Witnessing Settled magic must snap me awake because suddenly, I’m sliding along the wall until I reach the bar. What in all the worlds am I doing standing around gawking when there’s money to be made? The Settled are the richest of the Thur, and here I am, frozen, watching glitter break cameras.
I still taste the magic in the back of my throat.
My shaking hands discreetly pour another shot of Glees, this one much taller than the first. I take it quickly, then double-check my supplies. This could be my moment. How many times, as a naive sixteen-year-old, did I imagine a wealthy Thur scuttling me away to live in the lap of luxury? Sure, at the time, I hadn’t thought through the parameters of what that relationship would consist of or how many it would occupy if the male bonded, but now, at twenty-three, I’ve made peace with it.
They bond as a group, and they do _\*everything\*_ communally if the rumors are true.
The wall turns such a pretty shade of gold, blurring at the edges as the shots finally catch up to me. I’m not wasting this. That’s how I’ve avoided issue after issue while working alone in the velvet room. Unlike others, I know exactly how to be useful to the Thur. In this one thing, I excel.
They’re all too caught up in their whispered conversation to notice me walk up with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. It gives me that extra second to fix my mask. I’m a professional, dammit. I’ve been handling things out of my depth since I was a child.
Conversation ceases the second I walk up to the center table. It doesn’t stop me from flashing my most convincing smile and quietly placing an empty water glass for each of them on the table, careful to keep my hands steady even under their oppressive attention. Their gazes are heavy, inspecting. I make sure they see nothing but the mask.
So I dip into a graceful pour, flawlessly merging what I’ve learned at the Institute and here, filling each glass. \*_One tilt for three seconds.\*_ Breathe deep to enhance my cleavage. \*_Pour left to right by seniority or best judgment.\*_ Flutter eyelashes and appear docile. \*_Build rapport by serving each Thur their preference without being asked; Karkut for Darkmires, Leisan for Lightflecks, with appropriate accompaniments.\*_ Create the illusion of privacy and trust.
“Has it been—” Selkin starts, his distorted voice so pleasant in the dark.
“Remineralized for your particular palettes? Of course, sir,” I say, flashing him a coy smile. Then, before I can think better of it, “unless Settled males need a different customization?” That doesn’t help me create the illusion of privacy \*_or\*_ trust. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.
“Sir,” he huffs in amusement, brushing off the question. “I expect to be called sir from now on, Emer.”
“I’m fully equipped with a mineralizer, at your discretion, of course,” I add quickly. This misstep can be salvaged.
“Fuck a black hole, Selk,” he snaps. Is Emer as much of a nickname as Selk is for Selkin? Wait, this is getting away from me. I open my mouth—
“Can’t find one when you’re blocking my view with your mass.” I should mind my business, but this is thrilling in its own way.
“So… no separate minerals, then?” I mutter to myself, pitifully holding the half-full pitcher while they bicker. This isn’t going the way it normally does, and I’ve done fuck all to instill a rapport. If anything, I somehow started a fight.
“Who are you calling a mass?” Emer snarls, hands pinching the armrests.
“You don’t remember what the word mass means, do you?” Selk chuckles with a childish glee that makes his modified voice even raspier. “Did you not focus in Phymetrics?”
“Enough,” the cold one interjects, making my chest warm for some reason. “Let’s not do this in mixed company.”
“I’ll show you what the fuck mass means.” A pulse of heat spikes at his language. Fuck sounds so husky when Emer says it.
“Minerals, anyone? A drink? Anything?” I flounder as the conversation gets further and further away from me. I’ve never been so off my game.
“That’s the worst comeback I’ve ever heard. Quick, lovely attendant, check his identification. I think he’s escaped the… what do the middlings call it? An ‘old folks’ home?”
Gripping the pitcher of ice water tighter, I tuck the tray below my arm and quickly cover my smile with my fingers.
Emer makes that deep, rumbling sound again. “You little shit.”
“Enough!” the cold voice says sharply. “Behave within your station! We are in \*_mixed company\*._”
All of us straighten, and I ignore the warmth drifting down my back. So what if I like aggressive male voices… _\*they don’t have to know that.\*_
Emer’s the first to speak, though it looks like it pains him. “Apologies, attendant, the minerals are fine.”
I successfully avoid eye contact until I’m standing directly before him. Subconsciously, I’ve chosen him to salvage this conversation and prove my usefulness. I don’t know why. Five minutes ago, I would’ve thought he was the security detail for these Darkmires. But after that display? Maybe he’s a younger brother. He’s more to the elite males than a simple hired hand. Regardless, I don’t need a room full of irritated males. Forcing my emotions flat, I tip my eyes to his with a look I’ve perfected, creating intimacy. I soften my mouth and the edges of my eyes. Not quite doe-eyed, but gentle. Unsure. Thur always love that. I’ve even given him my dominant ear by turning toward him.
For a moment, the look isn’t an act because his expression is soft, too. Careful, tentative, and uncomfortable as he studies my features up close. And I can’t help but do the same. He has an artificial eye. The implant is nearly perfect, almost undetectable, except I also have a modified eye, so I know what to look for. His isn’t simply an upgrade for vision impairment. It’s a complete replacement or maybe even a rebuild. The slight strangeness of the iris color gives it away, as does the minute flatness that says it can’t be as expressive as the real thing. The bright green of his eyes is so startling my words falter. I’ve never seen any shade like that, richly emerald, matching the imbedded gems that collar his throat and cover the outer edge of his ears like vines. And I’ve never seen a Thur with less-than-perfect features, either.
The tip of one of his ears is missing. And he has a thin scar through his lower lip.
What took his eye? The question must be apparent on my face because he tenses and looks away. Build trust, build rapport, build privacy. For some reason, the steps I’ve always followed are failing me tonight. Thur hate being viewed as weak… or, worse yet, pitied. And I fear that’s exactly the expression he saw on my face. Now, I’ve lost him. Emer refuses to look at me, seemingly deep in his thoughts, until I bring his attention back by carefully brushing my knee against his.
My heart skips, remembering a second too late what I’ve been taught at the Institute. Rumors about how Settled Thur are as sensitive to touch as to smell and how much I hate when males think they can take liberties with my body. But I’m desperate to repair this shit show of a night, and it drives me to take a risk by initiating contact first.
His eyes pierce, almost cruelly, as they refocus on me. Not good. His dark, full brow raises as his eyes narrow. That’s a universal sign of \*_what the fuck do you want?\*_ I take it he doesn’t like me very much anymore. Or, at the very least, he doesn’t like my skin on his. Exhaling before I lose my nerve and consider the consequences, I admit quietly, “You missed the camera under the bar, the one inside the door handle, and the one in the center of that moon.”
The expression on his face doesn’t change; only this time, his gaze rolls over me slower and more calculated. Build trust, I reassure myself. I know he’s not the one who destroyed the other cameras, but foolish or not, he feels like the key to turning this night around. Not the silent males hiding in the shadows. And not the playful one because he’s as liable to toy with me as to vouch for me.
I flick my eyes toward the back wall, where a starry night mural has been painted. Dead center in the moon is a dark crater that glints a touch too much in the ambient light. This isn’t my usual room, but I know Jack’s preferred tricks. Hopefully, he won’t notice that I’ve given the camera position away. Bringing my attention back to the male called Emer, I catch his strange expression.
“They’re made of Emerald,” he says quietly, “not Onyx like the others.”
Is that unusual?
A moment later, the sound of shattering once again fills the room, but this time, I watch as a single gemstone dissolves from the base of his throat first.