Chapter Two
Morning News: “Welcome to One Shot, your number-one source for the latest in pro rawball news. I’m your host, Diamanda Blacktalon, here with my cohost, Vaknox of the Lizard People of Tesh.
Last night, Orok Monroe was spotted rescuing a singer at the Silver Hound karaoke bar.
The Hellhounds’ newest defensive tank is a known devotee of the stone god of strength, Urzoth Shieldsworn.
A rescue mission isn’t quite in keeping with a god whose followers recently burned down a pizza parlor, is it, Vaknox? ”
*lizard hissing noises*
“Exactly. I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but you can see in this clip—there, pause it there—Monroe is wearing some kind of enchanted subtitling device, and he’s clearly asking if the victim is okay.”
*lizard hissing noises*
“You’re right, they seem quite cozy! Don’t you worry, viewers; our best reporters are at work uncovering the identity of this mystery man, who used the karaoke name Alexo the Magnificent.”
*lizard hissing noises*
“What a scandalous thing to say, Vaknox! One thing’s for certain: Orok Monroe hasn’t even played an official game with the Hellhounds yet, and he’s already shaking things up in Philadelphia.”
I should run.
I need to run.
Something’s behind me. Beside me? Something’s there, breathing down my neck; I have to go, I have to go.
Help me, Urzoth. Help me. Make me strong, strong enough to get through this, strong enough to stop this—
A noise jolts me awake and I fly upright in a panic, one hand in a fist, one in a defensive block.
Shit, which alert was that? Do they want us in the weapons room or the potions lab today?
Why can’t I remember? Mistakes cause delays, and delays cause retribution, and Seb’s still in a sling from the last time I fucked up.
Wait—
The bed is wrong.
This isn’t the scratchy blanket and knobby cot in our barracks.
The comforter’s fluffy and dazzlingly white where sunlight’s hitting it through the window, and out that window, the skyline shows a view my real estate agent fawned over.
On a clear day, I bet you can see all the way to the Hellhounds HQ!
Not Camp Merethyl.
I’m in my new apartment in Philadelphia.
And the day is clear, an azure sky I stare blankly at, my eyes tearing as reality beats my mind into submission.
Breathe. Breathe in for—how many seconds? Let’s go with four. Hold it for three? Sure. Breathe out for … ten. No, that feels like too many.
But I only get through one breath cycle before I realize holy shit, I feel like crap.
The too-bright reflection of the sun off my white comforter isn’t the reason for the twinge behind my eyes; it’s a headache that’s already there, a thumping vein determined to bruise my skull.
My mouth’s dry and tastes like I licked the inside of my cleats after practice, and now that I’m upright, my stomach goes why the fuck are you bungee jumping at this gods-forsaken hour and lurches nauseatingly.
I bend over my lap, elbows on my knees, and—
Am I naked?
I check.
Huh. I don’t usually sleep naked.
I eye my bed again, but the other side looks undisturbed, and I blow out an exhale.
Okay. Probably didn’t bring anyone back here, which is good, considering all I remember from last night is a third bottle of champagne and Darian agreeing to let me sing “I Want to Break Free” if he took the lead and I did the harmonies, whatever that means.
The noise that woke me comes again and all the muscles in my body seize, which does wonders for my headache and nausea.
Briefly, I hear my mother’s voice, telling me true Urzoth followers don’t fall prey to weaknesses like hangovers. I don’t think I’ve ever been a true Urzoth follower, so how would I know?
But—that noise. It’s a laugh? Followed by a teasing shush I’d recognize in any reality.
Feeling like I’ve aged several decades past twenty-eight, I haul my ass out of bed, pull on a pair of gray sweatpants, make a valiant attempt to brush my teeth, and shuffle out into the living room.
The corner apartment really does have stunning views.
The main room holds an open-plan living, dining, and kitchen area, with two walls of glass windows broken up by black steel piping.
I did what I did with my house in Vegas and let a designer make it livable, which apparently means the same thing here as it did there: white.
Everywhere. White couches, white rugs, white marble tables, with black accents and no hint of color except gold fixtures in the kitchen, and shelves of my knickknacks on either side of the fireplace.
Why designers seem allergic to color for masculine clients, I can’t guess, but it’s better than the TV-propped-on-cinder-blocks situation I would’ve done.
In the kitchen are Seb and Thio, somehow successfully cooking pancakes on a griddle at the island while wrapped up in each other.
Seb says something, and Thio laughs again—the suddenness of the noise, that was what woke me up.
It wasn’t a Camp Merethyl alert.
