The Sway

by Amy Patrick

  She leans in close to my ear, though there’s no chance of anyone else hearing her over the pounding music. “He’s one of us.”

  “Oh.” Now that I really look at him, blocking out the distractions of the lights and the writhing bodies all around us, I can see it. Tall, muscular, carved cheekbones and chin. “What about the bands—are they Fae?” I whisper.

  “Some of them are. Some aren’t. I’m ready to dance. You?”

  She grabs our drinks from the bar top—without paying—and hands one to me, then pulls her other roommate, Brenna with her toward the dance floor. Ava and I follow them out to the center.

  Trying to fit in, a take a swallow of the strong drink and move to the music. I like to dance. I’m not that great, but the other girls are—in fact, I’d say Brenna’s glamour has something to do with dancing—the way she moves her body is mesmerizing, even to me. It’s obvious my companions are entirely at home in this scene, and they’re taking their jobs of attracting attention and human admiration seriously.

  Serena’s already famous. She’s had small roles in movies and even a starring one on a TV show. If tonight’s anything to judge by, Ava and Brenna aren’t too far behind her. Club-goers, male and female alike, stare at them as they laugh and twirl under the lights, drinking their cocktails and generally looking like an ad for Hollywood nightlife.

  Of course, the guys stare at them in a different way. Which makes me wonder. My temporary roomies know the rules as well as I do. If one of them were to sleep with one of these admirers, that would be it for her—she’d be bonded to him for life and couldn’t take another partner.

  So what exactly do they do with all that male attention they’re courting? No matter how much guys might worship them or try to persuade them, the Elven girls can’t actually do anything with the human men. Not much anyway. Right? I’ll have to ask Ava about it later when we’re alone. She’s been at this much longer than I have, so she probably knows about that stuff.

  Following Alfred’s instruction, we’ve each brought signed headshots in our purses. So embarrassing. But the other girls say that’s what we’re supposed to do here—get people staring and talking, then give them the cards with our photos on one side and our agent’s contact info on the other. Something to do with fan pod recruitment, I guess.

  After dancing a while, I’m getting hot and thirsty and I need to go to the bathroom. I tap the closest girl, Brenna, on the shoulder. She spins around and wiggles her slim hips to the music, taking my hands and twirling under one of my arms.

  “I’m going to find the bathroom,” I half-shout to be heard over the amplified beat.

  “I’ll go with you,” she says and turns toward the other side of the dance floor.

  I follow her to a hallway behind the bar. The music’s not as loud here, and the lighting’s somewhat normal. There’s a line for the bathroom, of course. We take our places at the end and study the promotional posters tacked up and down the opposite wall to pass the time.

  “Have you seen any of these bands?” I ask her.

  She nods vigorously, her bobbed black curls swinging with the motion. “Oh yeah. Practically all of them. I’ve been out here for three years now, and we go out probably five, six nights a week.”

  “You go out almost every night? How do you get up and do modeling jobs in the morning?”

  “Saol water helps a lot.” She laughs, pulling a metal flask from her purse and taking a swig. “Want some?”

  “Oh, no. I have my own. Thanks.”

  That makes sense. Saol water is a staple of the Fae diet because of its unique healing and nutritional properties. It’s made from a combination of deep root sap and pure underground cavern water distilled over hot mineral rocks.

  The only time I’ve ever seen it made was when I visited Altum as a child during the Assemblage. Manufacturing saol water is more of a Light Elven thing, I guess. I’ve never heard of Dark Elves making it—we usually live in cities among humans.

  “When you move out here for good, you’ll probably go out with us a lot,” Brenna says. “Maybe even move in with us, since Serena’s getting her own house soon. Her fan pod’s grown enough that Alfred’s ready to set her up with a mansion and pod quarters.”

  I’m about to ask more about that when one of the posters catches my eye. It’s black and red with the words “The Hidden” printed at the top—the band’s name I assume. In the center is a black and white photo of the guys in the band. They’re all good-looking, clad in the jeans-and-old-t-shirt uniform rock musicians so commonly wear.

