Chapter 3 #2
‘I do, actually. You have a special “I got kicked in the ass” face.’ Harper smirks and straightens, her gaze glinting. ‘I see it every day.’
Niko clucks their tongue, drawing her attention away. ‘Down, Harper. Get ready for the gala. You’re already late.’
Harper scoffs. ‘Sure, boss. You’re still in your boxers. What were you guys even doing?’ Her gaze lingers on Raven’s face projected on the wall.
I glance at Niko. Harper’s lived with us for the past two years and gone through a thorough background check, and she’s never been a security or confidentiality threat. But tonight’s plan to catch Raven is top secret.
Niko must parse the same, because they readjust themself with a snort. ‘Talking about how Raven’s always flirting with Lune.’
Heat burns the tips of my ears. Not this again. As much as I deny it, there’s a raw charm that comes with Raven’s villainy.
And, as a Sentinel, I’m absolutely strong enough to fight it.
As a person, the fight gets a little harder.
Harper tugs at the necklace round her neck, an amused tilt to her brow. ‘Oh, so that’s why you’re being such a sour Valentine’s. Your love life is what, an incidentally hot villain who throws you around?’
‘She’s not hot.’
Harper frowns and cocks her head to a side, like she’s fostering the rare occurrence of critical thought. ‘Hm. Isn’t she, though?’
And then she’s gone like a cyclone, leaving her normal trail of destruction – bits of Tia’s heart, fragments of Lune’s self-esteem, and every last bit of my patience.
‘Is it too late to evict her?’ I say, the second Harper’s far enough that I can pretend she’s out of earshot.
The past two years of living with her has consisted mostly of biting conversation and cold shoulders, but she earned her place in the Lain Co.
internship fairly, as Niko never fails to emphasize.
‘Why is she the only intern that gets to live with us?’
‘You know she can’t be with her family. So our job is to provide her with one, however temporary.
We’ve been through this.’ They shoot me a pointed look.
‘And now that I’ve paired you up for the next internship term, you both better get along.
You’re the brightest minds in the programme, and this term is focused on analysing the new strain of moonstones.
I’m hoping for peak performance from you both. ’
‘I can do peak performance with anyone but her, Niko. Please. Change the placements.’
‘That’s the eighth time you’ve asked, so you should know the answer is no.’ Niko raises a brow. ‘Some people hate Foxes, but I know you won’t treat her differently because of her descendancy. So be nice to her, I don’t want the public thinking you hate her for being a Fox.’
No, just her annoying tongue and her addiction to picking useless fights. I fold my arms, willing myself to stay civil. ‘What do you want from me, Nik? Dating rumours?’
‘Try sworn BFFs and friendship bracelets.’ Niko doesn’t look impressed as they ease themself off the couch. ‘I have to look for Kiran, but go get ready. We have a big night ahead of us and I need your head in the game.’
I spend half an hour battling my evening gown, my fingers cramped from wriggling unyielding silk over my waist, my skirt rippled perfectly to hide the wound on my thigh, my head still aching from being pounded into cement.
I shake it off. No wounds, no weakness.
Perfect soldier, perfect daughter.
Tonight’s plan will need both.
By the time I’m done, the moon has climbed into the sky, a waning sliver of comfort.
I feel like a plant under sunlight in its gentle glow, last-minute curls and hairspray brushing my bare shoulders with every heel striking carpet.
Attending the annual Lain Co. gala since I was seven, when Niko’s parents first invited mine, means the last twelve years have done nothing but wear me down to the droll festivities.
There’s just one catch this year: we’re celebrating our fiftieth anniversary. And with the biggest gala in Singapore comes the biggest group of journalists I’ve seen in my life.
‘Lune! What are your latest views on the new moonstones?’
‘What is Lain Co. planning to do with the new moonstones?’
‘Are Sentinels going to continue stopping climate protests?’
‘No comment!’ I fix a smile on my face as I wave, even if every question squirms like worms in my chest, like an infestation of heart and lungs.
I flash my pass to a guard and duck into the ballroom, escaping Singapore’s suffocating blanket of humidity and the scathing attention of the journalists.
Inside, the gala has already begun picking up. A pulsing sea of people mill under the vast, towering ceiling, waiting staff sidestepping CEOs and millionaires as they hand out flutes of wine, a geriatric rhythm thrumming through dancing couples as the live orchestra beats out a tango.
