Afterlight

Chapter 1 – Until Debt Do Us Part

The music throbbed in the air of the den as I finished up my set and took the back steps off the stage, a low bass rumble that felt as familiar as my own heartbeat.

The lights pulsed rich purples and sumptuous blues, painting everyone in the crowd in the colours of deep space.

Devala slipped past me with her fan, just as the tempo of the song picked up and the colours painting the stage whirled to fold in emerald greens.

I heard the snap of her fan before ducking into the little door hidden just behind the stage, which took the edge off of the music: I didn't feel it in my rib cage, at least, and I tossed my swords aside before stretching my arms high above my head.

"Nice set," Khrelen Tintissi yawned, his toothy mouth glinting in the dim red light of backstage.

"Thanks," I said, popping one shoulder with a wince before I grabbed a towel to mop up the sheen of sweat gathering at the base of my neck and glistening on my bare arms. It probably hadn't been wise to try and mix in some pole work – but with the new gambling suite opening up, it was harder and harder to keep clients' interest on stage, so I did what I had to.

I flicked at my wristband to take a peek at my tips, and a sigh tore free from my throat.

"Not nice enough," I muttered. I did some mental math, and chewed on the inside of my lip.

I might be short this week. I'd already been short last week, and then two weeks before that. I really needed to talk to Alet Trident about that raise, or… well, I didn't know what other option I had. Beg?

"You should do it without a shirt," suggested Khrelen helpfully. "Or just in a loincloth. Oh, or only in mesh! Or you could bleed a bit on stage – I hear that's a crowd-pleaser."

I shot him a dark look, and then he snorted his braying laugh and flashed his sharp teeth at me.

"Very funny," I said, reaching up to shove his shoulder while he chortled.

"That was one time. I haven't fallen in years.

Have you thought of trying out any new jokes, or are you finally too addled to come up with original content? "

"I hardly need new jokes for an old dancer," he said, pleased with himself. His leathery face was surprisingly expressive, even in the dim red light, and his features took on a sly slant as he looked at me out of the corner of his sunken eyes. "Your admirer is back."

"Is he?" I jostled in closer to peer out of the one-way glass to the floor beyond.

On stage, Devala was fluttering her massive fan, her fur rippling in time with the music.

A small audience was arrayed in the booths and low couches spread around the stage, watching and murmuring; I could see other den employees working the crowd – Besel with a tray of drinks for the group of feathered auvril who'd drifted in early in the afternoon, Farat Nel giving a lap dance to a stunned-looking marn, the willowy form of Tacala draped over a voltaari priestess.

I scanned and then saw, in one particularly dark corner, the abaya.

He'd been coming all week to watch me dance, and that was unusual enough that I'd pulled up the file Alet Trident had started when he first showed up, so at least I knew which of the six inflected pronouns he used and whether or not he'd be able to pay for any private services.

And fair enough, maybe he wasn't interested in any private services: I knew I was a novelty – there weren't any other human dancers on Yellow Fin station, and I wasn't sure if there were any others in all of Primus space – but the glamour tended to wear off pretty quickly.

I mean, I twirled some swords on the stage, flipped upside down on a pole, and wiggled my ass.

It wasn't exactly intellectually stimulating stuff.

But a week of watching me dance without approaching, or without asking Trident to have me approach him?

It was unusual. And unusual often paid well.

I also had to admit to myself, as I watched him across the den, that he was awfully pretty.

"I don't know that I'd bother, really," Khrelen continued conversationally, picking at the ends of his sharp talons as his narrow lips tightened.

"Abaya are cute and all, particularly if you like them shy, but other than that, there's not much to write home about.

They'll pay to grind against you, come twice, and then apologize as if they've done you personal offence.

You can't even touch them, and you definitely can't fuck them.

I can't stand the ones with weird hang-ups. Almost as bad as humans."

"Hey now," I said, still tracking the abaya as he sat there. He wasn't watching Devala; he wasn't doing much, just staring off into space, a pinched, thoughtful look on his angular features. "I don't have hang-ups."

"Your lack of hang-ups is a hang-up," Khrelen said.

"See, now you're just changing the rules," I insisted. Then, thoughtful, "He is cute though."