  The tallest one, standing in the middle and holding a guitar, is the most striking. Dark hair, light eyes, wide shoulders, and a wicked half-grin. I step closer, squinting to get a better view.

  My heart rolls over an extra thump, and then it’s pounding out a rhythm even the DJ can’t keep up with. I fall back several steps until my back meets the wall behind us. My legs are as unstable as overcooked asparagus, and my hands are shaking.

  “What’s the matter? You okay? You should really have some of this.” Brenna offers me her flask again, but I wave it away, never breaking my visual lock on the poster.

  “Who... who is that?” I manage to gasp.

  “Who?” She turns her head in search of the thing that’s grabbed my attention. “Oh—The Hidden? Yeah—they’re awesome.”

  “No. The guy. The guy in the middle.”

  “Ooohhhh.” She drags the word out with a knowing smile. “That’s Nox. He’s the lead singer and guitar player. You’ve got good taste. Alfred says he’s going to be a huge star.”

  “Nox,” I whisper.

  “Hey, the line’s moving.” Brenna gives me a nudge.

  My body responds, and my feet move, but my mind is in another place, another time... five years ago. Nox Jerrik. Could it really be him? Could he somehow be alive and playing music clubs on the Sunset Strip?

  Nox isn’t an uncommon name among our people—his resemblance to my childhood friend is no doubt a coincidence. But the likeness is uncanny. The guy in the poster looks so much like my Nox. Except older. And hotter. And—

  I step out of line and snatch the poster off the wall, folding it and stuffing it into my purse.

  “What are you doing?” Brenna asks with a chuckle.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I... want it.”

  She nods. “Yeah—pretty much everybody wants a piece of Nox Knight.”

  Standing up straight, I turn to her. “Knight? That’s his last name?”

  “Yeah, Nox Knight. Has a good rocker ring to it, doesn’t it? Of course, his name could be SpongeBob, and girls would still be dropping their panties every time he gets up on stage and sings.” Brenna laughs.

  I shudder and step forward in line, the image not sitting well with me, no matter how accurate it might or might not be. I don’t like the idea of girls drooling over my childhood sweetheart. But of course, The Hidden’s lead singer isn’t my Nox. He can’t be. My Nox is gone.

  Most likely this guy’s a total jerkwad who does enjoy using his glamour to incite panty-dropping. Nox is probably only his stage name, anyway.

  And then a thought hits me that makes me stagger and has my heart pounding double time. Maybe Knight is a stage name and the guy in the poster is actually my old friend, my first puppy love, Nox Jerrik. One thing is for sure—I’m going to find out, and nothing’s going to stop me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Drop-in

  By the next afternoon, I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t get back to the library. I want to check my email and see if Professor Gould responded, to find out whether he’ll help push my application through. And more importantly, I want to search for every bit of information the web has to offer on Nox Knight.

  Unfortunately, my whole day is hijacked by a call-back from the lip gloss people. Modeling’s still not my favorite thing, but I did my best. I’ve decided to try harder on all my go-sees. If I’m going to defy Pappa and go to art school, I’ll have to pay for m
y own tuition and living expenses somehow. And if smiling and pouting at a camera with extra glossy lips is what it takes, then so be it.

  Carter was right—there’s no reason I can’t do both. If I want to gain my independence and start making my own decisions, then I’ll have to become financially independent somehow.

  When I finally finish, I fall into the back seat of the car, which is waiting for me just outside the shoot location when I emerge—poor driver probably had to sit here all day to make sure I didn’t escape again.

  “Excuse me,” I say to him, leaning forward. “Could we stop by Mr. Frey’s office? I need to sign some contracts.”

  Alfred texted to say he’d messenger the contracts over, but it occurred to me during the shoot today that some face time with him wouldn’t be a bad thing for my plan. I can show him how enthusiastic I am about working, tell him how “great” things are going so far... and maybe even get some information about Nox Knight while I’m there.

