Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Elodie
The men filling the main lounge room of The Eclipse are giving it very bad feng shui. They’re all over the place, sprawled in the seats or sauntering around them.
The dryly confident voices of people who’ve rarely faced a real challenge and their bursts of calculated laughter reverberate through my skull. The clashing notes of a dozen cloying colognes assault my nose.
One of the older men calls to me, snapping his fingers. “Hey, boy! Another old fashioned.”
I dip my head and trot off to the bar. When I deposit the glass on the side table next to him, the patron scowls.
“Pick up the pace next time,” he mutters, as if I had anything to do with the speed of the drink-making, and falls back into his conversation with the gentleman in the next chair over.
May the fair folk curdle his milk and hide all his keys.
At least no one’s taken issue with “Chuck” showing up for work this afternoon. I’m not sure how many more times I can get away with my subterfuge. Eventually Chuck’s boss is going to notice he’s not arriving for his shifts quite the same way he used to.
I’d better make the most of the time I have.
Thank all that’s bright, Grady showed up again with a couple of his classmates—and they’ve stuck to the lounge so far. I was less pleased to see Byron’s imposing presence poised by the dancing flames of the room’s gas fireplace.
The Worth heir hasn’t interacted with Grady other than a brief greeting, but my palm twinges with my awareness of him even when I’m not looking at him. His expression is graver than usual today, his movements tense.
I’m not sure how much anyone else here would notice, but something’s bothering him.
Something that’s absolutely none of my business.
I plant myself near Grady’s group, ears pricked even though they’re only discussing a sports trading thing I can’t fully follow. One of the trio, a guy I don’t remember from my reality who speaks with a French accent softening the edges of his words, asks me to bring him a “Picon bière.”
I have no idea what that is, but thankfully the bartender seems to comprehend the order. I return with the cocktail to find they’ve moved on to discussing possible graduate study options with a couple of recent Luminary grads who’ve joined them.
The bunch of them sound very assured that great opportunities will come their way. None of those opportunities sound like anything my doppelganger might have gotten killed over, so they’re not much help to me.
Maybe it’s my fault for getting bored. Because it feels an awful lot like fate trying to teach me a lesson when, just a few minutes after I start mentally rolling my eyes and wishing the pompous dicks would do more than shoot their mouths off, one of the grad students twitches his fingers in a beckoning gesture to another staff person who was just passing by.
“Hey, you, come settle an argument for me.”
As the employee, a guy who looks to be in his early thirties, comes to a stop with a smile I can tell is forced, I resist the urge to fade into the background. I don’t know what’s about to happen, which means I should pay attention.
“How can I help, sir?” the attendant asks.
“Hold out your hands. Gloves off.”
The man complies, revealing pinkish skin and the ruddy spire of a single-pointed bond mark on his palm.
The grad student grins at his friends. “Dalton wants to claim that anyone could use basic magic to accomplish the same thing as my glim. Let’s put that theory to the test.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but something about his tone makes my stomach sink.
He jerks his head toward one of his companions—Dalton, I assume. “You take the right. I’ll take the left.”
The other guy chortles before drawing his posture straighter with a competitive air. Two pairs of eyes narrow with concentration.
The air shimmers around both of the attendant’s hands—with a hazy quality around the right and sparkling faintly on the left.
The attendant sucks in a sharp breath that holds a trace of a whimper. His arms shake with apparent effort. He closes his eyes, a wince contorting his features.
My jaw clenches. The words to interrupt this awful game, to end the man’s distress, leap up my throat.
I clamp my lips against them. If I speak up, I’ll probably get tossed out of here.
But how can I just stand here and watch—?
Before I have to grapple with my morals for long, the grad student dispels the magic with a flick of his fingers. His friend follows suit. The shimmers vanish.
The attendant tucks his hands close to his sides with a rasp of a sigh.
His chief torturer gives him an expectant nod. “Well? Which one bothered you more?”
After clearing his throat, the attendant tentatively raises his left. The grad student shoots a triumphant glance at his companion. “There! Is that proof enough for you?”
They fall into a bantering argument about the validity of the test while the subject of that test sidles away. My gaze follows him, sympathy squeezing my chest.
