6- Devi
Blinking, I adjust to the low light and wait for all the males to sit. I count four of them through the sound of heavy footsteps and even heavier bodies hitting the plush seating. 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.
“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 blue jeans and dark boots, a bulky 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 when the Truceguards get involved, they scatter. 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 gemstone blade I stared at throughout. Jack had managed to swipe it off the ground before the Truceguards saw it. A beautifully engraved handle wrapped in leather at the heel, its gemstone a glowing pale emerald with veins of onyx. 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 humans 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.
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. I feel flushed. 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 like that it makes my stomach flutter.
“Hmph. At least this one’s sweat smells sweet,” he says, softer than he’s been speaking. 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.
“Must you always look for a fight, Emer?” the sharp, modded voice asks. The sound is strange. Synthetic, yes, but maybe more like the purr of an idle engine than an automated bot. It fluctuates at odd but rhythmic intervals, muted and rolling in a pleasant way, actually. With the brawny one kneeling, the modded 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? 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.
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.
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 bodies 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. So all males, then. They don’t move an inch, but their 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 bittersweet.
“Show off,” Emer mutters, sliding back into the matching winged chair to Selkin’s.
Selkin huffs, staring at the males I can’t see. “Why use a hammer when a feather will do, right, Nox?”
One of my dancing songs begins, and my body moves without prompting. It’s timed to allow the clients to get comfortable while I showcase myself and provide ambient entertainment. Thur always like to posture and talk before service, and it helps if they already find me attractive before this night truly begins. They’re typically a little nicer that way.
Normally, I would be on the private stage, twirling and working a routine around the pole, and there would be distance between me and the males. But tonight, I’m forced to dance around the room. Slow, sensual, allowing my eyes to skip around between the walls and the males as I move.
Never too close. Never too far away. Coy, practised. Sensual, innocent. It’s all an important act.
“So the doll does more than hide in the corner after all,” Selkin’s modded voice hums. I give him a brief glance to see his distracted gaze on my ass before trailing back to my eyes. I spin away, moving toward the sofa along the back wall. I’m used to this. I know what to do when I’m moving myself around like a commodity. The heat rolling off of Emer as I round his chair tells me it’s working. They’ll make jokes, leer, maybe even try to coerce me into a compromising position. It’s as familiar to me as this club.
Except, Selkin’s words are the only ones exchanged as I become the focus of all their attention. They don’t say anything sexual as I move between seats and along walls. They don’t try to make me uncomfortable. Their eyes, hungry and intense, simply follow my form. It’s a little exhilarating, actually, making the earlier ember of desire rekindle.
I blame that for why I don’t see one of the obscured males move his leg until it’s too late. A quick gasp and a cold breeze under the back of my skirt, then I’m inches from the floor, saved only by a painful grip around my ribcage.
“He’s not even friendly, and they always fall right into his lap,” Selkin grumbles, the sound amused and teasing. “Would you dance in my lap lovely if I treated you like ice too?”
Another strange rumble from behind as the stiff arms slowly bring me back to my feet. It takes a second for me to remember to drag my skirt back down. My heart races, jamming my chest against his warm fingers with each panicked breath. Those broad fingers rub over my stomach, once, twice. But when I slide my eyes to the side to see his face, all I catch are dark eyes blending back into the shadow as he releases me.
“You’re wounded,” the cold voice says.
Does he mean the scratches from the dancefloor? “It’s nothing,” I whisper. “Just an accident.”
For a second, nothing happens. I stand there frozen, staring into the dark, trying to catch a glimpse. All my training has disappeared.
“Go on,” he snaps, his voice making my skin crawl. “Try not to make a fool of yourself twice.”