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122
Turns out, Halcyon occupies an entire wing of its own. And once I’ve ducked past the heavily lacquered, bright orange doors, I find myself squinting into a dimly lit, cavernous space that requires a few moments for my eyes to adjust.
A soft jazzy tune drifts from hidden speakers as my gaze streaks along a meandering, glittering smear of a room. The dark floors are a ramble of mismatched tables and chairs—the softly curving walls display a gaudy assortment of treasures hailing from so many cultures and ages, it makes for a brash and unruly aesthetic.
“I thought this was a party.” My gaze flicks from an amethyst chandelier hanging overhead to the place where Elodie stands behind a green marble-topped bar, silver cocktail shaker in hand. I move to join her, settling onto an empty stool, then I place my bag on the one just beside it.
“It’s a party for us,” she says, speaking over the rattle as she jiggles the shaker. “We never get to hang out like we used to.” She releases the lid from the tumbler, carefully distributes the iridescent red liquid between two large martini glasses, then slides one toward me.
“Cheers!” She grins, raising her glass and taking a slow, thoughtful sip. A moment later, I do the same. “What do you think? And be honest,” she says.
I close my eyes, search for just the right word. I settle on two. “Strange. Sweet,” I say. “But I like it. What’s in it?”
“Secret recipe.” She wiggles her brows and takes another sip. “I’ve been working on it for ages. Haven’t quite mastered it, but I’m close. Maybe that’s what I should call it—Strange Sweet. Do you think anyone would order it?”
When she grins, it leaves no doubt that if anyone could make the drink trend, it’s her.
“It’s good to see you.” Her perfectly manicured thumb taps against the stem of her glass as her gaze snags on mine. “I was so worried.”
I tip the glass to my lips and observe her from over the wide crystal rim. “Worried? Why?”
She shrugs, blue eyes flashing hot and bright, expertly concealing whatever it is that she’s thinking. “The first solo Trip is always the hardest. A lot can go wrong. I’m relieved to see you made it back in one piece.”
There’s a long, drawn-out pause, as though she’s expecting a jog in my memory, the confirmation that her plan almost worked.
Instead, I use the moment to consider the best way to respond to her false show of concern.
I can either take the bait and let on that I know she’s the one who tampered with my mask in an effort to not just strand me in the past but knock me right out of existence itself—or I can take another sip of my Strange Sweet drink and act like it was no big thing.
I go with the latter. As my dad used to say:Act in haste, repent at leisure.It wasn’t until recently that I truly understood what it means.
Then again, it wasn’t until recently that I truly understood a lot of my dad’s teachings.
To Elodie, I say, “I got my list of Gets and found my way back. Easy-peasy.” I grin.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me.” Elodie flutters her impossibly long lashes and presses a theatrical hand to her chest. “That whole time you were gone, I was worried I might’ve somehow messed up.”
“How?” I shift on my stool, rest my forearms against the cool marble slab, curious to hear what sort of excuse she’s drummed up.
“Well, I’d never programmed a mask before, and when Keane insisted I learn, I—”
“Keane insisted?” My gaze cuts right through her. That’s not at all how I remember it. Mostly because that’s not at all how it happened.
“Well, yeah.” She shrugs. “They’re always trying to get me to take on more responsibility. But I like being a Blue. That’s all I want to do.” Her head bobs to the side in an almost comical attempt to appear innocent.
I cut her off with a sharp jerk of my hand. I’m over this shit. Exactly how dense does she think I am?
“Anyway—” She grabs the silver shaker in one hand and her martini glass in the other. “I know you won’t believe me, but I like having you here. Gray Wolf wouldn’t be the same without you.” She slinks around the bar and motions for me to join her at some more comfortable-looking chairs set up nearby.
I watch as she settles onto a plush velvet seat, curling one leg beneath her and extending the other to rest on a table with an intricate inlay of pearl and wood that’s probably worth more money than my mom used to make in five years.
I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to remind me just how at ease she is in this world of fine, priceless objects. That she can rest her feet as confidently on this precious artifact as she did on the cheap plastic tables in the school cafeteria.
Elodie never misses a chance to remind me of how she’s been here the longest, and of all the various territories she was the first to conquer.
Gray Wolf.
The lighthouse.
The Blues.
Braxton.
But vanquishing is one thing. Whether or not she can hold on to that power remains to be seen.
She tilts her chin toward me, and for one pure, unmasked moment, the facade has dropped and the challenge in her gaze is worn plain to see. She wants the confrontation. She’s itching for the fight.
But, since I’m heavy on suspicion and woefully light on proof, I stick with what I learned in my comportment and etiquette class, grab the worn leather chair across from hers, cross my legs primly, and settle in for a much longer game.
