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Bryce clenched her teeth. “Not fucking good enough.”
“It didn’t matter to you before Danika died. Just go to the class. It’s not an audition—it’s literally just a class for people who love to dance. Which you do.”
“Which I did.”
Juniper’s breath rattled the phone. “Danika would be heartbroken to hear you don’t dance anymore. Even for fun.”
Bryce made a show of humming with consideration. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” Juniper said. “I’m sending you the details.”
Bryce changed the subject. “You wanna come over and watch some trashy TV? Beach House Hookup is on tonight at nine.”
Juniper asked slyly, “Is the angel there?”
“He’s out for beers with his little cabal of killers.”
“They’re called the triarii, Bryce.”
“Yeah, just ask them.” Bryce turned from the window and aimed for the kitchen. Syrinx still waited at his food bowl, lion’s tail waggling. “Would it make a difference if Hunt was here?”
“I’d be over a Hel of a lot faster.”
Bryce laughed. “Shameless.” She scooped Syrinx’s food into his bowl. His claws clicked as he pranced in place, counting each kibble piece. “Unfortunately for you, I think he’s hung up on someone.”
“Unfortunately for you.”
“Please.” She opened the fridge and pulled out an assortment of food. A grazer’s dinner it was. “I met a mer the other day who was so hot you could have fried an egg on his ten billion abs.”
“None of what you said makes any sort of sense, but I think I get the point.”
Bryce laughed again. “Should I get a veggie burger warmed up for you, or what?”
“I wish I could, but—”
“But you have to practice.”
Juniper sighed. “I’m not going to be made principal by lounging on a couch all night.”
“You’ll get injured if you push yourself too hard. You’re already doing eight shows a week.”
The soft voice sharpened. “I’m fine. Maybe Sunday, okay?” The only day the dance company didn’t perform.
“Sure,” Bryce said. Her chest tightened, enough that she said, “Call me when you’re free.”
“Will do.”
Their goodbyes were quick, and Bryce had barely hung up when she dialed another number.
Fury’s phone went right to audiomail. Not bothering to leave a message, Bryce set down her phone and pried open the container of hummus, then leftover noodles, then some possibly rotten pork stew. Magic kept most of the food in her fridge fresh, but there were rational limits.
Grunting, she dumped the stew into the trash. Syrinx frowned up at her.
“Even you wouldn’t eat that, my friend,” she said.
Syrinx waggled his tail again and bounded for the couch.
The silence of her apartment grew heavy.
