by Emma Savant
“What do you think?” he said, clasping his hands together. The song had been punchy and aggressive, and I was amazed at how well he’d sold it, given the way he was almost wiggling with excitement. Starling, I could tell, was not an aggressive person—but damn, could he dance like one.
“That was amazing,” I said. “You’re a god.”
“Nope,” he said. “That’s my boyfriend.” He winked. “Demigod.”
Those were even more rare than werewolves. Starling kept interesting company. I was a little giddy at the thought of being part of it.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
We worked for another two hours, slowly going through each of the steps of the first part of the dance. Starling had made it look easy, but some of these moves required more coordination than I had. He patiently guided me through each step, then, when I’d put one or two together, ran me through them over and over in a drill.
“This is going to be fast once the music’s going,” he said. “You’ve gotta be solid with it slow.”
“I’ll get there,” I said. I stared at my body in the mirror and tried to make mine look like his.
By the time we were done, I was exhausted. Performing with Cassidy had been tiring, but I’d only done a few songs for her show, and none of them had required movement like this.
“At least I’m not trying to sing and dance yet,” I told Starling, sipping my water bottle while we cooled down. “I would die.”
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “You’re magical, and don’t ever forget it.”
I held a hand up and shot a small fountain of sparkles out of my palm. He laughed, delighted.
“I’m having a party this Saturday night with some friends,” he said. “You should come. Everyone would love to meet you.”
“I wish I could, but I’ve got plans with some friends,” I said.
August had been talking quietly on his pocket mirror while we’d been rehearsing. He came over just in time to hear the last bit of our conversation, and cleared his throat.
“You really ought to go, Dior,” he said. “It could be a wonderful opportunity to do some networking.”
He had a point. It would be good for my career, and anyway, Starling was awesome.
“I’ll be there,” I said. Starling looked delighted. August blessed me with another of his smiles.
Chapter 5
Starling lived in a Victorian house in one of Portland’s older neighborhoods along with a handful of other artists. The building was sunflower yellow with green trim and purple shutters.
Dad squinted at it while I paid the cab driver.
“It looks like a unicorn vomited on it,” he said.
“It looks like pixies decided to get drunk and throw a house-painting party,” I said. “I love it.”
He snapped a picture, then followed me up the walk. My heels clicked against the carefully fitted bricks. Thick green bushes loaded with bright orange and pink flowers lined the walkway. On my left, a violently purple gazebo covered in jasmine sat on the small lawn. On the right, an elaborate kinetic sculpture made of recycled metal and glass pieces rotated and tinkled gently in the night breeze.
Light poured out of the house’s open door. As we walked up the porch steps, we were greeted by a tiny imp girl with bubblegum-pink hair.
“I recognize you!” she shrieked, in what was probably the most extroverted voice I’d ever heard. “I love your music! Starling said you were coming! Oh, come on in, honey, come in!”
She ushered us through the door and then disappeared to welcome the next guests. Across the living room—lined with colorful mismatched furniture that had been pushed to the edges of the room to make space—Starling waved us over. He had a drink in one hand and his nails were painted a vivid green that flashed neon yellow every few seconds.
“So good to see you!” he said, giving me a one-armed hug and carefully holding his cup up with the other to keep it from spilling. “This must be Dad.”
I made the introductions, and then Dad and I picked our way over to the drinks. The room was full, and this was a lively bunch, even for a group of Glims. Underneath the sound of conversation, bright acoustic music filled the air from enchanted speakers floating in the corners of the ceiling.
“I love your dress,” I said to the girl ahead of me at the drinks table. She self-consciously touched the outfit, a pretty peach minidress with long lace sleeves, and handed me a plastic faux-crystal cup.
I filled it with seltzer, Tree of Life apple juice, and just a pinch of faerie dust.
“Dior,” Starling said, tapping my shoulder. I turned around. “You have to meet Serena,” he said. He held up the hand of the woman standing next to him. She had a dark pixie cut and darker eyes, which seemed to evaluate me in an instant. “She’s one of my housemates and I just feel like you’ll love each other.”
I held out my hand as Starling flew off to attend to other guests. She shook it, and her skin was startlingly cold. The corners of her mouth turned up, hinting that perhaps she wasn’t as serious as she looked. Her dress was jet black, with geometric cutouts near the neckline that showed off her marble-pale skin.
“You’re not a vampire, are you?” I said.
“Is that a problem?” She smiled, showing canines that were just a bit sharper than mine.
“Not at all,” I said. “I just thought weres and vamps didn’t get along.”
“If they’re racist assholes, that’s probably true,” she said.
I cracked up, and her smile widened. “What do you do?” she said. “Starling said he’s working with you.”
“I’m a singer,” I said. “He’s choreographing my music video.”
Her lips pressed together, just for an instant. “You must be one of August’s,” she said.
“Yeah, I just signed on with him,” I said. I took a sip of my drink. It fizzed all the way down my throat, and the apple juice instantly made the room feel more alive.
