21. Attr（act）ion
Attr(act)ion
TWO DRUGGED HOURS LATER . . .
I leaned back on a low couch, head spinning, and the luxurious emerald material melded to my aching body.
When did I sit down?
Sibrain’s blood caked my throat and chest. My blood itched across the back of my head and neck. A migraine throbbed in sync with my heartbeat. My lungs still burned from a light strangulation, and my concussion fueled the drugged cognitive dissonance.
I wanted to leave, but I could barely move my fingers. Too much effort. Easier to just melt into this couch.
Vines, roots, and flowers hung low, brushing against my head in the darkness; dancers twirled above in the haze, lanterns twinkling around them in starbursts; instruments crooned from the canopy as musicians played exquisitely.
On my right, a man and woman leaned together, giggling as they flirted. I stared at them, feeling . . . nothing.
The plight of a lifelong adrenaline junkie—there were only so many dangers that created enough of a rush. Decorative fingernails clicked against glasses as my couch companions sipped fairy wine, laughing with glossy eyes.
The humidity left me uncomfortably warm, and I missed the inhospitable cold of the freezing North.
Someone gave a toast, and flower glasses clinked together as Southerners cheered. I sank deeper into the cushions. All my energy—exhausted.
Staring up at the twinkly leafy canopy, I pretended the starbursts of light from the lanterns were galaxies in the night sky, winking down at me.
At some indeterminable point, someone pushed a long, minty cigarette between my lips. With intense concentrated effort, I held it lightly between my teeth. Smoke curled around my face, cooling my eyes, but I didn’t inhale.
I tipped my head forward.
Big mistake.
Directly across the room, on a similarly situated plum-colored couch, a lone man sat with perfect, elegant posture. His cut, tall figure contrasted violently with the soft jewel-toned fabric. Golden chiffon was draped across him.
Tarantula stared at me through the din.
He held the neck of a crimson fairy wine bottle, bringing the drink lazily up to his lips.
Images niggled at the back of my mind, and I could have sworn he’d transformed earlier, but no one around looked alarmed. I must have imagined the silver lines and fangs.
Lids lowered, I oscillated between observing the branches above and watching the danger—him.
Patrons made eyes at Tarantula, but he ignored them all. Slowly he licked droplets of wine off his glistening lips. Visibility was low in the haze of cigarette smoke. Sultry laughter intensified.
A cool gust of wind, sharp with magic, blew underneath my chin, lifting my head up to look at—Tarantula stared at me, head lowered, the white bottoms of his eyes visible. A dire wolf crouched low in the brush, hunting its prey with single-minded intensity.
Another gust of wind trailed slowly down my feverish neck, and I hummed with pleasure, pondering sluggishly where the nice breeze came from.
Tarantula’s mouth quirked up with amusement, magic dancing off his shoulders. He leaned back, powerful thighs parted, and his long-sleeved shirt fell open. His chest was obscene, covered in streaks of blood. He leisurely brought the wine bottle back up to his lips.
Head spinning, wind blowing coolly down my chest and across my stomach, I relaxed back on the cushions.
An upside-down dancer twirled on a scarf straight above me.
His head lowered slowly. I blinked, and the stranger’s face hovered above mine.
Legs tensed, wrapped in silk, he held himself upside down.
His gaze traveled across my stomach and then fixated hungrily on my exposed chest. From his expression, he didn’t mind the gore.
Time crawled, but the dancer never looked at my face, not once, and I didn’t know why it mattered, but it did.
I sighed out a puff of smoke as the dancer lowered even closer, hooded eyes still on my chest.
The people next to me kissed sloppily. The woman’s eyes were wide open. Not everyone has chemistry.
I dragged my gaze forward.
Tarantula’s lips had thinned into a straight line as he worked his jaw back and forth.
His eyes were blazing, snow on fire, and a new tension corrupted his posture—a deadliness.
His profile sharpened. Forced proximity had bred familiarity with his many moods, and there was no denying it. He was boiling.
The telltale cobalt vein pulsed along his jaw just beneath his spider tattoo. Lantern light danced across the side of his face smeared in fresh blood. Crimson stained his long fingers and was splattered across his chest and clothes.
A crime scene of a man.
Tarantula brought two bloody fingers, his pointer and middle finger, up to his pillowy lips and pressed them slowly inside his open mouth.
Silvery wind gusted softly across my two fingers, mimicking his actions. I felt flushed and shaky all over. My heart raced beneath my ribs. Adrenaline overload.
