I’d shrugged it off with a non-committal response, but the memory sits uneasily now. Grishnak doesn’t ask questions out of friendly curiosity. If he’s sniffing around, it’s because he knows the answer.
I make a mental note to mention it to Mei, to warn her that Grishnak might be paying more attention to The Drunken Dragon than he has in the past. It’s probably nothing, just the goblin’s usual habit of keeping tabs on the competition, but I’d rather be cautious. The last thing either of us needs is Grishnak deciding that our arrangement is worth interfering with.
By the time I make it back downstairs, the kitchen is full of the sounds of proper production. Knives against cutting boards, the hiss of the wok, the occasional clatter of pans. Mei is movingbetween stations with the focused efficiency I’ve come to expect, her earlier careful neutrality replaced by the particular intensity she brings to cooking.
She glances up as I enter, her expression professional. “Delivery’s in the walk-in. I’ve started prep for tonight’s service.”
I nod, matching her tone. “I’ll check the order against the invoice.”
I can do this. I can be professional. I can work beside her without thinking about the way she looked at me this morning, or the smell of her shampoo, or the fact that twenty minutes ago I was?—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Mei brushes past me to reach for a ladle, and my skin prickles exactly the way it did in the kitchen earlier. She says something about the mapo tofu needing more Sichuan peppercorns, her voice carrying that particular note it gets when she’s in the zone, and my chest does that stupid tightening thing again.
It’s going to be a very long service.
CHAPTER 5
mei
Two Weeks Later
The convention hall throbs with a sea of creatures that never existed until now: elves with ears sharp enough to draw blood, vampires with teeth that would make dentists weep, warriors wielding weapons forged in imaginations more vivid than reality.
Wyvern’s Dawn Regional Cosplay Convention doesn’t mess around. These aren’t the plastic swords and polyester capes of a college LARP event. This is serious artistry where months of work culminate in sixteen hours of fierce competition and green body paint that stains everything it touches.
I elbow my way through a cluster of what I think are supposed to be Shadow Realm assassins but might just be theater kids with access to an elaborate face paint kit, scanning the crowd for one specific face. Sunny’s supposed to be here by now. The competition registration closes in forty minutes, and if she’s not there, her chance at Best in Show goes up in smoke.
The last con party ended at 3 AM last night, and I’d been sure she’d be there, would’ve saved me from awkwardly nursing a drink while a man in a fur loincloth detailed the nuances of his character’s backstory for forty uninterrupted minutes.
I just hope that Sunny couldn’t get away from her work function, rather than being kidnapped somewhere in New Vegas.
Visions of goblin loan sharks dance in my head.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, slipping between a hulking minotaur and a petite figure in what appears to be a full-body mermaid scale suit.
I’ve already sent her eight messages and called three times, with no response.
I text her one final “WAKE UP YOU OVERSLEPT,” attach three crying emojis and a skull, and shove my phone back in my pocket.
The best I can do now is check her in at registration and hope she makes it before judging begins. I weave through the crowd toward the judges’ table, apologizing as I bump into a woman with a complicated headpiece made of what looks like actual metal.
The registration area is marginally calmer, just a long line of cosplayers clutching their entry forms and shifting from foot to foot while trying not to mess up their makeup or knock over their props. I join the end, taking the time to scroll through my photos from last night.
Even without Sunny, it’s been an impressive show. Costumes that must have taken months to create, elaborate makeup that transforms ordinary humans into otherworldly beings. I pause on a photo of a woman whose arms have been painted to look like living wood, bark etched into her skin with such precision that I could count the rings.
My phone buzzes with a new notification. Not Sunny this time.
Tovek
How’s the convention?
I smile despite myself. It’s the third text he’s sent since I left the bar yesterday. The first checking I made it safely to my hotel, the second asking if I’d found the extra power bank I’d been hunting for in the apartment. Small things, but the kind that matter when you’re used to being the one who remembers them.
Mei
Chaotic. Sunny’s MIA.
