The night was a disaster.
“So much for flying under the radar,” I mutter to the cat, who returns to avidly licking its privates. A comforting thought cuts through the fog of my disastrous evening. “At least I’m back in the land of pumpkin spice.”
It's a small, almost laughable thing to find solace in, yet the idea of savoring the treat at my favorite time of year is a lifeline I can cling to. A modest pleasure, but it may be the thing I love most in the Common World. Right after my friends.
Or it might be a tie.
My girlfriends probably wouldn’t be too offended by the hierarchy.
But I better not tell them.
Snow pads in barefoot from the second bedroom. The mass of pure white hair is bound up in an oversized, messy bun. My petite roommate wears a set of worn pale blue sweats that contrast and complement her ebony skin. The logo of Grandma's House, intricately embroidered on her shirt above her right breast, matches the brand of the chocolate snack cake she holds in her hand, already half-eaten.
“Hey Cinder,” she greets me though her focus is on the phone in her hand, “can I borrow your leather mini skirt for work tomorrow night? I haven’t had a chance to hit the laundromat this week.”
When Snow finally looks up, crystal blue eyes widen. “Well shit, I’m not sure I’m ready to level up to your fashion game.” A quick glance at the cat has the corner of her mouth turning down. “By the way, Lucifer pissed in your boots again.”
What a fantastic finish to a spectacular failure of a day.
Chapter 5
Shackles Closing Around My Dick
CHARMING
Stalking is not a word I like to use, butfollowingis a somewhat acceptable term.
IfollowCinder’s trail to the Common World.
That trail being the glass slipper Cinder left behind.
As I hold it up, I marvel over the tiny, delicate footwear. The guy I know who helps me with random jobs from time to time had commented on what a terrifying thing to put on one’s feet.
Then he did a little research with some forbidden tech to get me details on where my missing lady might have magically disappeared to. Judging by the energetic thrum I feel whenever I touch her shoe, I suspect it might have played a part in helping her flee.
The Poison Apple is more than a bar, it is the heart hub of Boston. While I’ve never been before, I’ve heard of it. Not in Midnight, but in my semi-regular escapes to the Common World.
The humans-only establishment has a line wrapped around the block, but I easily make my way past the velvet ropes. It’s a talent and a gift that most any prince probably knows how to wield. Though I make sure not to smile too wide and give the security guards too good a look at my fangs.
I step out of the crisp autumn chill and into the warmth of an establishment with wooden beams, gleaming gold metal railings, and a bar that rises several stories high. The back-lit liquor bottles are transformed into glowing jewels. Overhead is a beautiful, complex network of windows that make for quite the glass ceiling.
Off to one side is a massive live tree that stretches over several red tufted couches. Golden bistro lights weave through the upper branches while Chinese lanterns hang over the patrons who drink and laugh. Perfumes and something sweet, like ripe apples, waft in the air as I make my way through the crowd.
Packs of young women decked in sparkling glitzy dresses that barely touch the tops of their thighs writhe on the crowded dance floor, while men with gelled hair drink their beers on the outskirts. It’s like a scene from a nature documentary I know all too well. The key is to grab the eye of one of the females and then separate her from the pack, so none of her girlfriends interfere.
Though in my case, I can often reel in an entire pack at a time.
More than one set of eyes tracks me as I cross the bar, and I feel the gravitational pull of the unspoken invitations. But I’m not here for that tonight.
I'm here to see a girl about a shoe.
A shoe currently half-buried in my shallow back pocket that is beginning to be a literal pain in my ass.
Searching for a certain violet-eyed human, I push my way up to the bar, surprised to find it completely untended. I set myhands on the bar and lean in, looking side to side, waiting for someone to show up.
“Don’t worry,” a woman sitting at the barstool next to me says even as her attention is fastened to the book she’s reading. The subtle scent of rose perfume lingers around her.
“I’m sorry?”
