A band of Negro musicians in white tuxedo coats, occasionally visible through a throng of people so beautifully dressed Rosie could barely look at them, played at the back of the Vaughn's huge foyer. Doors were flung open all over the downstairs, not just to the living room Rosie had been invited into earlier, but to a dining room big enough to be considered a dining hall, and to another room with hardwood floors and all the furniture cleared away so the room's center was left open for dancing, and to a third space like a living room only more formal, where Rosie caught a glimpse of Daniel Franklin holding court amid a bevy of admiring women. She caught Irene's hand and nodded toward Franklin, gratified to hear her friend's almost-soundless squeak of excitement. It made her feel less alone and overwhelmed by the casual wealth and beauty on display in the Vaughn home. She bet every pearl, ruby, and diamond she could see was real, and that, unlike her dress, none of them had been borrowed.
"There you are!" Mrs Vaughn slipped through the crowd to embrace her son, then, with equal charm, first Rosie and then Irene. "You must be Irene. I'm so sorry Jean couldn't make it tonight, although it's certainly been a difficult time for her. Do tell her I was thinking of her, will you not? Rosie, you were absolutely correct about Irene's size, and you both look perfectly lovely. Now, let me introduce you to a few people, and then I'm sure you'll be able to make your way quite well on your own. I want you girls to enjoy yourselves. Hank, darling, I need you to go be charming. People have been asking about you all evening. I told them you were collecting more guests, of course, but I wish you hadn't gone to that silly job today. It was inconsiderate, knowing I had so much to do for the party."
"I know, Mum. I'm sorry." Hank kissed Mrs Vaughn's cheek, glanced apologetically at Rosie, and went to do as he'd been told.
"Men," Mrs Vaughn said with a shake of her head. "I can't imagine how they'd get by without us. Speaking of which, I promised you an introduction to Daniel, didn't I. Let's begin there." She slipped her arms through both Rosie and Irene's and walked them into the third party room, with the crowd parting easily to let them through even though they were three abreast. "Daniel, Danny, darling, I have some young ladies to introduce you to. Rosie Ransom and Irene Fandel, who were so good as to come to the party on virtually no notice."
"Miss Ransom. Miss Fandel." Photoplay claimed Franklin got by on his smile, which could smolder as easily as it could make him seem like the boy next door. Under its full weight, in person, Rosie struggled not to giggle like a schoolgirl, while Irene smiled up through her lashes at him as if suddenly stricken with shyness. Franklin, bowing over her hand, took a step back and opened his arm, so Irene's dress and figure could be seen to their best advantage. "Miss Fandel, I know six producers and two studios who would give you a contract for that smile. Tell me your speaking voice is as dulcet as your gaze, and together, you and I shall conquer Hollywood."
"I'm a New Yorker, Mr Franklin," Irene said with no hint of Brooklyn in her accent. "I don't think we're known for dulcet tones."
"Oh, better still," Franklin cried. "She speaks directly, a woman who knows her mind and calls the shots even as she devastates with a glance. Would you like to be the next Katharine Hepburn, Miss Fandel?"
Irene shot Rosie a wide-eyed glance that sent Rosie into another laugh, which brought her—momentarily—to Franklin's attention. "My God, another beauty I'm neglecting. Forgive me, Miss Ransom. The pleasure is mine." He bowed over her hand as well, making her realize, as he straightened, that he stood almost exactly her height, far shorter than she'd imagined him to be from seeing him on screen. He caught her glance toward her own heel-clad feet and put on a rueful smile. "I know, I know. I'm shorter than you expected. I always am. What's a man to do, when he's been seen on screen twenty feet high, and he proves to be only mortal upon retreating to the real world?"
"Rely on killer charm," Rosie said with a smile, and he struck a hand over his heart.
"She understands me! Please, Valentine," he said, suddenly addressing Mrs Vaughn, "leave these young ladies with me. I'll do my best to ensure they have a splendid evening. I'll introduce them to everyone who's anyone, and I'll steal at least one of them back to Hollywood with me, thus ensuring my career as a talent scout when they inevitably discover I cannot in fact act at all."
"Oh, but that's not true!" Irene burst out. "I've seen all your movies, Mr Franklin—"
"Daniel, I insist."