No wonder the real Chuck had enough of this place. What did the assholes here do to him?
I may not be able to tell the jerk off to his face without jeopardizing my mission, but the craving for some kind of payback rushes up inside me. He lifts his drink to his lips, and I nudge a subtle layer of ephemera between the glass and his fingers.
A very slippery layer. His grip skids, and a dollop of dark brown liquid splashes over his chin and his fancy shirt.
The guy sputters, another attendant darts in to offer him a napkin, and I contain my smirk.
Dalton doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Can’t hold your bourbon as well as you used to, huh?”
As his friend glowers at him and dabs at the liquid staining his clothes, the guy with the French accent looks off in the direction their test subject headed.
“Will that man’s hands be all right?” he asks, in a tone that’s more curiosity than concern.
The grad student waves him off with a swish of the napkin. “Oh, he’s fine. He should be glad that’s the worst trouble he’ll face at his job. Most of the dopes who come out of the Discount Void Buffet aren’t that lucky.”
The French guy knits his brow, echoing my confusion. “Discount Void Buffet?”
Grady snickers. “Haven’t you heard that one yet? It’s our more accurate name for Beacon Prep. The teachers there are mostly training the dimwits to go fight voids—and get slaughtered by the things, sooner or later.”
His joking tone makes my skin creep. Is that really how the rich kids at Luminary talk about our sister school?
I haven’t heard Other Elodie’s friends use the term, but we haven’t discussed Beacon or the students there so far. The phrase could be something specific to this reality—or I was just too far out of the loop to have heard it on my own.
Confirming the latter possibility, Grady taps his elbow against the French guy’s.
“Don’t say it out loud when you’re in school, though.
The Luminary professors can get stuffy about it—’Everyone has an important role to play in the lucent community’—even though they know we’re just saying the truth. ”
“Sure it’s important,” Grady’s classmate remarks. “Very important cannon fodder so the rest of us can get things done.”
I’m not sure if these scalders had anything to do with Other Elodie’s murder, but I’m feeling pretty tempted to murder them right now.
As I will my hands to unclench, the term Discount Void Buffet sinks deeper into my mind—and loosens a fragment of memory.
In my double’s notes, the ones that included dates and times… Weren’t a lot of them labeled DVB?
My breath catches in my throat. Maybe Other Elodie was using secretive upper-crust slang to obscure what location she was talking about. All those notes could be about Beacon Prep. I think the photos of the car on the nearby street lined up with a few of those entries.
An itch races through my limbs to hurtle straight out of here and dig out her hidden tablet so I can look over the notes with my new frame of reference.
I inhale deeply to steady myself through the surge of exhilaration. My investigating is paying off—but I might find out even more. I’m definitely not going to be able to use my disguise again if I make a scene over my first small victory.
I keep grabbing drinks and books and whatever else the club members ask for, counting down the minutes until I think I can reasonably slip out.
When one of the older gentlemen demands that I lay out napkins and tarts for a “meeting” he and his companions are going to have in one of the smaller upper rooms, I trek upstairs with a silver tray that reeks of polish.
In my hurry to return, I almost crash into Byron as I step back into the hall.
I scramble away with a hasty muttering. “Sorry, sorry.”
He holds up his hands. “No harm done.”
His voice is even enough, but I can’t help noticing that his expression still looks haunted. Possibly more so as his gaze takes me in, even in my illusionary disguise.
My heart gives one of those annoying tugs, and the words tumble out before I can catch them. “Are you all right?”
It’s not the sort of question the club staff is probably supposed to ask their clientele—unless a guy is literally bleeding out on the rug or something. It’s clear we exist to serve but not to pry.
Byron opens his mouth, and I prepare for him to tell me off. Instead, he hesitates.
Then he rubs his hand over the short coils of his hair. “Just a little distracted. I’m the one who almost ran into you.”
I bob my head meekly, the way I’d imagine an Eclipse attendant generally would. “I should have been watching where I was going better.”
“No, really. Not your fault at all.” He pauses again, still watching me with a small furrow digging into his forehead. “And not the first mistake I made today. I… botched part of one of my assignments at the academy.”