“Isn’t that nice,” Serena said.
Her low voice made it clear that this wasn’t nice at all. I moved away from the drinks table to give other people more space, and we settled against a wall lined with bright orange bookcases.
Dad was already on the other side of the room, discussing something—probably the latest Orbs match—with a serious-looking dwarf.
“You don’t like August,” I said.
Serena held her glass up and swirled her ruby-red drink around. Wine, blood, or some mixture of the two? I didn’t want to know.
“August is very ambitious.”
“That’s what I need,” I said. “I can do the music, but I don’t have a head for business. Neither does my dad, which would be fine if he hadn’t been managing my career up until this point.”
“I guess I just prefer art for its own sake,” Serena said. “Starling thinks I’m a snob.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. “You know what you like, which puts you ahead of a lot of people. What do you do, anyway? You’re all artists here, right?”
“Yes, everyone except Raheem. He’s a therapist, which I suppose is its own kind of art.” She raised her eyebrows and took a drink. “I’m a painter, and the only other one with a day job.”
“What do you do?” I said. “When you’re not painting?”
“I’m a private investigator,” she said. “It pays the bills.”
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s cool.”
“Mostly couples trying to figure out if the other one is cheating,” she said. “It’s not nearly as interesting as it sounds.”
“I’ll bet the painting is, though.”
“Much more. I like to explore the female form.” She glanced quickly down at me, then met my eyes and shrugged. “We all have our interests.”
I laughed and took another long sip of my drink. The music in the room switched to a fiery samba. One couple started trying to dance in the middle of the room, and everyone shifted around to accommodate them. Serena watched, amused.
A woman with soft, wavy blond hair held back with a headband marched up to us and touched Serena’s arm. A look flashed across Serena’s face, too quick for me to figure out.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” the woman said, too intensely, tilting her head and examining Serena’s face.
“Been busy,” Serena said, looking past her and toward a cluster of people standing not far from us. A woman I vaguely recognized from a workshop was in that group, talking to a tall, handsome guy with dark skin and the kind of jawline I could cut myself on. He saw me looking at him and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“I was wondering if you’d had any time to consider my proposal,” the woman said to Serena. “The benefits of investing are out of this world, and I know you would enjoy being part of such a thriving company.”
“I’m just not really into multi-level marketing,” Serena said. “I tried the products and I don’t feel like I can endorse them.”
“You haven’t given them a fair chance,” the woman said. “In the Pink Pigments are the best on the market.”
“My experience says they’re not,” Serena said. “Jessie, I’m not interested. I’m not interested in selling paint, and I’m not interested in selling hair products, and I’m just not interested in selling anything, period.”
“You’re willing enough to sell your art to the highest bidder,” Jessie sniffed.
Serena blinked at her, as if this woman was too stupid to even look at for too long.
“Can I get you a drink?” she finally said. She held up her glass. “This Type A is delicious.”
Jessie wrinkled her nose. “No, I’m vegan, if you remember. Anyway, I’m trying to watch my figure. One fairy dust cocktail has been more than enough for me.”
“Fairy dust isn’t vegan,” I said. “It’s farmed off hex moths.”
She glared at me and spun on her heel and marched off. Behind her, the gorgeous guy bit back a smile. Silently, he raised his hands and mimed clapping. I felt myself flush and flashed him a smile.
“Goddess, if she corners me one more time I will lose my platelet-loving mind,” Serena muttered. “Oh, bloody hell, Herbert’s waving me over.”
“Herbert?”
“One of our other housemates. We’re probably out of toilet paper again and he can’t find the nose on his face, let alone the extras in the basement. Good to meet you.”
“You too,” I said. She cut her way through the crowd, and it seemed to part around her.
“What do you think of her?” Starling asked, slipping up beside me.
I jumped.
“I like her,” I said. “She’s scary, but I guess I like scary?”
“Then you have good taste. Now, darling, you’re my pet tonight, so you just let me know if there’s anyone in the room you’d like an introduction to.”
My glance flashed to the hot guy. He was still standing in the same group, listening and nodding and laughing and being attractive.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m pretty good at these things.” I waved my drink, gesturing at the room at large.
“If you say so,” Starling said. “You just holler if you need me.”
I thanked him and waited until he was gone before sidling over to the group. I stood at its edge for a moment, cradling my drink and getting the gist of the conversation. When someone shifted, I edged in.
“And the judge said, ‘He looks sharp to me,’” a man in a dark blue button-up said.
The group burst into laughter. I’d missed the joke, but I let the energy of the laughter bring a smile to my face.
“Reminds me of this actor I knew who sued his neighbor for stealing an heirloom candelabra,” a woman with silver hair said. “Turns out his five-year-old daughter thought it was a plant holder and she’d been hiding it her playhouse out back and filling it with flowers from their garden. Only problem was, the lawyer contracted a magician to enchant the candelabra from a distance to turn the hair of whoever stole it purple, and they found out on school picture day.”
