I scoff at myself.
I’d rather this be one of my fuckups. Then at least it’d be something I know how to deal with.
That Sunday, the Manticoresdosecure an embarrassingly elaborate win, prompting all students to set off celebrations that serve the dual purpose of both distracting me and hiding me. Surely, in the hordes that take over every bar, dance club, and restaurantwithin a ten-block radius of the stadium, Elethior won’t be able to find me.
He emailed me, though. Once. On Friday night.
Sebastian,
Don’t avoid me. We need to talk.
—Thio
Thio. Like we’refriends.
See? This is what I need distracting from.
Orok landed a massive number of saves during the game, ever one of the team’s best players, so I let his fame sweep me up and carry us to Prismatic, a club near the river. We used to frequent it in undergrad, but the shine of dancing all night wore off when grad school barged in with what is, quite frankly, an unreasonable demand on our time.
The club lives up to its name with a myriad of flashing lights spasming constantly, some magic, some not. Music throbs through the converted warehouse that gives a grunge vibe beneath the rainbow-hued illuminations. One full end is a bar with multiple bartenders scurrying—sometimes flying—around, pouring drinks called things like Guardian and Poison Cone and Fairy Lights. I’m almost certain the club owners pump pixie magic into the air, because the whole place always feels alittlewobbly even if you haven’t had anything to drink.
The club is already packed, but Orok’s teammates drag us to one of the VIP areas where we’re given champagne that glows a faint shimmering pink.
“Fae Plane champagne!” declares a cheerleader for the Manticores.
I pass my untouched flute to Orok. With the heaving lights and thudding music and swelling noise of such a tightly packed crowd, my limbs itch to move.
“Gonna dance,” I shout into his ear.
He stops me with his elbow. He’s in simple jeans and a corded brown sweater, which is going to be soaked in no time thanks to the heat of so many bodies in here, but he’s never been one for club clothes. Not like the skinny jeans and silver crop-top tank I’m wearing; I even swapped my glasses for contacts, though I hate the way they feel, but they make dancing easier. Plus, it lets the eyeliner I swiped on pop more, and I roughed up my hair in that lazily messy way that’ll still work once I’m doused in sweat later. We’re going all in on blowing off steam, baby.
“You good?” Orok asks over the music.
“Not gonna drink. Just dance.” I know better than to indulge in two vices at once, especially in my current emotional state.
The fact that I’m not that far gone is reassuring.
I’m getting over the whole kissing Elethior thing already, look at me go. By tomorrow, I’ll be able to apologize for making things weird, and we’ll carry on with our work.
“Good,” Orok says, “but that’s not what I meant.”
I give him an excessively bright grin and pop both my thumbs.
He starts to say more when Ivo appears next to him. “Shots! Shots!”
Orok smiles good-naturedly before powering back both flutes of champagne, raising the empty cups like trophies, burping loudly, and bellowing, “MANTICORES, BITCHES!”
The entire VIP areahowls. “Feel the sting! Feel the sting!”
I slip away with a laugh, ducking past the VIP ropes and weaving through the regular tables. Most of the people are students, some still decked out in Lesiara U gear, but my focus is on the dance floor.
Until a body blocks my path.
Well, two bodies.
I stumble back. The guys look familiar, but—
Ah. They’re from the Conjuration Department. They were part of some pranks last year, but I was always more focused on their ringleader.