"Cute, sure," Khrelen said. "All tied up in knots about the idea of being here and touching you, also sure. And not even the fun kind of knots, Sashen."

"Yeah, I'm not so bothered about someone being shy," I admitted, watching the abaya across the roiling blues and greens of the den.

His eyes were black holes in the white of his face, his hair – quills?

– braided into a crest that ran down his back.

"So long as they pay, I don't really care.

I can handle awkward." Then I jabbed the side of Khrelen's ribs with my elbows, which he always complained were unreasonably pointy, and Khrelen hissed.

"After all, I fucked you – and you didn't even pay. "

His eyes rolled upwards with exaggerated exasperation. "Honestly, you take pity on a morose human dancer one time and decide to show him the ropes and then –"

"One time, was it?" I asked with a grin. "I'd forgotten you can't count. Poor Khrelen."

"It must have been so boring that I've blocked it from my memory," he drawled as we drifted into our easy repartee.

He opened his mouth to continue – generally, he'd move next to a comment about my height, and then I'd insult how he kissed, and then we'd both compare each other to different types of invertebrates before wandering off to try and net some paying clients – but he stopped, head tilting with curiosity.

"Oh, will you look at her?" A tall and broad rus'a had just strolled in, her pale skin casting a faint silver glow as she walked, graceful fronds trailing behind the pointed shape of her skull.

I laughed at him. Khrelen Tintissi contained multitudes, sure, but he was also pretty simple: he loved aliens who were taller than he was, which for a dalloid was pretty novel. I'd known him to give a steeply discounted rate, even.

"Well, I'm going to work the floor," he purred, hands smoothing the front of his open robe. "Those fronds, Sashen. Absurd."

And – I don't know why I'm telling you this.

I – how is it relevant? Who the fuck cares about what Khrelen Tintissi thought about a nice set of fronds?

He doesn't figure in this account at all.

Why am I even talking about him? Why would I want to tell you about the boring shit we said to each other?

No, I can't just relax into it. Are you sure it's working? How many humans have you –

Listen, I don't think a second shot is the answer. That seems like a lot, and I have a vested interest in getting out of this alive and, you know, not as a drooling heap of flesh. But –

Come on, that's not fair! You can't just jab me again without my consent. No, I don't think I did sign a waiver saying…

Saying…

The first thing that struck me were his eyes, and it wasn't that they were black from lid to lid but rather that they were deep and dark and observant.

His eyes gleamed in the blue and purple lights pulsing in the den, a fathomless stare like the endless black of space.

And that stare settled on me as I picked my way across the floor to him.

Something about it, about him – the upright and perfectly still way he sat, his hands clasped neatly in his lap, his clothes pressed and immaculate – made my heart stutter a little in my chest with anticipation.

What could I say? I had a soft spot for aliens who were particularly buttoned-up.

"Hi," I said, edging around the table in front of the booth where my abaya admirer sat, this little climate-controlled area like plunging into an ice bath.

I guessed abaya liked it cold. I smiled one of my prettier smiles at him, and then settled in on the low sofa, near enough to touch if he wanted to.

I tapped the sound dampener on my way to the seat so that we could speak without shouting, tucked here in our own chilly and quiet bubble. "I'm Sashen."

Up close, I could make out more of his features: his black eyes were set into alabaster white skin with what looked like a faint texture embossed across his cheeks, like the memory of the memory of an ancestor's scales, and his eyelashes – be still my heart, an alien with eyelashes!

– were so thick they ought to count as a weapon since my heart nearly stopped as he looked at me through them, fluttering a bit in what looked like surprise.

It had been awhile since someone had fluttered their lashes at me; usually that was my move.

"I am Araxis of Creche Thiel," he said in pitch perfect Standard, accent as clear and bright as ice.

His features were angular, maybe even edging toward delicate, but in the way that a particularly fine knife could be delicate.

His ears were pointed, his neck a long column of white emerging from the dark clothes he wore.

He was, in short, very pretty and he was, I hoped, interested in me. It was show time.

"So," I said conspiratorially, leaning in a little and feeling a flush of pleasure when I saw his eyes get caught somewhere near the hollow of my throat. "You've been here every night watching me."