“At least that’s an easy change back,” a man said.
“Oh, not when it’s a legal battle,” the woman said. “They had to meet with the magician and the lawyer and the poor little girl had to sign a confession.”
“Beats taking your kid to the police station for a talking-to,” another woman muttered, with the inflections of someone who’d been there.
They laughed again, and I laughed with them, but I had a hard time taking my eyes off the guy.
And then, he spoke.
“My mum did that to my little brother when he hid a tin of biscuits,” he said. “Poor kid called me afterward and told me he’d learnt it’s illegal to eat biscuits that aren’t yours. Let that be a lesson to all of us.”
Dear gods.
He had an English accent.
He caught me staring. I felt my face get hot, but I didn’t look away. Why bother? My gaze was going to end up on him no matter what I tried to do about it.
“Hey,” I mouthed.
His eyes were so deep, I felt like I could dive headfirst into them and never reach the bottom. He stepped out of the circle and came over to me.
“Hi,” he said.
I squeezed my glass, suddenly afraid I was going to drop it.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Dior.”
“Clarence,” he said.
Our names hung in the air for a moment, hinting at possibility, testing for a spark. I felt my stomach flipping over and my tongue trying to tie itself in knots. Before my body could completely betray me, I cleared my throat.
“So, what’s your connection to this party?” I said. “Sounds like a whole bunch of people live here.”
“Eleven, last I counted,” he said. “All a bit eccentric and with an incredible tolerance for living in a house colored like a box of crayons.”
“You’re not a fan?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Actually, I love it. I’ve never been inside a building quite so… alive.”
“Me neither,” I said.
A big dumb smile was taking up permanent residence on my face.
“You want a drink?” I said. “I could use a refill.”
“I heard there’s blood punch,” he said.
This really was an interesting crowd.
“You’re a vampire, too?”
“No,” he said, looking startled. “No, I’m not. You are? I could have sworn you were, well, a faerie.”
“I am,” I said. “Sorry, I just met Serena.”
Comprehension dawned. “Of course,” he said. “Sorry, being a bit dense. Trying to talk to a pretty girl will do that to me.”
He’d called me a pretty girl. Lots of people had called me pretty, and girl was a bit of a foregone conclusion given my loose curls, low-cut blouse, and literally every other aspect of my gender presentation that evening. Hearing those words come out of his mouth in that order, though—that was something else.
“I am a faerie,” I said. “And I’ve never tried blood punch.”
“It’s not for the fainthearted,” he said. “But not bad, if you don’t think about what you’re drinking.”
“But you’re not a vamp?”
“I’m a faerie too.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Half, at any rate. I’m what I like to call bi-biracial: Mum’s a black American witch, Dad’s an extremely pale English faerie, and I’m… well, a bit of a conundrum, really.”
I laughed. Gorgeous, accented, and funny? I was never leaving this party.
“You’re a conundrum who needs a drink,” I said. “Come on.”
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Do you dance?”
“Hell, yes.”
He took my almost-empty glass from my hand and waved his hand over it. The drink dried up immediately, leaving the cup as though it had never been touched. He set it on the bookshelf and held out a hand.
“You stole my juice.”
“I’ll get you another one.”
I took his hand
, and we joined the one other couple on the floor. The music was fast and hot, full of quick rhythms, and there was nowhere near enough room to dance properly to it. Clarence pulled me abruptly close to keep from bumping into someone, and I didn’t pull away again.
I saw Starling watching us from across the room. He made a face of exaggerated shock, then shook his finger quickly at me as if he’d just had an idea. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and swiped. The phone must have been connected to the speakers hovering near the ceiling, because instantly, the music changed.
A slow, sensual acoustic guitar melody filled the room. It was a little hard to hear under all the talking, but my body was on such high alert that I was able to make out the notes anyway. Judging from the way his movements slowed and his hand slipped around my waist, Clarence could, too.
I looked up at him and instantly had to look away again. The amount of blushing this guy could trigger was ridiculous. I had to make some normal conversation or I was going to burn up.
“So where are you from?” I said.
He leaned down, pausing for suspense.
“Your dreams,” he whispered in my ear.
I froze for two seconds, and then he burst out laughing. Relief flooded through me that he hadn’t been serious, because there was no chill way to handle that.
I hit him gently on the arm. “Don’t laugh at your own terrible jokes,” I scolded.
“I can’t help it,” he said, making no effort whatsoever to do so. “I’m hilarious.”
Gorgeous, accented, funny, and a complete dork. I was lost, head over heels, and I hadn’t even gotten his number yet.
I was about to ask for it when August appeared next to us, looking beyond slick in an expensive-looking deep purple shirt and dark gray slacks. He tapped Clarence on the shoulder.
“Mind if I cut in?”
Clarence minded. I could see it all over his face. And I minded like hell. But it seemed that Clarence was gorgeous, accented, funny, a dork, and a gentleman.