Irene blushed prettily. "Daniel. And you can act! You broke my heart when you played Lieutenant Wilson in—"
Franklin put his hand over his heart again. "You have seen all my films! No one ever mentions poor Lieutenant Wilson! You're too kind, my dear, far too kind, and let me introduce you to—no, not him, he's much too handsome and might take your eye from me. Here, Mr Driver, he's old and terribly boring, just the sort who can't threaten to replace me." Old, boring Mr Driver couldn't have been more than a dozen years older than Franklin, and if he didn't share the actor's classic features and sun-blond hair, neither was he unattractive, and Franklin muttered, "Of course, he's awfully rich," as if the other man had committed a sin by being so, and Irene, laughing, accepted Driver's kiss on her cheek gracefully. Franklin drew her deeper into a crowd of men and women alike, offering introductions and looking positively smug as Irene charmed and flirted. Rosie watched from the outside of the circle, then, confident Irene was happy and in good hands, slipped away from the noisy group to explore the rest of the party.
People from the society pages were everywhere, laughing and talking, sipping sparkling wine from glasses that made prisms when the light caught them right. A waitress offered Rosie one, and she took it with a murmur of thanks, mostly to tap her finger against its rim and hear the crystal's sweet chime. She paused near groups of people a few times, listening in on conversations. Mostly the speakers ignored her, or nodded an acknowledgment that neither expected nor forbid her to join in.
No one idly mentioned being a demon, or hiding a nest of demons in Detroit, and Rosie, finally realizing she was listening to hear just such a confession, laughed at herself and drank her wine, surprised at its sweetness. Another waitress offered her a thumb-sized bit of pastry from a tray, and she tried it, startled to find it proved savory. She wished she'd taken a second, but the chance would come again: innumerable staff circulated through the crowd, easy to pick out because of their black skin and sharp, white-clad shoulders. Rosie thanked the next waiter who offered her something, nibbled it, and listened to wealthy men argue about whether the war in Japan would continue or whether it might be better to start shutting down the production of airplanes and bombs and retooling for vehicles again.
"They can't hold out forever," Rosie said into one of those conversations. "But I bet a lot of women would be happy to get the training on building cars instead of airplanes. It might mean they'd still be able to hold jobs, if they've been trained to skills that the men coming home haven't been."
All three of the gentlemen holding the discussion turned toward her, no less astonished than they might have been if the table behind them had started talking. Then the oldest chuckled and shook his head. "That's just nonsense, sweetheart. I suppose a little slip like you who's used to having the men off at war might think that way, but no sensible woman is going to want to get greasy building cars when she could be at home with her children."
"I'd want to," Rosie objected, and the humor in the older man's face went flat.
"You'd better get used to not getting what you want, then, little girl."
Rosie bit back saying I'm not a little girl, knowing it wouldn't help, and turned away from the trio, who laughed very much the same way Barb and Dorothy had earlier that day. Rosie put her champagne flute aside and worked her way through the crowd, finding doors and trying them, in hopes of locating a bathroom to regain her composure in. One door, off the dance hall, let into a quiet, dim room, and she pressed the door shut behind her, eyes already closed, to take a breath of cooler air and stand in the comparative silence for a while. She kept her eyes shut against the faint light until she felt less shaky, then opened them and straightened up, preparing to go back into the party.
A dozen feet ahead of her stood a boxing ring, set above the floor like someone had built it for competition in the Vaughn's spare room. The only illumination in the room hung above it, a bare bulb meant to throw harsh light on anyone in the ring. A punching bag hung in one corner of the ring, making Rosie squint past the light to see the heavy exposed girder that held its weight. A smile curved the corner of her mouth. Harrison Vaughn had been a lightweight contender in the twenties or early thirties, a fact she'd been reminded of when she'd seen him in his well-cut suit the day they'd met. She hadn't imagined he maintained a boxing ring, though it probably made keeping his fine form easier. Without thinking it through, she crossed to the ring, toed off her shoes, and climbed up to the canvas, slipping between the ropes to walk silently to the punching bag.
It had taken plenty of beatings, dents and knuckle-marks deep enough to catch the hard light. She pressed her fingertips against one of the dimples, then shot a grin over her shoulder, as if someone might catch her, before stepping back to throw a punch.