  Brenna did say he was a client of Alfred’s. It wouldn’t be too weird to ask my agent about a fellow client, would it? Only one way to find out. None of the girls know where The Hidden’s lead singer lives in Los Angeles—I asked—and I have only a few days left here before returning to Georgia. And only a few months left until I’m a married woman—gag.

  If my childhood friend really is alive and well and in the same city, I’ll never forgive myself for not taking advantage of this opportunity to find him while I’m this close. Imagining a tearful, happy reunion with him fuels me as I climb out of the car and head into the gleaming office building.

  But as I approach Alfred’s office, my steps slow and my bravery falters. Mr. Frey probably doesn’t take kindly to unexpected drop-ins. No doubt his schedule is crazy busy. He might not even be in.

  Gathering my courage, I force myself to take the last few steps to his receptionist’s desk. “Um, hi. I’m Vancia Hart. Remember me from the other day? I was wondering if Mr. Frey would have a few minutes to see me.”

  “You have no appointment?” Her tone is icy, a thin brow lifting in disdain. After barely glancing at the daily calendar in front of her, she frowns up at me. “I see no appointment for Vancia Hart here.” Her name plate reads Rowena—a witch name—figures.

  “No. I need to ask him a question about the contracts I’m supposed to sign. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  No response. This vicious guard dog isn’t going to let me get close to Alfred today. She’s already beginning the Head Shake of Denial when her desk phone buzzes. Lifting it to her ear, she says nothing, just listens. She nods.

  “Yes sir.” Then she drops the receiver back into its cradle. “You can go in.” She tilts her head toward the massive double wooden doors leading to Alfred’s office.

  Okaaayy... that’s weird. “Thank you.”

  I push the doors open, and Alfred stands and walks around to the front of his desk.

  “Vancia. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  His friendly demeanor catches me off guard and nearly makes me forget what I wanted to say. “Oh, I wanted to thank you in person for the help in booking the jobs. It’s going great so far, and I think I’m really going to like the work.”

  His expression falls, almost as if he’s disappointed at my enthusiasm. The exact opposite of what I was expecting.

  “I see,” he says, then smirks. “I’d thought for a moment perhaps you were going to tell me you’d changed your mind and that modeling wasn’t for you. I suppose I should have known you’d never go against your father’s bidding...”

  His tone of voice leaves something hanging in the air between us. An invitation to contradict him? I don’t know—it’s weird.

  “Um... not this time, I guess.” Lame and non-committal, but I’m not sure what he’s expecting from me. The whole vibe of this meeting is unsettling, from the way he greeted me as if he was actually glad to see me, to his cryptic comment about potentially disobeying Pappa.

  Of course, that’s exactly what I’m planning to do and the only reason I’m here pretending to be eager for a modeling career. I need the money to pay for art school. I’m certainly not going to share that tidbit with Alfred, though. He’s probably just spying for Pappa in the wake of my “sneaking off” episode.

  Taking a seat in one of the two guest chairs that face his desk, he waves his hand at the other, indicating I should sit as well.

  In a soft voice, he says, “I knew your parents—did you know that?”

  I drop into the chair opposite him, suddenly breathless. “No. I didn’t. Were you their agent?”

  “Yes, actually, but we had much more than a professional relationship. We were good friends. I loved both your parents—their deaths destroyed me... as I’m sure, they did you.”

  I nod in agreement, unable to speak around the huge lump that’s formed in my throat.

  Alfred’s gaze turns to the wide window overlooking Century City. “I remember when you were born. Your father couldn’t have been happier if he’d won a Grammy and an Oscar in the same year.” Now his gaze is back on me, anchoring me in my chair with its intensity. “They loved you very much, Vancia. Your parents were good people. I miss them.”

  My response is a whisper. “Thank you. So do I.”

  “If there’s ever a time you’d like to... discuss them...” He stands abruptly and walks around to the other side of his desk. “Well, I suppose you’d better be on your way. I have an appointment in two minutes. Here are your contracts.” He shoves some documents at me. “You may sign them and leave them with Rowena or take them with you and look them over first. You know how to reach me.”

