by May Dawson
His hand on my elbow is tighter than I much care for, even though he nods politely as he steers me down the row to one of the boxes.
As soon as we’ve stepped into the box, I pull my elbow out of his grip as elegantly as one can yank away from an unwanted touch. When I turn on my heel and back into the box, keeping my eye on him, I bump into the back row of seats.
“I’m afraid of heights,” I tell him to excuse myself for yanking away. “Especially lately.”
“I’m here to be your friend, Tera Donovan.” His voice sounds earnest. And flat. There’s something off about him, almost something robotic.
“You know my name.” I run my fingertips over the smooth, polished backs of the seats as I back away, putting more space between us. “It seems rude not to tell me yours.”
A beat passes, and then he spreads his hands to either side. “It would be strange to tell you. You see, I’m piloting this body, so I can’t tell you his name. He might not even be True. And I can’t tell you my name.”
A shiver runs down my spine. He’s using powerful magic. “Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t trust you yet. No one’s heard anything from you for five years, and then you come in here, strutting your stuff—“
I’d really thought of it as more of a sashay. Strut doesn’t sound very dignified. Tonight, it makes me think of a chicken in a fancy gown.
“—and you murder one of my favorite True.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Okay, okay. You made me murder him. But it’s the same principle.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with any murders.”
He sneers. The slits in his mask, where his eyes should be, appear blank. It’s unnerving. “Perhaps not lately.”
Lately. He’s talking about the murders when I was a kid, my father’s many victims.
A memory rises up so fast that it steals my breath. A bloodied hand grabbed at my school skirt, catching the hem. The man who owned the arm made small, desperate noises, and I could feel how desperate he was to meet my eyes. I was afraid to look. He was trying to make a human connection, trying to find some chance at mercy. “He doesn’t deserve any mercy,” my father promised me.
But when it comes to True, my father’s attempts to involve me in his crimes are a strength. Like him, they’d probably prefer I wasn’t squeamish.
I have to turn my back to him to move to one of the seats in the front row and take a second to compose myself. I’m Tera Donovan. Possibly a villain. Certainly not flustered by this other villain piloting this poor tuxedoed lump.
I take a seat and cross my legs nicely, the way that I was taught, folding my hands in my lap.
“Lately,” I say. “But I don’t really consider them murders. We don’t talk about murdering cows, do we?”
He sits next to me, his hands also folded in his lap. “I would like to meet you again. To teach you more about the new rising of the True.”
“You’re going to have to tell me your name first, friend.”
“How do you feel about the True?”
“I feel that the war isn’t over.” That’s not a lie.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and my nestled-together palms are sweating, but my erect spine and pretty hair and set red lips all feel like a shield between the world and me.
“What role do you think you’d play in the rest of the war?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m still considering my options.”
“I hope you’ll consider that you could have allies. Here, in this very school.”
“I’ve already met some allies,” I say, thinking of the True police officers our detective friend, Cutter, is trying to flush out. “I wonder if you know them too.”
“Not too many questions all at once, Tera Donovan.” He pats my knee, his hand heavy and clumsy. I want to grab his thumb and rip it off.
Instead, I rise, shaking his hand off. “I expect answers when I ask questions.”
“I’ll send you a note.” He rakes his sharpened thumbnail over my bare forearm. Cold scrapes across my skin and I suck in a breath as a line of blood rises from a narrow scratch.
Magic blooms around the blood, until the red drop shimmers inside the luminescent gold of a message bubble, and then the bubble swirls off into the night.
The man in the mask gasps and falls forward, slamming into the railing of the balcony.
He draws a desperate, ragged breath and his hands form claws around the rail as he stumbles against it. His eyes and mouth are wide in panic as he pitches forward, headfirst into the open air.
He’s going to fall several stories down to the dance floor below.