The canvas bag barely moved, but her knuckles protested the impact with its solid filling. Rosie laughed almost silently and tried again, then backed up a few feet and danced up onto her toes, throwing punches like she imagined a boxer would. It felt good, like riveting did: strong and powerful, like she could take care of herself. After a minute she threw her arms up, pretending she'd won the round, then shrieked and fled to the ropes when applause echoed through the gymnasium and Harrison Vaughn said, from the shadows, "Not too bad, Miss Ransom. You drop your left, even when boxing imaginary opponents, but not too bad."
"Oh my gosh." Rosie could barely hear herself. "Oh my gosh, Mr Vaughn, I'm so sorry. I didn't even mean to come in here. I was looking for the bathroom."
"As long as you didn't use the ring for one." Vaughn swung himself up into the ring, sliding between the ropes with the ease of long practice, even if he wore a tuxedo and shining shoes right now. "This room is supposed to be locked during parties, but I may start keeping it unlocked, if it lures pretty young women in to try their strength against shadows. Have you ever punched someone?"
"No!" Rosie hesitated. "Maybe a couple of boys in grade school."
Vaughn laughed. "Why?"
"One stole my mitten and wouldn't give it back. Another grabbed my arm too hard and wouldn't let go, so I socked him in the stomach. Then I ran away."
"Running away is the best possible resolution for conflict. Nobody gets hurt that way. Let's see what you've got, Miss Ransom." Vaughn lifted his hands, making invitations of his palms, and cocked a challenging eyebrow. He looked a lot like his son with that expression in place, and Rosie grinned with shy excitement.
"Really?"
"Absolutely. If for no other reason than I'd love to see a flapper throwing a real punch. No, see, your stance is too square. Stand more like I am, one foot a little forward, one foot back. You want to be able to get your hips into it, even your thighs. A good punch comes all the way up from the floor through your fists. Whoof!" The last sound exploded in surprise as Rosie followed his instructions and threw a roundhouse punch into his left palm. Vaughn dropped his hands a few inches, grinning. "You're a riveter, right? Got some strength in you!"
"I was a riveter." Rosie threw another series of punches, faster this time, as Vaughn lifted his palms to take their impact. "They fired me." She hit again, harder, until her knuckles felt swollen and thick. Vaughn stepped back, dropping his hands as an indication to stop.
"I'm sorry to hear it. I'm sure it's for the best, in the long run. I'm sure you must have a soldier coming home soon."
Rosie gave him a bleak look. "Do you really think a girl who decides to climb in a boxing ring and knock out some shadows is the type who just wants her soldier to come home and take care of everything?"
Vaughn looked down at her thoughtfully. "I suppose not. What do you want, Miss Ransom? You can't be a contender." The words were said with a smile, to take away the sting, and Rosie backed up a few more steps, finding somewhere else to look.
"I want to take care of myself. After what happened at the factory—it was scary, Mr Vaughn."
"Call me Harry."
Rosie looked at him dubiously, but went on. "It was scary. I had a tool handy that I knew how to use, but most of the time, well, who carries a riveting gun around? The only thing I've got with me all the time is me. I'd like to be able to fight, at least some. I'd like to be able to rely on myself, if I need to."
"You're unlikely to ever need to again, Rosie."
"Does that stop you from coming in here and practicing?"
A slow smile spread across Vaughn's face. "No. No, it doesn't. Tell you what, Rosie. If you want to learn to box, I'll teach you. Come out here a couple of days a week and we'll see what you can do. It might even get Hank back in the ring. He used to be pretty good, you know. Before—"
"Before his knee got hurt?"
Vaughn nodded. "He told me when he came home that it wasn't his gun or his army training that got him out of there, just good old-fashioned fisticuffs. He knew how to take care of himself. And now he won't get in the ring at all."
"It must be hard, being less able than he was before."
"Everybody changes, Rosie. Some days, we're all capable of more than we are at other times. Sometimes it's a change that lasts forever, and sometimes it only lasts a few minutes. You were able to save yourself when it mattered, and it seems to me that's a change that's lasting, in you." He smiled suddenly, putting seriousness away. "Now, if you want to put your shoes back on, I might like to ask you to dance. And I'll be careful of stepping on your toes, because I already know you can throw a mean right punch."
