11. Maris
MARIS
Istand backstage at the gala, my palms sweating against the silk of a borrowed dress that's too tight in the shoulders and too loose everywhere else.
The fabric whispers against my skin like a warning.
This is a terrible idea. All of it. The dress, the plan, the notion that I can somehow waltz into this glittering snake pit and distract an entire room of people while Grath crawls through air vents like some kind of enormous, well-meaning raccoon.
But the alternative is losing everything. The café. The rowhouses. Him.
So here I am, about to humiliate myself in front of Coral Bay's wealthiest residents, all so my orc can commit light breaking and entering.
My orc.
The thought catches me off guard, makes my breath hitch. When did that happen? When did Grath stop being the awkward neighbor with the too-small apron and become mine?
Somewhere between the flour fight and the dumpster sex, probably. Somewhere in the messy, terrifying space between wanting him gone and needing him to stay.
"You're on in two." The stage manager, a harried woman with a clipboard and the haunted look of someone who's seen too many amateur acts tonight, jerks her thumb toward the curtain.
I nod. My throat is dry. I should have brought water. Or vodka. Preferably vodka.
The plan is simple. Get onstage. Make noise.
Keep everyone's attention on me long enough for Grath to find what we need and get out.
We've got allies scattered through the people, regulars from the café who owe me favors or just hate the developer enough to help.
They'll cause minor disruptions if things start to go sideways.
A spilled drink here, a loud argument there. Chaos as cover.
But the heavy lifting is on me.
I peek through the gap in the curtain. The ballroom stretches out like something from a fever dream, all crystal chandeliers and marble floors and people in clothes that cost more than my monthly rent.
The developer holds court near the center, surrounded by politicians and business owners, everyone laughing at his jokes like he's not actively trying to destroy their town.
My hands curl into fists. The anger helps. Steadies me.
Then I see Grath.
He's near the service entrance, dressed in the catering uniform we scrounged from a friend of a friend.
The white shirt strains across his shoulders, buttons threatening mutiny.
His bow tie sits crooked. He's carrying a tray of champagne flutes with the careful concentration of someone defusing a bomb, weaving through the persons like he's trying not to be seen.
Which is hilarious, because he's seven feet of solid orc muscle. Invisible is not in his skill set.
But he's trying. For me. For us.
The curtain parts. The stage manager gives me a shove that's probably meant to be encouraging.
Showtime.
The lights hit me like a wall. Too bright. Too hot. I blink, momentarily blind, and then the crowd comes into focus. Faces turn toward me. Curious. Polite. Already bored.
I clear my throat. The microphone squeals feedback, and I wince.
"Hi." My voice comes out too soft. I adjust the mic stand, and it screeches again. Someone in the back winces. "Sorry. Technical difficulties. Story of my life."
A few polite chuckles. I can see the developer in the third row, looking vaguely annoyed that his event has been interrupted by whatever this is.
Good. Stay annoyed. Stay focused on me.
"So, I'm Maris Smith. I own the Saltwater Cat Café over on Harborview. Maybe you've heard of it? We're the place with all the cats and mediocre espresso."
More laughter now, slightly warmer. I'm winning them over. Or at least confusing them enough to keep watching.
"I'm here tonight because I was told there would be an open mic, and I thought, you know what this fancy gala needs? A woman who can't sing attempting to entertain rich people."
Real laughter now. The developer's smile is tight. His assistant, a weasel-faced man in an expensive suit, whispers something in his ear.
I launch into the song. It's supposed to be a jazz standard, something sultry and sophisticated.
What comes out is closer to a cat being strangled.
I hit notes that don't exist in nature. I forget half the lyrics and improvise badly, inserting words like "gentrification" and "predatory development" where they absolutely don't belong.
It's a disaster. Perfect.
The crowd doesn't know whether to laugh or cringe. Some do both. I keep going, hamming it up, moving around the stage with exaggerated gestures that make my borrowed dress bunch in weird places.
And out of the corner of my eye, I see Grath slip through a service door and disappear.