Tarantula smirked as he dragged his saliva-covered fingers down his chin and neck and over the striated ridges of his blood-covered abdominal muscles. Delight quivered across my senses as the whispering magic mapped the same path down my tender flesh.
Minty smoke cooled my lungs as I gasped raggedly. He brought his graceful fingers lower to the butterfly ink right above his beltline. His tongue flicked out, dragging across his mouth, and he cupped himself through his straining pants.
Dark hair obstructed my view. I leaned to the left, trying to get a better look. The upside-down dancer was shimmying lower. Get out of my way. I tilted my head, neck aching, not wanting to miss a second of the show.
Tarantula lifted his hand from his pants and saluted me as he leaned lazily back into the cushions, his thighs parting wider, fingers loose around the neck of the bottle.
He flexed his stomach as he drank, and the butterfly half disappeared where the silky material between his thighs cupped his obscene bulge.
He’s just a man.
His lashes lowered.
An extremely handsome, diabolical man.
I struggled to breathe. It felt like we were the only two people alive, playing in a never-ending game of chess.
Silver streamed out of his nose as he exhaled. Like the dragon he rides.
The upside-down dancer slid lower, fully blocking my view.
We were face-to-face. He reached forward and tangled his hands in my hair as I tried to dodge out of the way.
He pulled my head toward his, eyes closed.
I watched him go in for the kiss with morbid fascination, rolling my cigarette nervously back and forth with my tongue.
Branches clattered on a sharp breeze, and lanterns rattled. The corner of the dancer’s mouth pressed against mine. Silk ripped violently. His mouth disappeared as he went flying across the room.
I blinked.
Tarantula loomed above me. How did he move so fast?
What is he waiting for—
Pop.
A lantern exploded.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
In the tree above, one by one, every lantern shattered. Flames whooshed, growing horrifically fast, fanned by storm magic. All music stopped, replaced by shouts of terror.
Tarantula smirked. “Fire!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, infusing fake fear into his voice. “Fire!”
A momentary pause stretched, and then the place erupted with sheer panic.
The couch dipped as it was vacated, Southerners converging into a screaming stampede.
Wait for me, guys. No one waited. I didn’t move a single muscle, because I couldn’t.
Dancers and musicians fell from above. The fire spread.
Tarantula and I were the only ones untouched. Sweat poured in rivulets down my chest as the temperature skyrocketed. He observed me with smug satisfaction.
Breezes caressed my face, trailing across my cheekbones.
He leisurely mapped my features with his magic while the building burned around us. Southerners cried out. Tree branches cracked loudly, and the couch vibrated as the giant banyan tree’s foundation shook. The fire raged, flamed by his magic, and it felt like there was nothing that could stop him.
Diamonds glowed brightly around his neck as if fighting, and failing, to counteract his awful power as it streamed from him in waves.
I sucked on my cigarette.
“Get up, Ravenal,” Tarantula ordered.
“Die,” I ordered back.
Wind shrieked, a rapid intensification of magic. “Now,” he said coldly.
“No?”
People screamed; branches crashed down everywhere; the entire banyan tree uprooted, flaming and falling, crushing people; jagged chunks of ceiling dropped like missiles.
Nice, another massacre.
He plucked my cigarette from my lips and brought it up to his crimson-stained mouth. Instead of smoking it, he turned it to the side and licked slowly across the paper, eyes never leaving mine.
His pupils dilated, black devouring the holographic sheen of his irises.
“What are you doing?” My voice was impossibly hoarse.
“Tasting thee.”
Awareness prickled down my flushed neck, and I struggled to catch my breath. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I ignored the butterflies in my stomach and pointed my finger up at him. It glowed a stunning silver, steaming with magic, bright in the darkness.
“E—vil,” I sounded out as pressure expanded inside my head. “D—ie.”
A loud rumbling shook the floor. Crack. Silver-streaked water spurted up in thick streams, drenching both of us. He threw the cigarette down.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Pipes exploded deep under the floor. Magic-infused water shot up and rained down hard, combating the flames.
Damn it all. I tried to hide the fact that my magic yearned to combat his. I tucked my hands under my thighs, hiding the bright glow. Head pounding, I fought against the pressure. Exhaustion intensified, draining me of life.
“You broke the pipes,” I said, trying to come up with a cover.
Curls clung to the sides of his face, and he shook his head, warm water spraying off him. His eyes were locked on mine, simmering with heat, and he seemed fully unaware that I was the reason for the deluge.