Page 98 of Sky’s Edge

Fuck it.

If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well get some bloody work done.

Catla

It was late and I was staring unseeing at the lights of Nocturn out my floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows when my Palm chimed.

I’d been dealing with a lot of comms all day from just about everybody (except Gayle), and fortunately, they were allowing me some space to deal with all that had gone down.

I was figuring they were done doing that, and vaguely curious as to who lost patience first (my guess: Dad), so I looked at my Palm.

What I saw made me shoot up in bed.

It was a text comm from Gayle to our group string.

I opened it and read, I’m fine. Cormac finally gave me back my Palm. He’s also, it will not surprise you to know, an imperious, arrogant prick. Too much for a text. We’ll conference soon and I’ll fill you in. Love you all.

“Well, that’s both a relief and a disaster,” I mumbled.

Laura’s and Monique’s replies tumbled in.

But so as not to open their door to me, I went out of the group string and opened a text comm direct to Gayle to say, Glad you’re ok. Keen to hear what’s happening. Stay strong and love you too.

Gayle didn’t return my text (or any of them).

And I went back to staring at the lights of my city, lying in bed.

All alone.

Chapter 11

Interim

Friday morning, I was juggling a tray of lattes, and being followed by two RS agents, as I pushed through the doors of Tempera, the gallery I managed.

Not long ago, Aleksei had destroyed it by shifting into his dragon inside the space.

When he did this, (unsurprisingly, his beast was massive) he also damaged many pieces in it by Terrinton, a renowned, hermit-esque artist who was known for his subversiveness, and hence, he was in fits of glee that his work had been demolished, stating it made it all the better.

Since then, we’d done the repairs, and at Terrinton’s request, refunded any works that had been sold at his show when they were intact, then allowed showings by appointment only, after hiking up the prices of them as they now were, with some enhancements by the artist after they’d been wrecked by Aleksei’s dragon.

Just Wednesday, the last piece had sold.

The length of time it took to sell it wasn’t because no one wanted it.

It was because it was the most expensive (by far) of the lot.

Of course, I’d filled the gallery with other work, and we were no longer by appointment only (there were always marks to be made and it was my job to make them).

But now, I could see the elderly male human artist snapping pics of the final sculpture there.

He was doing this from every angle because part of the sale included Terrinton personally collecting the remnants, transporting them, and installing them as sold in the new owner’s home.

All of this meant, with one show, I’d blasted through the upper echelon of the income I’d projected to make that year, and we weren’t even at Dead Winter.

My boss was ecstatic.

And the bonus he’d already told me I’d get was huge.