Graciously accepting a flute of champagne, I press the cold glass to my lips and take the sting of alcohol with rehearsed stoicism.
My mother would be happy to witness that, but I shake the thought to scan the room for a specific, recently threatened CEO to make sure he’s all right.
With any luck, I should be able to put in a good word and—
I freeze.
Right across the ballroom, Harper sips from a flute of her own, her gaze piercing as it sweeps the crowd. Inky fabric skims the marble floor behind her, but ends dangerously high in front, the chain around her neck dipping low against her chest with the pendant she’s always wearing.
Even from this distance, I could cut a finger on the sharp, feline wings of Harper’s eyes, like Aurora on a spindle. Succumb to the curse of Harper’s irritating presence, and it’d only be ended by those lips pressed against my own, leaving dark lipstick like the devil’s mark.
Why are you thinking of kissing Harper?
I tear my gaze away.
Jealousy bubbles in my chest at the intimidating, magnetic edge of Harper’s smile. Her posture is relaxed in the knowledge that at least half the people in the room want to be her or be with her, and I idly wonder who Harper is thinking of bringing home tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time.
None of your business, my brain snaps whip-crack fast in response, punishing me back into my mission: Raven, and Kevin Tan.
A shout for me rings through the air from behind, and I turn to see a fellow intern. ‘Hey!’
I don’t remember his name. Crap. ‘How’s your night?’ I say, hoping it doesn’t sound fake.
‘Good!’ The conversation dies immediately.
It’s unbearable.
I allow my eyes to wander deliberately, and accidentally make contact with a familiar winged stare.
I cut my gaze, heart thudding in my ears, but it’s too late.
HARPER/RAVEN
You have to kill Tia.
Gala evenings are generally a fresh, steaming tray of trust-fund kids and hot people, but today I’ve set my sights on one infuriatingly beautiful Chang’e descendant.
How would I do it? Poison? Dagger? The more imperceptible and covert, the better.
It’d be annoying to have the murder traced back to me and have to evade the police.
Fox Elders don’t easily fail probation leaders as long as their assignments are complete, but doing a messy job and alerting the cops is one sure way to have your leadership status revoked.
Also, assignments get a deadline of about six months.
How is that enough time to figure out how to kill a Sentinel?
I grab my eighth glass of apple juice from a waiter.
It’s been good for thinking, plus every piss-yellow sip tastes like the sort of mortal ruination religious people go their whole lives waiting for.
As much as I’d like to join the growing inebriated crowd with some wine, my magic goes apeshit when I’m drunk.
A security guard catches my eye. Black veins creep up the starched collar of his suit, and his presence sets off screaming alarms on my magic radar, his aura so strong that I have to resist its dark pull.
This isn’t a regular guard. This is a 妖怪, or yaoguai, a Chinese demon.
His aura turns the air cold, but I shake off the shiver under my skin and focus on why he’s even here.
Yaoguais are the magic-cursed of society, and I’ve only seen them once or twice. They’ve corresponded with the Foxes before, though their moral compasses are usually too corrupt for even the Foxes to do business with them.
I rack my brain for more information – they’re often the Fuck Around and Find Out population of magic-dabblers, people who’d asked for too much and been bitten right on the ass, cursed by malingering spirits or spells with a bottomless price.
With magic diluting further at every new generation, there’s rarely any magic left that’s strong enough for such curses, so yaoguais themselves often can’t do anything more than blend into shadows and grant someone awful luck.
But, like all powered people, they’re still able to sense magic, and yaoguais tend to be slippery and sensitive to magic, often hired to detect magical people and spells.
What are you detecting?
The Foxes don’t have criminal activity set for tonight. Niko probably just hired yaoguai sniffers and spellcasters to make sure tonight’s massive gala remains supervised and safe. So why are my Fox instincts sharpening with danger?
I search for Niko and Kiran again, but, when I turn, my gaze falls on Tia across the room.
Her dress was clearly made and tailored for her, cream silk tight over her waist before pooling to the floor, rippling like moonlight in a lake as she moves.
Her silver cuff blasters adorn her wrists, sleek and threatening.
A triangle of pale skin peeks from a slit by her upper thigh, slipping in and out of view as she shifts.
All thoughts of spells and yaoguais flee my mind as I watch, throat dry.
God help me.
Mama always told me that lunar descendants, children of the symbol of buried wishes and yearning, have always embodied attraction. Unfortunately, this absolutely applies to Tia, Descendant of Chang’e.