Chapter 8
I wrap my arms around his waist and drop my weight low, trying to haul him back over the side of the railing, or at least keep him from falling. Far below, the bands playing merrily as a bright blur of people turn on the dance floor.
My heels slip across the floor as I try to drag him back into the box. My arms and shoulders burn. I could use a little of Mycroft’s levitating magic, or at least some better-developed biceps.
Just as Airren and Mycroft and Cax burst into the box, I get my shoulder into the man’s waist and shove him away from the rail. He and I stumble together backward. He falls, slack and unconscious, into one of the waiting seats.
I land heavily on top of him. I’m breathing heavily as I straighten, my heels wobbling beneath me. Mycroft moves quickly to the rail, looking out for anyone who might have been involved or seen the struggle in the box. Cax’s eyes are wide behind his mask. Right; he’s new to this too.
Airren joins me, leaning over to press his fingers into the man’s pulse. “Are you all right, Tera?”
“I’m super.” I slide my hands over the curves of my dress, smoothing the fabric to my hips. What I really want is to smooth is my own ruffled feelings; my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that it hurts. “And you’re late.”
Airren’s deep blue eyes meet mine. “We’re not late. We had to wait until the possession ended so we didn’t blow our cover. You had that situation under control.”
“You have a different idea of under control than me, or that guy who almost toppled over three stories.” I stab my finger into Airren’s chest, which is hard and unyielding under the crisp white dress shirt he wears.
“Almost,” Airren says. “Good work, Tera. We’ll make a spy of you in the end.”
“So that’s what Intel really means. You’re just spies.” I run my hand over my hair, trying to tame the pieces that came loose.
“Well, she didn’t let the man fall to his death,” Mycroft says, turning back from the rail. He rests his ass against the rail, his arms folded over his chest, which makes my heart rate spike all over again. I don’t need to watch anyone else fall tonight. “Maybe she’s not evil.”
“If I push you right now, would your magic save you before you hit the floor?” I can’t even look over the railing at the dance floor I know is down there, where couples turn in circles as they dance to the lovely, chiming music playing far below.
“Just spies?” Airren repeats, his tone unfazed. He unhooks his mask, and I’m grateful to see the familiar face, which makes my heart slow a little.
My fingers find a chunk of hair hanging out of the back of my once-sleek updo. Damn.
Airren mimes me turning around. I roll my eyes but spin around. He quickly, competently, begin to tuck my hair back in. His movements send gentle tugs up my hair to my scalp. His fingers could work through my hair in other ways, holding my hair like this while he rocks into me from behind, over and over…
I push the thought away. Apparently, adrenaline leaves me filled with lust.
“You learned to style hair in the Marines?” I ask. “Or in spy school?”
“I grew up with three sisters.” There’s one more tug at my scalp, which sends a shiver down my spine—a good one, for once—and then he smooths my hair with his rough palm. “There. All better.”
<
br /> “My hair might be.” I spin back around, looking at the man still passed out in the seat; his head hangs back, his mouth gaping wide open under his mask. “It’s going to take me a little longer to settle down.”
Mycroft passes his hand over the man’s mask. “I think I can tease out the threads. Follow this magic back to its source. But the threads won’t last long.”
“Do it,” Airren says. “Cax, you back him. I’ll keep Tera safe.”
“In a more timely fashion, I hope.” My voice comes out chilly, as if I’m still in my high-and-mighty-dark-lord’s-daughter mode.
“Have a little faith in yourself, Tera,” Airren says. “We do.”
I level him with a look. “Mycroft might play it off as a joke—“
“I don’t joke,” Mycroft deadpans.
“—But I absolutely believe him that he thinks maybe I’m not evil.”
“But I think you’re cute either way.” Mycroft rests his big hand on my head for a second, his palm almost spanning my head, and squeezes gently. Then he pulls the guy out of the seat and throws his long, lanky frame easily over his shoulders.
