Blinking, I adjust to the low light and wait for all the males to sit. Breathing should be involved somewhere, I realize, stuttering through a sharp inhale that burns. I count four of them through the sound of heavy bodies hitting the plush sofas and the ones I can see. That's not too bad. I've had double that before and lived to tell the tale. Though, none of them were Settled. I don’t know for sure that these males are from the elite, but my intuition won’t budge. So far, they haven’t acted like the usual clients. No pompous displays or brash behaviors disguised as asserting their dominance. No yelling for me or trying to lure me into a compromising position within the first ten minutes.
I would almost describe them as calm if I couldn’t feel the brush of tension in the air.
“Do you think I should double-check that the weasel cut the camera feed?” the largest one of the four asks aloud, rolling his neck as he looks around the room. From his profile, I can see he’s wearing fitted medium-wash jeans and dark boots, a soft-looking pullover doing nothing to hide several Thur blades threaded through a holster on his rear belt loop. Jack has never allowed weapons inside the club before. If I remember correctly, the last time someone failed a scan at the door years ago, Thur Truceguards were called. It had turned into an embarrassing scene that Jack stewed over for weeks when our clientele traffic slowed. Unsettled Thur will always like to cause drama, but they never like to watch it unfold because that’s too far beneath them. That specific scandal pushed them to Jack’s competitors until they couldn’t go without Lithe any longer.
I still remember the particular taste and feel of his brand of \*_stewing\*_ each night that our traffic was slow… and the blade I stared at throughout. He had managed to swipe it off the ground before the Truceguards arrived. A beautifully engraved handle wrapped in leather at the heel, its gemstone blade a glowing pale purple with veins of green. Perfect craftsmanship. I’d never seen anything like it. Certainly nothing like our roughly forged knives.
“He seems like the type to lie,” the male continues, “he made that squealing sound the middlings call whining. And he sweats too much. The liars always sweat.” Disgust is apparent in his tone and how his towering body moves, fluid but unending. Not quite fidgeting, but a desire to remain in motion. In height alone, he’s imposing. In sheer, cultivated bulk? He’s immovable. A barrel-sized neck meeting boulder-sized shoulders down to a solid waist and large legs the size of two of mine. This male goes through whatever obstacle is in his way and demolishes it.
I can’t afford to be that obstacle.
Something glints around his throat, and the same effect travels up the ear he has turned toward me. Imbedded gemstones are fashionable, but his deep green shards, glowing against light brown skin, are more captivating than most. Is that his affinity? How does he get them so sharp?
I hum at the thought, and he makes a strange, deep resonance that raises the hairs on my arms and snaps my gaze from his gemstones to his face. Whether the sound came from his throat or his chest, I don’t know. But based on the sharpness of his gaze, I am sure he knows exactly where I am in this dark room. And I don’t think he likes my inspection.
A small clicking sound tells me he’s cracking something, even as his large shoulders appear relaxed. “Hmph. At least this one’s sweat smells sweet.” His voice is lighter, less menacing than the cold or the altered one, but I’m not foolish enough to think that means he’s less dangerous. No one tall enough to palm the ceiling could ever be less dangerous.
His eyes laser in on the two ceiling cameras, and to my surprise, he moves quickly for his size when he kneels to catch the one under the lip of the table, too. His wavy dark hair is pulled up into a loose bun, leaving pieces to fall over his forehead as he inspects the table edges with his fingers and then leans back. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a Thur with curls. Their hair grows in various shades ranging from white to black, and even now, my eyes can’t tell whether his hair is brown or black. But it’s undoubtedly curled, turning into waves near the ends like mine, and Thur hair is always straight. Bone straight.
Not to mention that Every Thur I’ve seen dresses like sakrin is going out of style. Yet he’s in comfortable, unassuming clothes. Does he know it only makes him stand out more? I wonder if he’s a guard.
“Must you always look for a fight, Emer?” the sharp, modded voice asks. The sound is strange but familiar. Synthetic, yes, but maybe more like the purr of an idle engine than an automated bot. It fluctuates at strange but rhythmic intervals. Maybe it is more similar to the rumble of heavy cleaning tech against the floor versus the pitched squeak of automated doors. It's muted and rolling in a pleasant way, actually. With the brawny one kneeling, this new male becomes visible.
He’s tall, or I’m assuming so based on his frame perched on the edge of a winged back seat. I’m trying to remember how far his head was from our eight-foot ceilings but I can’t recall. He’s leaner than Emer, but not enough to make him slender. Long dusty hair is braided back, shaved on the side closest to me, and the braid continues behind elevated shoulder plates made of something shiny enough to show through the fabric. He’s in pants with too many pockets and a loose, faded hoodie that does nothing to hide angular shoulder mods. Another guard?
I don’t often feel indecent at a job like this, but something about their imposing forms in such mundane clothes makes me feel exposed. That and the menacing darkness where the two others sit. This male leans forward, giving Emer a dark grin as if he, too, is always looking for a fight. If he notices me along the wall, he doesn’t show it. Maybe his hearing isn’t as good.
Maybe he uses different senses altogether.
Emer replies casually, “A Lightblade calling my hands dirty. Your humor grows worse every year, Selkin.” He chuckles and shakes his head, sending more curls falling over his neck when he stands again to peer closer at the ceiling cameras. He gives me a sightline to the two males seated in the back, but because the underlights cast darker shadows along the walls, I can’t make them out from here—only two pairs of well-fitted traditional pants and large knees. They don’t move an inch but they’re legs are comfortably spread across the expanse of space.
There’s something appealing about males who fully claim the space around them. And they must be elites to have two guards.
But it’s still unclear whether they are all Darkmires or Lightflecks… Or even if they’re all Settled. I mean, is that the sort of thing I can just outright ask?
\*_No questions, Devi, don’t be stupid._\*
Selkin shrugs. “Emerald?” He asks no one in particular, confusing me.
“Onyx,” the cold voice replies, glittering dark dust rolling out of the shadows as every camera Emer noticed shatters at once. The body in the shadows didn’t even move. In fact, I can’t tell which of the two forms it came from. It takes all my practiced numbing not to react, staying perfectly still against the black wall. That wasn’t a parlor trick. It wasn’t a bored Unsettled Thur making scary illusions with spotty compulsion. Or making gemstones dance across a tabletop. That was power, efficient, controlled magic, the likes of which I’ve never seen. My skin prickles, and when the glittering cloud dissipates at my feet, the back of my tongue tastes like the well-steeped Karkut the Darkmires drink. I never knew their magic had a flavor, but it makes sense that it’s bitter.
“Show off,” Emer mutters, sliding back into the matching winged chair to Selkin’s.
“He will always prefer the simplest option. Sometimes that means a fist, sometimes not,” Selkin huffs, staring at the males I can’t see. “Why use a hammer when a feather will do, right, Nox?”