Rosie laughed and climbed out of the ring to put her shoes back on. "You're not what I expected, Mr Vaughn."
"Harry. What did you expect?"
"I don't know. A cold, calculating businessman, or a …" She couldn't exactly say a ruthless demon looking to take over Detroit, middle America, and then the world, so shook her head and finished, "I don't know."
"Good. I like to keep people on their toes. And myself off yours." He held the door for her, emerging into the dance hall. Rosie blushed, realizing how her appearance with Harrison Vaughn, from a private room in the house, could easily look to someone with a nasty mind. But in fact, Vaughn swept her into the dance so easily that even she half-imagined they'd been dancing all along, and enjoyed herself as they spun around the room. Vaughn lifted her hand, eyebrows raised as he examined her knuckles. "I expected more bruising, after those punches you threw."
"Oh." Rosie's heart stuttered. "I guess I was careful?"
"Evidently so. Just as well. It would have been difficult to explain bloody knuckles to my wife, who notices that kind of thing."
"I bet a lot of people here would," Rosie said wryly. "Everybody's so fancy."
Vaughn laughed. "Well dressed and monied, at least. It's not quite the same thing."
Hank Vaughn, once again startlingly handsome in his tuxedo and slick hair, appeared abruptly to tap on his father's shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?"
Harrison chuckled and stepped back. "Of course not. I'm sure you two will look far smarter together than I could. Enjoy the evening, Rosie." He left the dance floor and Rosie smiled after him before looking up at Hank, whose jaw was set and whose blue eyes were angry.
"What were you doing with my father?"
"Dancing," Rosie said in surprise. "What's wrong?"
"You really expect me to believe you were just dancing with my father? When I saw you come in from the gym together?" Hank pulled her into the dance steps less gracefully than Harrison, but at least they were moving and not holding up the other dancers. Not until Rosie stopped, anyways, staring up at Hank in genuine offense.
"I went in there looking for a bathroom, Hank Vaughn, and I found the boxing ring and I threw a couple of punches and he caught me. He said I wasn't bad, and I said I'd like to learn to fight so he offered to teach me, and then we came out here and danced." She dropped his hand and shoved the other one off her waist, backing up in outrage. "What kind of girl do you think I am? What kind of idiot do you think I am? How dare you, you nasty, small-minded jerk!" It took everything she had to keep her voice quiet, but that didn't stop people around them from noticing the altercation. Rosie spun away and stalked out of the dance hall.
She caught a glimpse of Irene perched on the arm of a chair with half a dozen admirers, including Daniel Franklin, who appeared entirely smitten. A thread of gladness coiled through Rosie's anger, but she didn't want to be near Hank Vaughn or even at the party, and walked outside still in a fine fury, hoping the night air would calm her down. Mrs Vaughn had been right: the yard, lit up at night, looked astonishingly beautiful, like fairies had come down with sparkling wands to spread points of brilliance across the lawn and trees.
"Rosie?" Irene spoke behind her, sounding concerned. "I saw you come out here like a storm cloud. Is everything all right?"
"Hank Vaughn is a jerk, just like you said, that's all."
"Oh." Irene hesitated. "Well, come back in with Daniel and me. He's fun, and the people with him are mostly nice."
"Daniel, huh?" Rosie smiled at her. "It's Daniel already, is it?"
Irene blushed visibly, even in the darkness. "He kept insisting."
"I bet he did." Rosie's grin broadened as Irene's blush deepened. "All right. I'll come back in. I want to watch him fall in love with you."
Irene whispered, "Stop that," and leaned on Rosie as they went back inside together. Franklin made much of Rosie's return, although he gave no indication he actually remembered her name, and her anger at Hank slowly faded into enjoyment of the party. Both Valentine and Harrison Vaughn stopped by to check on them more than once, and Rosie watched them a while, noticing how they isolated one or another wealthy attendee, working on him with charm and flattery until the checkbook came out and a donation was made to charity. "What charity is it, anyways?" she wondered.
