I laughed at my thoughts. How silly, I told myself. I
had only been in Aeros a couple of days; I hadn't even gotten
the lay of the land yet; I hadn't even started school. And
Angel Island, California, had been my home for three years
now – it was there that I had my friends, my old crushes, my
teachers, my local pizza joint. And yet here I was, staring at
the dying-down of the dance, feeling more at home than I
had ever been in my life.
What was this place?
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Princes of Paradise (M.A.G.E. #1 )
A new dance was starting up again. This time the
male dancers sprang forth, their taut muscles rippling in the
firelight, their bare chests exposing their handsome frames
to the world. I felt my cheeks blush as I found, to my
embarrassment, that I could no more easily remove my eyes
from the ten buff men currently leaping and springing forth
before me than I could from the flames.
Luckily, my mother's laugh broke the spell, and I
turned towards her. She looked younger than I knew her to
be – one day in Aeros, I thought to myself, and she's already
settled in. Her rosy cheeks had taken on a russet tint as a
result of that day's sun; her pearly teeth shone as her mouth
spread wide into a smile. I craned my neck to see the source
of my mother's delight.
My eyes widened with surprise. My mother was
talking with her boss – a kind of fraternization that would
certainly have been frowned upon by the far stricter staff of
the Imperial Hotel Angel Island. But Antonio Cutter, with his
long black hair and leisurely tan, didn't look the part of a
stiff-necked employer. His brash good looks and muscular
frame seemed to belong to a man who spent his days surfing
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KAILIN GOW
and swimming, not cooped up fumbling over numbers in an
office.
“Mackenzy!” My mother summoned me over,
waving her hands in time with the music. “Come here!”
I approached, only slightly reluctant to leave behind
the flames that had so transfixed me. “Mr. Cutter...” my
mother began.
“Antonio,” he smiled broadly, looking me up and
down with a jovial air.
“Antonio, I don't believe you've met my daughter
yet.”
“Miss Mackenzy Evers herself?” Antonio held out a
hand to shake mine. I did so as politely as I could, my cheeks
turning furiously pink. I had always done my best to stay out
of the hair of my mother's employers – as the child of a single
mother, I had learned early on that concierges and bell-boys
made the best (and often only available) baby-sitters, and
that my unofficial “day care” would continue as long as I
avoided the glances of the higher-ups, who tended not to
look so favorably on twelve-year-olds trading stories of
celebrity sightings with the regular staff. But Antonio did not
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Princes of Paradise (M.A.G.E. #1 )