He says the words so haltingly I suspect he’d rather not admit the error at all—but he is. Some part of him must want to get his worries off his chest.
And I know just how much Byron can worry about the smallest of mistakes.
I offer him a smile I mean more than any I’ve put on since I entered the club. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t recover from.”
“Oh, of course.” He grimaces. “That doesn’t mean it’s going to be pleasant hearing the reaction when I get home. I guess I’m delaying the inevitable, hiding out here.”
The wryness of his tone doesn’t fool me. It winds around my heart alongside the renewed prickle in my palm.
As privileged as his life was, I also know how suffocated my Byron felt before he detached himself from his family to live with me. This version of him has spent an extra three years shouldering their expectations.
But isn’t he better off this way, despite the pressures? How bright is his future going to be in my reality, where he’s let himself fall so far in society’s eyes?
The only thing I can think to say is, “No one’s perfect. And no one should criticize you because you’re not.”
Something shifts in Byron’s face, like he’s peering at me even harder. His attention hooks inside me with a stronger tug.
He manages a laugh. “Try telling that to my parents. But thank you.”
His hand comes up to pat my shoulder—absently, as if he hasn’t even noticed he’s going to do it. I tense to pull back, but his glove has already grazed my shirt.
A wobble passes through the layer of magic disguising me.
Byron’s stance goes rigid, his hand freezing against my arm. Before I can decide how to react, he pushes closer, the warmth of his body radiating into me.
His voice is nothing but ice now. “Elodie?”
I flinch at the harshness of my name and move to pull away, but Byron follows me, his gaze sharpening. His fingers clamp around my shoulder.
His anger brings the trace of British inflection into his words. “What the fuck— Why would you— You’re going to be in so much shit.”
My pulse skitters through my veins. “No. Please—”
If he exposes me to the rest of the club, if Other Elodie’s killer is lurking here, it could screw up any chance I had at solving her murder. And radiants only know what other consequences I’ll face for impersonating staff, entering this club, and seemingly preying on its powerful members.
Uncle Nik’s stern voice reverberates up from my memory. “Don’t let yourself get flustered. If someone challenges you, put them off balance.”
I jerk my posture straighter with a mix of instinct and adrenaline. “What makes you think I don’t have a perfectly good reason to be here?”
Byron gapes at me, incredulous even through his fury. I think I succeeded at confusing him, anyway.
How can he see through my magic at all? Is it because of the unsteady connection between us, or is my illusion already getting weaker?
Knowing Byron, I don’t doubt he could shatter the effect completely if he wanted to.
His jaw works. He glares down at me, but he pitches his voice lower than before. “What reason could there possibly be? This is all some blasted Devine scheme, isn’t it? Dig up everything you can? You got me playing cards with you, talking about my family—”
Is he serious?
“You asked me to play cards,” I interrupt. “You volunteered what you said about your family. All I asked is if you were okay!”
“I didn’t know who I was talking to.”
His fingers flex against my shoulder, setting off a pulse of heat through my body. I wet my lips, and his gaze tracks the movement.
The smolder in his dark eyes suddenly looks like more than anger.
The memory of how Cole reacted in close proximity to me just hours ago gets my heart thumping even faster. Will pulling out of his grasp only work Byron up more?
“I wasn’t here to spy on you,” I say, as firmly as I can manage. “I swear it. The fact that we ended up talking was just random chance.”
“Random chance,” Byron repeats with a note of disbelief that’s fair, because I don’t think it’s only that either. “The people in here—if they had any idea what you’re doing— You have no idea how hard they’d come down on even you.”
For a second, he sounds almost concerned. His gaze flicks over my face and down my body, casting heat down to my core.
“Let go of me,” I suggest, with a softening of my voice to play into any sympathy that’s stirred in him. “I’ll walk out right now. Problem solved.”
His expression shutters, but he yanks his arm away. “Fine. Get out, now. And stay the fuck away. If I ever see you here again, I’ll break your mask in front of the whole club.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, and dash for the stairs.
My heart keeps pounding all the way down the street. And the imprint of warmth lingers on my shoulder like another mark I’ll never quite shake.