  Thoroughly baffled by our exchange and its sudden end, I take the papers and walk toward the door, turning his words over in my mind as I cross the expanse of carpet. Just as I reach the door, I have a fresh burst of daring. It’s now or never.

  I spin back to face Alfred. “You represent Nox Knight and The Hidden, right?”

  He looks up from his desktop. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really. When I was out with Ava and the girls last night, I saw their poster in the club. Nox looked familiar to me.”

  Alfred’s eyes narrow, making them gleam even from across the room. “Yes, he reminds me of someone, too—another old friend of mine—very musical as well. Unfortunately, he’s no longer with us. I’ve lost too many friends.” After a pause, he adds, “One would think Nox comes from a very long line of musical glamour, but when I asked about his family, I didn’t recognize the names he gave me. Not that I would, I suppose. He hails from Mississippi—has recently graduated high school there.”

  “Mississippi? Really? That’s... interesting.”

  Everyone in the Fae world knows Mississippi is the territory of the Light Elves, and the seat of their political and royal power, Altum. But Nox Knight couldn’t be a Light Elf—they don’t mix with humans, much less perform in front of them.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Alfred says.

  “So then, I guess he doesn’t live in Los Angeles.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice entirely.

  “Oh, no. He does have a home here—in Malibu right on the beach, in fact. Have you seen Malibu?” Alfred lifts a brow in an expression that seems significant somehow. “The area just west of Zuma along Broad Beach Road is so lovely. I’m especially fond of the Spanish tiled roofs some of the homes have there. You should make a point of visiting the area before you leave town. You might find it... an enlightening sight.”

  Is he telling me where Nox’s house is?

  It seems that way. Either that or he’s suddenly feeling chatty and dispensing tourism advice. But why would he tell me where to find Nox? Unless... unless he wants me to see him and help determine his identity, to confirm or dispel his own suspicions.

  Even if that’s what’s going on, and a bigger “if”—if Nox Knight and Nox Jerrik are one and the same—I’m not sure I’d share my discovery with Alfred Frey. My whole life I’ve h
eard of him as a friend of Pappa’s, and this change of demeanor is a little too much for me to swallow.

  And if Nox is alive—and didn’t die in that plane crash with his parents—I’m not sure Pappa is a friend of his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Malibu

  I ask the driver to take me to Malibu to “see the sights” before driving me back to Ava’s house. It’s nearly sunset, and as Alfred said, the area’s beautiful. And just as he said, there’s a string of lovely—and huge—beach homes along Broad Beach road near Zuma. The neighborhood’s certainly fit for a rock star.

  “Could you stop here please? I’d like to walk for a while,” I tell the driver. Asking him to wait, I get out and stroll down the street until I find a point of beach access. I don’t want him to see me knocking on doors on the street side.

  After pushing through a particularly sticky access gate covered in private property signs, I walk along the high tide line, checking out the back sides of the exclusive mansions. The beach itself is lovely, and nearly deserted. The Pacific water feels cold on my toes, contrasting with the warm breeze, but I’m not here for a beach day—I’m here to stalk a celebrity. And I have no idea what I’m doing.

  This is idiotic. How am I supposed to tell which house is his?

  And then I spot the red Spanish tile roof. The style of the home is different from the modernistic wood and glass structures surrounding it. Is this what Alfred was getting at when he mentioned the style of home he “admires?”

  Heart pounding and half-expecting a beefy bodyguard to challenge me, I approach the house and climb its back stairs. The chime of the doorbell sounds like an electric guitar chord. That has to be a good sign, right?

  I think no one’s going to answer when, finally, a small woman in a crisp blue uniform opens the door and asks in heavily accented English, “I help you?”

  I put on my most innocent smile. “Yes. I’m a friend of Nox’s. I was out for a walk and thought I’d stop in to say hi. Is he home?”