Sky Coyote by Kage Baker Read Free Book Online Page B

say. Mendoza clambered out of the chair ahead of me, unimpressed.
    “Come on. I want a drink.”
    We joined the milling throng and flowed inside with everybody else, where I had the shock of discovering that this was a two-level tent. On the ground floor were a bar, hatcheck booth, retiring area, and kitchens, all gorgeously appointed in a central chamber. Around the perimeter ran a couple of long sloping ramps leading up to the second floor, curtained in swags of sea-green satin. Gaping, I followed Mendoza as she beelined for thebar, and soon we were on our way up the ramp with a margarita each and so many other immortals, you couldn’t hear yourself think for all the subvocal chatter.
    I thought that what I’d seen so far had been pretty neat, until I got upstairs. The ballroom itself was floored with a vast and gleaming expanse of polished teak—over cork, to judge from the pleasant bounciness of our steps. The ceiling was held up with gilded palm trees and winked here and there with tiny electric stars. From the center a mirrored ball hung, revolving above rose-pink lights, throwing spots of light that swam slowly like fish around the walls. There was a bandstand full of white-jacketed musicians tuning up; a placard of gold script on a blood-red background announced that they were KING PAKAL & HIS PARTY BOYS D’ POPUL VUH .
    A few immortals drifted on the dance floor; others were sitting at a bank of tables on a kind of mezzanine, near the buffet table. I made for the food first, like the old field operative I am. Mendoza teetered along after me, sipping from her margarita.
    And was that a spread! Great hors d’oeuvres and other little crunchy things. Nothing as substantial as cold cuts or dinner rolls, but what it lacked in solid food, it made up for in imaginative presentation. I remember a big pyramid of chicken salad paprikaed all over to look like our red stucco central residential complex. I remember Mayan hieroglyphs sculpted in liverwurst. I remember a scowling Mayan warrior profile bas-relieved in tomato aspic, with a bulging hard-boiled egg for its glaring eye. Green vegetable pate had been piped in for the head’s trailing quetzal plumes.
    But the desserts! Let’s skip the obvious stuff like the pineapple gondolas and the
gateaux pyramides
. Let’s skip the little dishes of salted nuts and chalky mints. There was Theobromos in abundance like I’ve never seen in my long life: layered into cakes,whipped into creamy mousses, waxily coating fresh strawberries and candied fruits. There was Theobromos cream pie three inches deep, Theobromos cheesecake decorated with Theobromos bonbons, Theobromos roses on sugar stems, bombe Theobromos filled with frozen Theobromos ganache, Theobromos tartufos rolled in chopped Brazil nuts, and a whole lot of lively and obscene little figures made of plain, solid, highest-grade Theobromos.
And
champagne. Boy oh boy, what would our mortal masters say if they could see all this?
    Over the buffet was strung a bannered message in gold script: WE ARE THE BRIGHT ASCENDING BUBBLES IN THE BLACK WINE OF MORTALITY . What the hell that was supposed to mean I couldn’t guess, but it looked poetic. Mendoza and I loaded our plates with a little of everything and elbowed along the terrace to a vacant table.
    “This looks like a good place.” Mendoza dumped her plate down and collapsed into a folding chair. “Nice view, breeze from the windows, close to a door for quick exit after the New Year strikes. I’ve gone as far as I’m going in these heels tonight, thank you.”
    “You said it, kiddo.” I dove into my Theobromos zabaglione fantasia, and conversation sort of languished for a few minutes. With each passing moment, though, the ballroom grew more beautiful and the wan crowd of immortals livelier. King Pakal and his buddies struck up a medley of Cab Calloway hits, and a few Old Ones actually got out on the floor and boogie-woogied in their silk pants and hoop skirts.
    “Say,