Cax glances back at me, with a worried expression written across his face, as he waits in the door to the box for Mycroft. He doesn’t want to leave me. But it’s true, someone has to watch Mycroft’s back.
“You okay?” Cax mouths at me.
I give him a thumbs-up that I don’t mean, but does anyone ever really mean a thumbs-up?
Airren rests his hand on my shoulder as we watch them go.
Cax says loudly, “He had a few too many, huh?”
Mycroft and Cax head down the hall. Airren turns to me and says, “I meant what I said about having faith in you.”
“Do you have faith my magic’s going to come back too?” There’s only so long they can fake magic on my behalf.
He hesitates. “I do. But whether you have magic or not, you’re going to be fine.”
I reach up and pat his cheek. “You know what I learned when I was trying to survive Earthside?”
He cocks his head to one side, his keen blue eyes intent on my face.
“I learned that everyone has a tell when they lie,” I say. “You have to ask a question when you know they’ll lie to you.”
His lips quirk up. “Tera. I am a spy—and I’m just being honest when I say I’m a damn good one—do you really think you know my tell?”
“I do.” We’re standing intimately close, close enough for me to admire the shape of that mouth above the chiseled jaw. “I know you have secrets from me, Airren. That you kiss me for a reason, and it’s about my last name, not my pretty face.” My lips twist bitterly, which probably isn’t pretty at all. “I’m going to be the foremost expert on your lies.”
Something flashes in his eyes—hurt, maybe—and that’s far more unexpected than the sweet lie he delivered earlier.
His voice is low and rough when he says, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you, Tera Donovan.”
“I hate when you use my last name,” I whisper, because it’s easier to say something true when it’s almost inaudible. I hate it. Even though my last name will unlock the chance to stay, if I make every step perfectly in a dance I don’t understand.
But I still don’t want to hear that name on Airren’s lips.
His eyes meet mine, before he nods. “All right. Tera.”
Too late, I think about what he meant when he said I shouldn’t be so sure. I know he kissed me—and so did Cax and Mycroft—to win me over. It worked too damn well.
He kissed me earlier tonight, but I can’t think too much of that, either.
He holds his arm out to me, bent at the elbow to form a crook for my hand. “Masks on.”
I smile up at him brightly, a smile that I don’t think crinkles the edges of my eyes like my normal smile. He looks down into my face, that frown deepening for a second. But before I can make sense of that response, his lips widen, matching mine.
He raises his mask to his face again and his handsome features are replaced by the shiny metal of the mask. “Let’s see if we can find any more trouble tonight.”
I think I’ve already found all the trouble I can handle, and I don’t even have to leave his bed.
Chapter 9
The next hour is a blur of light and music and fancy chocolate. We dance until my heartrate calms, and then my heart lightens, glad to be lost spinning to the music in the beautiful crowd.
Airren must feel guilty, because my spy taskmaster gives me a break. The two of us linger by the chocolate bar, where he encourages me to try every kind of candy and miniature cake spread across the white tablecloth. When I bite into a chocolate I don’t care for, I dance it up to his lips, teasingly trying to get him to eat it and I’m surprised when he eats out of my hand, his teeth scraping gently against my palm. His mouth on my hand sends tingles through my body.
He raises my hand to his lips. His eyes behind the mask are mischievous. “There’s chocolate on your fingers.”
My eyes widen as his tongue darts out to lick my palm, and then he draws my fingers into his mouth. The suction of his mouth makes those tingles into sparks as his tongue slides around erogenous zones I didn’t know existed. My lips part.
He wraps my fingers in his hand, and he swings our joined hands between us as he leans over toward me. His lips fill my vision. He has the perfect mouth for a man: his lower lip is lush and pink, perfect for kissing and nibbling, the foil to his chiseled jaw. His upper lip is narrow and masculine, with a cupid’s bow.
“What about the rules about upperclassmen?” I blurt out.
Airren hesitates, his lips a breath away from mine. Then he pulls back. What expression is he wearing behind that blank mask? I wish I could read him.
