Chapter 10 #2
Damaris shrugs. "Nope. Whoever it is, they seem weirdly invested in my nutritional wellbeing."
Despite myself, I smile. I just hope it isn't Adrian.
I pull out my own sandwich and lean against the edge of the worktable while Damaris taps his slate again. The silver filaments hum, then rearrange themselves into a loose spiral, pulsing in time with a low tone from the emitter.
"Resonance mapping prototype," he says. "Or that's what I'm calling it until Professor Leth decides my naming conventions are an insult to science."
I watch the filaments brighten when he snaps his fingers near them, drifting toward the sound. "They're reading vibration?"
"Micro-frequency and environmental echo." He sounds proud of it, which he should. "In theory. In practice, one of them tried to fling itself into a drainage grate an hour ago."
I grin. "That feels less ideal."
"Professor Leth called it a promising failure, which I think is academic code for please stop breaking things in public."
We both laugh at that, and for a minute we just stand there eating and watching the filaments drift through the air.
Then Damaris glances over at me. "So. How was your day?"
I exhale and take a sip of coffee. "I don't know, man. Halvern just… doesn't like me. Or he likes making me nervous. Maybe both."
Damaris's brows go up. "That sounds ominous."
"He's hosting some private reception next week. Officially it's for donors and trustees, but apparently half the planet's most important families will be there."
Damaris whistles low. "That's the thing Adrian was freaking out about."
I glance over. "What thing?"
"The reception. He's been weird all week. Every time somebody mentions it, he looks like he swallowed broken glass."
"Adrian always looks miserable."
Damaris shakes his head. "Not like this. Apparently people have been flying in from all over the Reach for it. Even the engineering department's been talking about it."
I stare down at my coffee. "Well, apparently I'm playing."
His head jerks toward me. "You're what?"
"Halvern wants me to perform."
He just stares. "Oh, boo…"
"Yeah."
"That's insane." Damaris snorts and leans back against the edge of the worktable, sandwich still in one hand.
Somewhere farther down the terraces, the sharp whine of hoverbike engines cuts through the air, followed by a burst of laughter and the kind of shouting that usually means somebody's trying to show off.
"Speaking of terrible decisions, Adrian's already planning some massive after-party for the reception. Damn near half the design department is talking about it. If you want to come, you can."
I blink at him. "You're inviting me to another party?"
"Somebody around here has to stop you from becoming a hermit." He takes another bite of his sandwich, then points it at me. "This is college. It's supposed to be fun."
I huff out a laugh. "I'm having fun."
"Oh yeah." Damaris eyes me. "You definitely look like you're having fun."
A ripple moves through the terrace before I even understand why, heads turning up toward the upper path as the low anti-grav hum rolls over the stone. Four hoverbikes rise into view in a smooth black sweep, curving down along the edge of the annex like they own the space.
Damaris mutters, "Speak of the devil."
The bikes slow just enough to show off, matte-dark frames catching silver light along the edges.
Each rider is dressed in black, mirrored helmets hiding their faces while open uniform jackets do nothing to conceal broad chests, thick thighs, and the easy confidence of people who have never once been told no.
One of them revs the engine, the sound vibrating through the terrace.
A couple girls at the next worktable glance up so fast one of them nearly drops her stylus.
"Oh, no," one of them mutters under her breath, already grinning.
Her friend leans toward the rail. "The Virels."
"Yep."
"That's never good."
The bikes sweep past the upper terrace in a slow black line while students track them from one end of the terrace to the other.
Conversations trail off. Work is forgotten. Some students try not to stare, but most of them fail.
And right at the front, still mounted on the first bike like the whole courtyard belongs to him, is Ciaran.
Black leather stretched clean over his thighs, dark gloves wrapped loose around the grips, shoulders broad beneath the open jacket, he looks less like a student and more like the kind of trouble people make excuses to follow.
I know him before I can explain how. Maybe it's the line of his shoulders. Maybe it's the way he rides, all loose control and easy arrogance. Maybe it's the fact that I can still feel last night under my skin every time I think too hard.
The lead bike slides past the upper curve of the terrace, then slows. Not enough to be obvious if you don't know what you're looking at, but I do.
My breath sticks somewhere behind my ribs as he turns his head and looks straight at me through the dark visor.
He doesn't look away. Neither do I.
It's only a beat, but it lasts long enough for the girls by the rail to go quiet. Long enough for Damaris to look from me to the black helmet and back again, one brow lifting.
Ciaran doesn't lift the visor or say a word. He just sits there on that machine in the middle of a courtyard full of people, looking at me like he's made some decision I haven't been told about yet.
And all I can think is, what the hell are you doing?
Behind him, the other riders rev just enough to stir the air and keep the attention on them, letting the moment stretch before the bikes start moving again.
One of the girls by the rail laughs under her breath and leans toward her friend. "The one with the purple helmet is definitely going to Adrian's party next week."
The lead bike tips forward first, smooth and unhurried, and the others fall in around it as they peel away down the path, still drawing eyes even after they should have stopped being interesting. Only when they're halfway across the courtyard do people stop pretending they weren't all staring.
Beside me, Damaris is quiet for a second longer than usual. Then he glances at his half-packed toolkit and starts gathering things a little faster than before. "Okay," he says, not looking at me. "I think that's enough science for one day. Help me pack this up?"
I don't argue. Instead, I finish the last bite of my sandwich, crumple the paper bag, and toss it into the trash before moving in to help him collapse the work stand and shut down the emitter.
By the time we're heading back inside with the case in one hand and my coffee in the other, my multi-slate buzzes in my pocket.
I already know who it is before I pull it out.
you should be more careful who sees you looking
My hand tightens so fast around the slate that the screen nearly slips, and a warning pulse flashes amber across my medical band, sharp enough to make me curse under my breath.
I glance up automatically, but Damaris is already a few steps ahead of me, balancing the case against his hip, completely unaware.
I type back before I can stop myself.
Leave me alone.
The reply comes almost instantly.
too late for that, little mouse
A second message lands before I can breathe.
especially when you look at me like you want another kiss
For one sharp second, the corridor blurs at the edges, the band biting hot against my wrist. Somehow, that's worse than the message.
He knew exactly what I was thinking, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do about that.