I'm three verses into my musical massacre when the first disruption happens. One of the café regulars, a retired librarian named Edith, accidentally trips a waiter. Champagne cascades across the developer's table in a sparkling arc. There's a flurry of napkins and apologies.
I use the distraction to belt out an improvised chorus about property rights.
The developer's assistant stands, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. He's suspicious. I need to pull focus back.
"And now," I announce, "for my interpretive dance!"
I have never interpretive danced in my life. What follows is less dance and more a series of spasmodic movements that might charitably be called "experimental." I knock over the mic stand. It clatters across the stage with a sound like thunder.
The crowd is completely riveted now, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination.
Pure train wreck energy, the kind of spectacle where looking away becomes physically impossible.
People lean forward in their seats, mouths slightly open, champagne glasses forgotten in their hands.
Someone whispers to their companion, and I catch the word "catastrophe" delivered with equal parts shock and delight.
I'm midway through what might charitably be interpreted as a rendition of a dying swan, or possibly a medical emergency requiring immediate intervention—when I hear it.
A soft thump from somewhere above my head.
Then another, slightly louder this time, followed by what sounds distinctly like metal groaning under considerable weight.
My interpretive flailing stutters for half a second.
The air vents.
Oh god. Grath is in the air vents.
Of course he is. Of course the massive orc who can barely fit through a standard doorway without turning sideways has somehow wedged himself into the building's ventilation system. Because stealth was always going to be his strong suit.
My stomach clenches. I dance harder, flailing my arms in what I hope passes for artistic expression. The crowd's attention is locked on me. No one is looking up.
Except the sniffer dog.
I didn't know there would be a sniffer dog.
The German Shepherd sits near the developer's assistant, and its ears perk up. It stares at the ceiling. At the vent directly above the storage hallway.
No. No, no, no.
I do the only thing I can think of. I leap off the stage.
Well, "leap" is generous. It's more of an ungainly tumble that nearly takes out a woman in the front row. I grab the edge of a serving table to steady myself and manage to knock an entire tower of canapés onto the floor.
The dog's attention swivels to me. I grab a handful of smoked salmon from the wreckage and toss it across the room.
"Fetch!"
The dog bolts after it. The assistant shouts. More chaos erupts as the animal barrels through the mass of people, trailing caviar and confusion.
I use the moment to dash toward the hallway. Toward Grath.
Toward whatever trouble he's definitely found by now.
The storage room door is locked, but I can hear sounds from inside. A kitten's angry yowl. Grath's muffled cursing. The crash of something expensive breaking.
I wrap my fingers around the handle and twist hard. It doesn't budge. The metal is cool and completely unyielding under my palm. Of course it's locked. Of course someone decided tonight was the perfect night to actually secure the storage areas properly for once.
"Grath!" I press my face close to the crack between the door and the frame, trying to keep my voice low enough that it won't carry back to the ballroom. My breath fogs against the painted wood. "Grath, can you hear me?"
"Maris?" His voice comes through muffled and strained, like he's speaking through gritted teeth or holding something heavy. Maybe both. "The door's stuck from this side too. Something's jammed against it. And there's... there's a problem in here."
My stomach drops. The kitten. The filing cabinets. The very public chaos I just caused with a German Shepherd and several hundred dollars worth of seafood appetizers. Pick your disaster.
"What kind of problem?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know the answer. "Grath, what kind of problem are we talking about?"
Before he can answer, the developer's assistant rounds the corner. His face is red, his suit jacket askew.
"You." He spits the word like a curse. "I knew you were up to something."
"Me? I was just performing. Poorly. Very publicly poorly." I step in front of the storage room door, blocking it with my body.
"Move aside." He takes another step forward, closing the distance between us until I can smell the expensive cologne that isn't quite masking the sweat staining his collar. His jaw is tight, a vein pulsing at his temple. "This is a restricted area. Employees only."
I don't budge from my position in front of the splintered door frame, even though my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"That's funny," I say, keeping my voice level and calm despite the fact that my hands are starting to shake.
"Because there's no sign posted. No warning. Nothing that says I can't be here."