A shiver walks down my spine, and I shake it away.
“Morning, sunshine.” Seb notices me with a bright grin. “How ya feeling?”
The smell of sugary syrup and toasted butter has my stomach unsure whether it wants to continue yelling at me, but I slump to the island and heave myself pathetically onto one of the black leather barstools. “How should I be feeling?”
“Like you personally cleaned out the Silver Hound’s supply of champagne.”
“Awesome.”
“Then started on their tequila, at which point I remembered even half-giant metabolisms have limits with alcohol, and reeled you back. You’re welcome.”
Thio slides something across the island to me. “On that note, drink this.”
I look down at what seems to be a cup of coffee, but by the empty potion vial Thio’s sliding into his jeans pocket, I know it’s got some kind of magic in it.
It might not be Thio’s job to actively create new spells the way Seb does at his lab, but the two of them still experiment on shit together and consider it date night. They’ve made a lot of powerful healing potions that way.
Whatever Thio gave me, I gratefully accept it, cradling both hands around the coffee and inhaling.
I stiffen, and gods, my stomach clenches for an entirely new reason. “Fuck.”
“You okay?” Seb asks.
I drop my head into my hands. “You spent the night of your engagement and lawsuit celebration taking care of my sorry drunk ass.”
Something whacks me on the head.
I look up to see Seb wielding the spatula like a flyswatter. Am I the bug?
All the fixtures in my apartment were designed for my lineage, so everything’s a touch higher or wider than average. Which means Seb has to lift himself onto the edge of the island and strain rather far to reach me over it. That’s some serious commitment to rebuking me.
“Your celebration, too,” he says and drops back down. “Thio and I got to spend the night in your cushy guestroom. Have you seen that bathroom? It’s bonkers. Way nicer than the stall at our place and what we’ve come to call mandatory polar plunge showers.”
I didn’t know his apartment’s water heater was shitty? He’s never mentioned it. But I make a mental note to call his landlord and get estimates for a replacement.
Discreetly, of course.
Seb and Thio wouldn’t let me buy them a place in my building, so they’ll have to put up with my stealth remodeling.
“So, in a way,” Seb continues, “you gave us a luxury getaway as an engagement present. Because you’re thoughtful like that.”
“If this is a luxury engagement getaway,” I say, eyeing the pancakes, “shouldn’t I be the one making you guys breakfast?”
“You forget I had a front-row seat to your cooking for many years. I’d like to survive to my wedding, thanks.”
Thio hip-checks Seb out of the way and takes over pancake duty. “On that note, baby, you’re burning them.”
“Fuck you, I am not.”
Thio flips one that does indeed look a bit charcoaled. “Burnt.”
“Crispy.”
They stare at each other, and I swear to the gods, how are they getting aroused from pancakes?
I take a gulp of the coffee, letting it scald its way down my throat. I didn’t tease them last night either about the nuclear-fallout levels of sexual chemistry they’re always emitting. Why?
My chest twinges and I rub at it, suddenly hit by a ghost of apples, the brush of soft lips on my cheek, the flash of pink-gold glitter over a dimpled smile.
Did Alexo get home? Is that guy staying away from him? There’s no way I can check.
And I wouldn’t, if I could. Because he’s not mine to check up on.
I keep rubbing my chest until Seb and Thio finish whatever edging standoff they’ve got going on.
Seb nods at my hand on my sternum. “Heartburn? Geez, you are getting old.” He turns like he’s going to head into the guestroom. “I have a potion we’ve been developing at work that’s supposed to help people with digestive issues. Do you have a diffuser? It does best with—”
“Not heartburn. Just—Seb, wait. I need to tell you something.”
He stops. Eyes Thio, who in turn looks at me, one brow lifted in an unasked question at the heaviness in my tone. Do you need me to leave?
And the fact that Thio and I can have a silent conversation is testament to how thoroughly he’s locked into my life now, too.
I shake my head. “You two did finish your amalgamation into one being, didn’t you? Stay. I—” I roll the mug between my palms, shoulders wilting. “You didn’t have to take care of me last night. But thank you.”
Seb comes around the island and hefts himself onto a barstool next to me. “Of course. You never have to ask. Even though you did.”
“I did what?”
“Asked me to take care of you last night.”
Surprise has me blinking at him. Seb’s been my better half for most of my life, and he’s right; we don’t have to ask each other to step in. We just do. So for me to ask him for help … especially after I’ve made a resolute effort to not ask him for as much these past few years …
“What exactly did I say?” I try.