"American Legion," Hank replied, at her elbow. She startled, then frowned, her anger not that deeply buried after all, but she hesitated, then nodded when he said, "Rosie, may I talk to you for a minute? Outside, maybe? Where it's quieter?"
They went out, Hank wisely not offering his arm on the way. Once outside, Rosie folded her arms under her breasts, glared up at him, and awaited what he had to say. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making a mess of the careful waves. "I'm sorry about earlier. I mean it. Really sorry. It wasn't even you I was angry at. It was Dad. He's got—"
"A reputation?" Rosie said when Hank stopped abruptly and didn't seem likely to start again. "You think I didn't know that? You think I'd just …" She lost the ability to finish too, and Hank sighed.
"No, I don't, but I think Dad would in a heartbeat. Like I said, it's him, not you, I was angry at. So I'm sorry. I should have—" He half-smiled, apologetically. "I guess I should have asked you if I could cut in, and snapped at him while we danced. Look, let me come over tomorrow afternoon. I'll take you back to the library and I'll start teaching you to fight. Really fight."
Rosie's glower faded until she had to look away. "Darn it, Hank Vaughn, you make it hard to stay mad at you."
"That was kind of the idea. I really am sorry, Rosie. I'll do better next time."
"Next time I dance with your father?"
Dismay crossed Hank's face. "Are you going to make a habit of it?"
"I don't know. He at least danced with me, which you didn't."
Hank drew a deep breath and offered his hand. "Well, would you like to dance with me now? I'll probably step on your feet. I'm tired and my knee hurts."
"That's all right. You can tell me if you found anything in Toledo. Or did you really go to work this morning?" She hoped not, because she hadn't found anything amiss at the party, even though she'd been convinced she would. At least she wouldn't have to broach the idea that his father was the demon hiding things from him in Detroit.
Hank's face fell. "No. I mean, I did, and found an excuse to drive down to Toledo. I talked to the cops there. No strange marks on bodies, no unusual murders, no centers of bad behavior besides the trouble kids usually get into. I drove all over the place down there, too, Rosie, trying to get any kind of sense of—" He stopped, not wanting to use the word demons aloud, but Rosie nodded her understanding. "There's more sense of it here. I guess I didn't even know that until I went someplace else, someplace that really is clean. I'm on the right track here, Rosie. Maybe they didn't send me astray after all. This is where I'm supposed to be hunting. I just need to figure out what's blinding me." As he spoke, headlights glared in the driveway and he lifted his hand, blocking the light and muttering, "Besides that, I mean. Who's arriving this late? It must be three or four in the morning."
"Probably your friend, Senator Haas," Rosie said dryly. "He seems like the sort to show up late to a party."
"You're right about that," Hank admitted. "But he was borrowing our driver and car, and they're here tonight. Maybe it's one of Dad's friends." He offered Rosie his arm and they walked down the steps together, both of them shielding their eyes against the light. The car pulled up and the driver killed the lights, making the driveway seem suddenly flooded by light from the house washing through the windows and creating soft shadows everywhere. Rosie lowered her hand, smiling curiously, and murmured, "I guess he knows how to make an entrance, whoever it is."
"It'd be more of one if he'd shown up at dawn while everybody was leaving," Hank argued, and Rosie laughed as the driver got out of the car.
Tall, broad-shouldered, in military uniform, he took a couple of steps toward the house, then said, "Rosie?" uncertainly.
Hank looked at her in surprise. "You know him?"
"No. I don't think so? I think—" He looked a little familiar, like someone she'd known in childhood but hadn't seen in a long time. Dark-haired, handsome in the complicated way soldiers just home from war could be: overwhelmed with joy at being home, but older and different from who they'd been when they left, and no longer certain of where they belonged. A sad kind of attractiveness, but not one that made any sense when she tried to pin it to someone she knew.
Not until the car suddenly looked familiar. More familiar than the man: it hadn't changed all that much since she'd seen it in his family's driveway. A little more rust, maybe, and a few extra dings. The soldier, though: he'd been tall but still slim, not yet filled out to a man's breadth, and his jaw had been softer, still a boy's. Now with his dark hair cut short and the uniform emphasizing the trim lines of his body, he looked like someone else, but he was, after all, someone she knew.
"Oh my God. Rich."