I wish I knew why I said that.
“There are no rules tonight,” he says. “As long as everyone is having fun. That’s why we’re all wearing masks.”
“No rules?” I repeat. I glance away from him, because it hurts to look up at those lips when I just threw away my chance at kissing them. Some people are beginning to leave, and then my eyes follow a couple who are entangled with each other, kissing as they walk, up the stairs. They aren’t leaving. They’re going up to the boxes. Now that I’m looking, I see a girl pulling two boys behind her by their ties, teasingly beckoning them into one of the boxes.
“You Avalon types put parties on Earth to shame,” I mutter. “From the costumes to the food to the sex, everything’s on a grander scale.”
“You have no idea,” he promises me, his lips quirking up slightly, and that promise sends a tingle between my thighs. “Do you want me to get you another glass of champagne? Back to the job?”
“Yes,” I manage, even though I’m suddenly light-headed.
“See if you can find some people to talk to.” He rests his hand on my shoulder comfortingly before he sets off. Lust squeezes out some of the tension filling my chest.
I don’t like talking to strangers under the best of circumstances. Forget talking to strangers and hoping they’re True.
Airren moves off through the crowd. Despite his tall, muscular frame, he moves lithely, as graceful as an athlete. I don’t know if people recognize him, but they move out of his way while smiling at him or greeting him. He commands respect. I wish I knew how to put off that kind of aura.
“Dirtside scum.”
With my fixation on Airren broken, I whirl. It’s the man from earlier, the noble I told not to eavesdrop. He leans against one of the columns that surround the dance floor, with one hand tucked into his pocket. My rapidly-beating heart slows back to normal as I take in his smile under the mask, and the lines of his body; he’s tall and lean, and his suit is tailored perfectly to him. But most important of all, my finely-honed instincts aren’t sounding alarm bells. He doesn’t feel like a threat.
“That’s not much of a pick-up line,” I tell him.
“It’s all you gave me for a name.”
“You did
n’t tell me your name either.” I point out.
He straightens from the column. “Maybe names are overrated. Especially on a night like this, when we could both be anyone.”
“I don’t think I’d choose to be dirtside scum then.”
“I wouldn’t choose to be nobility.”
“It must be quite the burden, being rich and powerful,” I tease.
“Yes,” he says simply. He holds his hand out to me. “Would you dance with me, now that you’re done with Dogface?”
“He had a bit too much to drink.” I want to make sure Mycroft and Cax have their cover for carrying him out of here.
“I could tell that,” he says, “from the way he didn’t immediately surrender when I expressed an interest in you.”
I rest my fingers in his palm, and his hand closes around mine. “Oh? Was that what you call expressing an interest?”
He nods, drawing me into his arms and pulling me toward the dance floor. It’s eerie to look at a man in a mask, especially when I’ve just run into a masked shell. But then, through the eye holes, I catch a glimpse of the crinkles at the edges of his bright-silver eyes, and he seems real again.
“This too,” he says as we reach the edge of the dance floor. He takes another step backward, onto the smooth polished floor.
So I guess the aristocrat and the dirtside scum are going to dance. I’m not quite sure where to put my hands with this man I don’t know yet, and I clumsily grip his biceps. They’re rock hard under the finely tailored material of his suit. “Why would you be interested in me?”
“Maybe we know each other in our everyday life,” he says, his voice teasing. His grip on my waist is warm and sure, and he leads me confidently across the dance floor. “Maybe I sit behind you in class, thinking that you’re cute, or see you across campus and wish I could say hello to you.”
That sounds like the life of a normal girl, a life that I’d like to slip into and wrap around my shoulders like one of those warm new coats.
“You should say hello then.” I step onto the polished-slick toe of his shoe, and it makes me stumble forward. His face never changes, but his grip on my waist tightens, keeping me from falling. We dance on like nothing happened.
