He doesn’t slow. Just keeps stalking down the stairs despite the fact that I’m dressed in a bold, bright-red gown impossible to miss.
I almost grit my teeth, remembering the metal cap coating my back molar just in time to avoid an impromptu activation of my secret weapon.
He barely fits on the staircase himself, meaning moving past each other is going to be a tight shuffle.
Lovely.
Typical elemental bullshit, only thinking about themselves.
Sighing, I curl my shoulders further forward and step to the side, reminding myself that I’m Kemori Daphidone, traveling bard from Orig. I’m trodden. Scared. And I’m absolutely not here to accidentally trip this male and watch him tumble down the stairs.
Absolutely not.
Back pressed to the wall, I keep my eyes down and wait for him to squeeze past, his heavy steps growing closer. So close I’m struck with a smoky musk pinched with the smell of freshly split stone, softened with notes of something buttery.
My breath catches, then shudders free, as if unwilling to part with the dense, luscious scent that might just be one of the best smells I’ve ever inhaled …
He steps to the side, edging past.
Pauses.
I’m caught in his shadow like a flame in the dark, my heart pumping hard and fast. Nudging up my throat with each lengthy second that ticks by.
Why isn’t he moving?
I sidestep farther up the stairs, edging free of his atmosphere. “Excuse me.”
Places to be, hands to sever.
A dense, grated sound crumbles out of him, like it wrestled loose.
The air shifts.
I shift with it.
Whipping around, I snatch his wrist with the speed of a lightning strike. Tension clogs the air, my gaze dropping to his large, heavily scarred hand—outstretched, paused midmotion, as if he were just about to grab my veil and rip it free.
The asshole.
Though I can’t see his eyes, I feel his penetrating stare with such probing intensity my lungs pack full of stones, the trail of his attention traversing to the rounded nick in my ear.
Back to my eyes again.
Sharp words gather on my tongue like thorns that I’m so, so tempted to spit at him. Then I remember that folk who stand up to high-ranking elementals end up as dragon chow.
I swallow the words instead. Something that never feels good, no matter how often I do it.
Loosening my grip, I dip my head and shuffle back a few steps, only stopping once I’m high enough that I’m looking down on the male. Far enough away that I’m less tempted to punch him in the throat for thinking he could unveil me.
“Apologies,” I bite out, trying to sound submissive. Failing miserably. “The veil is part of my act.”
Silence ensues, thick like a tacky syrup.
Move, Raeve.
Easing free of his reach, I spin, hurrying up the staircase.
I don’t look back, flashing my scroll and token at the second wave of stone-faced guards, one of whom breaks away to escort me toward the stage. I’m led into the shadowy den, engulfed in the scent of peat smoke and mead, struck by the dramatic shift in atmosphere.
Stone fangs jut down from the ceiling, cutting the space into arched segments brushed in rusty firelight spilling from blazing sconces. Dimly lit booths line the outer walls, bracketed with heavy curtains offering privacy for those who seek it. Null servers glide through the space, carrying trays topped with mugs of mead and other foggy beverages, dishing them out to jovial elementals gathered around stone tables pocked about the place.
Tucked in the guard’s shadow, I cut a shrewd glance over the eclectic patrons, frustration chewing at my nerves when I don’t see the face I’m looking for.
Please be in one of the booths.
The guard leads me toward a central dais crowned by numerous stalagmites that resemble the bars of a cage, and I almost laugh—only because I couldn’t imagine anything more morbidly appropriate.
A thin, fine-boned female sits on a stool within, holding a white fiddle etched in luminous runes that probably encourage its sound to carry. She wears a simple full-bustled gown similar to mine, but blue, and much looser around the discreet swell of her babe-laden abdomen.
Eyes closed, she carves a melancholy tune while flakes of white light fall from the arched ceiling like a spill of snow. They settle on her gush of pale hair, extinguishing.
Thanking the guard, I step up and perch on the stool beside the musician, her song reaching a lilting crescendo while I search for an amplifying stick.
“Their Runi’s working on it,” she whispers, lowering her fiddle, looking at me through piercing green eyes framed with blue feather-tipped lashes. “It was cutting in and out last cycle.”