The whoosh of the air conditioners intensified the cavernous,

underground effect of the auditorium. But instead of stone, we

were surrounded by gray, fabricesque walls and nondescript

patterned carpeting—all the better to hide the inevitable spills. A

long stage, reminiscent of school plays, occupied one end, while

the other held tables of finger sandwiches and other assorted

appetizers. A vast sea of folding chairs stretched betwixt the two.

It was the same—nearly identical, even—as all the conferences

Amy and I had attended before, and would probably be a dead

ringer for many as-yet-unscheduled events. I imagined that

Hell was an auditorium that held endless conferences, with the

denizens doomed to an eternity of egg salad sandwiches and

lukewarm beer.

I sighed, and sipped my merlot. “At least the booze is free.”

Amy nodded her agreement. These conferences put the bore

in boring, and alcohol was our only solace. Actually, what we

really needed was to not attend in the first place, but Amy and I

had just been promoted to Senior Underwriters. Our new, lofty

status, coupled with all the letters that now trailed after our

As for those letters, they were for the various professional

designations attained in the insurance industry. I, myself, have

ACS (Associate, Customer Service), FLHC (Fellow, Life and Health

Claims), and the coveted CPCU (Chartered Property Casualty

Underwriter) status. The only reason I—or anyone in my office

except for Neil, but he’s one of those annoying overachievers—

ever pursued such designations was for the monetary bonuses

that accompanied them. I could care less about furthering my

insurance career, although that wasn’t what I said in my reviews.

Anyway, Amy and I were both being singled out for

recognition at this conference because of our recent promotions

think—what with us having the right to vote for the past hundred

years or so—that it wouldn’t be such a big deal to have successful

women in an organization, but no, we’re still a rarity. No matter

what the propaganda says, the glass ceiling is still very much

present in corporate America.

In fact, our entire company, Living Financial Corporation,

was frequently lauded for having so many women in leadership

positions. In a perfect world, people like Amy and me would just

be good employees, but the fact that we’re successful, intelligent

people with girl-parts is newsworthy. And our successful

corporation with over fifty percent female managing officers is

super-newsworthy. Sure, our CEO’s a man, but he’s surrounded

by smart, capable women.

The prior CEO once called us his “harem.” His office was

vacant by lunchtime.

Not only did we employ the most women in upper

management, we also insured more women per capita than

any other Fortune 100 company. Our marketing campaign was

calibrated to capture the hearts of budding young professionals

of the female persuasion, many still clutching their newly minted

degrees, and encourage them to live life to the fullest, all the

while leaving their trusted insurance company to handle the

future. Our slogan was:

That slogan tended to be printed below some stock photography

of women skydiving or rock climbing without a care in

the world; if they went splat, we’d pay their heirs. Handsomely.

And, if they survived their many adventures (most did) we’d

begin payments promptly on their sixty-fifth birthdays.

The worst were the string of commercials that ran last

summer, like the one that showcased a harried female executive

wading through reams of paperwork while the clock tick-tocked

away. Then, a cheerful colleague would poke his head in the

door and extend an invitation for kayaking (or hang gliding, or

snowboarding; there were three commercials). The ever-cautious

executive would nearly decline, but then her eyes would fall to

a brochure bearing the company logo: an ouroboros rendered in

green ink. She’d smile devilishly, take off her glasses and shake

out her hair, then declare:

“I’m in. All in!”

Yep. I work for those cheeseballs.

“Want another?” Amy had been sucking down gin and tonics

like they were water. Before I could fire off a witty comment

about the dangers of excessive alcohol consumption, she nodded

at my empty glass.

Okay, so I sucked down merlot like it was water. Like I said,

this place was boring.

“Sure.” We sidled up to the bar, which, in stark contrast to

prior conferences, was staffed by several virile young men. It

seemed that someone had finally gotten the memo that attractive

people get better tips.

As I clutched my refilled wineglass and ignored Amy’s lame

attempts at flirting with the bartender, I surveyed the auditorium

at large. I gnawed my lower lip when it hit me: there were almost

no men present. Sure, this conference honored women in the

industry, but men still make up the majority of the workforce.

Even more strangely, the few men in suits looked like they’d hit

the open bar a bit too hard.

“Check out Bill.” I nudged Amy’s ribs with my elbow. Bill

was our Chief Underwriter, and you’d never find a more straightlaced,

by-the-book man anywhere. He accepted nothing less than

excellence, both in his work and in his appearance. Just as his files

and his tie perfectly knotted. But not today—no, today the tie was

askew, his suit was rumpled, and was that an untucked shirttail?

Scandalous.

“He’s gonna get cut off if he keeps it up.” Amy set down her

g & t. “Maybe open bar wasn’t such a good idea.”

I sipped my wine and silently disagreed. I thought it was a

great idea.

Then, Bill took off his jacket, which was just about naked for

a man of his conservative demeanor. The impromptu striptease

made me glance down at my own attire; for the conference I’d

shed my standard uniform of khaki pants and polo shirt for a

black-and-white floral dress and fire engine red heels.

These conferences may be boring, but my footwear will never

be.

Amy had also opted for something a bit dressier, a blue shift

dress with black boots. I was about to ask how she could walk

on those impossibly tall and thin heels, when the most annoying

employee of Living Financial snuck up behind us.

“My double-A pupils!” chirped a voice that made me cringe,

sending icy waves down my spine. Being that our names were

Amy and Ann, and that we were nearly inseparable during the

workday, we were the butt of all sorts of A-themed comments.

Double-A, A-Number One... you get my drift. I didn’t have to turn

around to know Maggie Wilson, our Training and Development

Coordinator, had found us.

“That’s us.” I gulped some more merlot. At this rate, I’d be

wasted before the speeches—awesome.

“Now, I trust you girls have made time for our Guest of

Honor?” Maggie’s voice warbled between a singsong and a

caterwaul. She’d wrestled her iron-colored hair into pin curls

and wore her standard ensemble of pencil skirt, white blouse and

cardigan. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on the very tip of her

nose, held on by one of those beaded lanyards sold at school craft

fairs. Her shoes were soft brown loafers; if they got any more

sensible, they’d teach logic and rhetoric.

“We’ll be here for the speakers,” Amy said a little too quickly.

We’d only ever left one conference early, the one in Boise for

glamorous lifestyle?) and as far as I knew no one had ever caught

on. I wanted to keep it that way.

“Oh, not the speaker.” Maggie leaned closer, a conspiratorial

glint in her eye. “The true Guest of Honor. The one we’re all here

for.”

Our blank stares must have spoken volumes, but the everprepared

Maggie didn’t miss a beat. Heck, with shoes like those

clodhoppers she made her own beats. She beckoned us to follow

her, her gestures saying we were about to be let in on a great

secret. I figured this knowledge was the fancy ladies room,

stocked with everything from hand lotion to extra pantyhose in

nude and black.

Was I ever wrong.

We followed Maggie to the rear of the auditorium, down a

stark gray hallway lined with identical gray doors and glaring

fluorescent lights, and finally to an area partially obscured by

heavy velvet drapery that reminded me of the curtains around

an old-time movie screen, complete with gold tassels and heavy

fringe. I made a crack about being on the wrong side of the casting

couch, and Maggie shot me a withering glare.

“Now girls, you know I like to have fun as much as the next

gal,” Maggie whispered. I restrained myself from the obvious

jokes and nearly blew merlot out my nose. “But this is serious. I

need the two of you to be respectful. Best behavior, okay?” Amy

and I both nodded. Thus assured of our cooperation, Maggie led

us around the edge of the curtain.

On the one hand, I wish we’d had more of a warning, but then

again I don’t know what would have adequately prepared me

for what was on the other side of the curtain. The marble dais in

the center of the room had an actual red carpet leading up to it.

Small pillars set on either side of the carpet held enormous floral

arrangements. Throughout the room, women lounged on sofas

and huge floor cushions, along with several men in varying stages

of undress, with a few clad in what appeared to be loincloths.

Bill would freak.

Anyway, these men were feeding women grapes, combing

their hair, rubbing their feet… It was as if we’d wandered out of

the insurance world and into our own private seraglio.

However, this harem of semi-nude men wasn’t the amazing

wood, and atop that chaise reclined a woman so lovely it was

almost painful to look at her. Long, black hair, dark eyes, and

skin as pale as paper, she wore a toga-like garment of a pale pink,

diaphanous fabric cinched about her waist with a golden cord.

Oh, and instead of legs, the lower half of her body was a

serpent.

My jaw dropped as I stared. Snake woman. A freaking snake