Chapter 25

”If further investigations into the efficacy of soul-magic yield positive outcomes, the prospective applications become limitless, expanding the horizons for future integrations of complementary magical disciplines…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

We climb the stairs, keeping some space between us and all the other couples, throuples, and larger groups headed inside for the evening. Though the sun has set a while ago, it’s still warm, and the humidity threatens to melt my makeup off my face. I’m tempted to speed up—to get into the air conditioner that awaits us inside, and get this over with—but based on the slow, nonchalant pace of those around us, it’s not the Sweetcreek way.

Archer and I don’t speak during our ascent. The confident energy radiating off his body is enough to keep me moving. But once we get to the glass doors separating us from the hall’s interior, my hands begin to shake even more. My legs go weak, and sweat lines the back of my neck.

Glancing up at the intimidating building makes it worse. The entire front is made of opaque glass. I can see my reflection perfectly. Although the girl standing before me is gorgeous, I can still see the regular Fantasia Foster underneath the mask, the makeup, and the expensive fabric draped over my body.

The girl whose parents were executed by the Silver Scouts.

The girl who grew up in foster care and was repeatedly abused by the same men who were supposed to protect her.

The girl who’s worked in a bar since she was a teen, serving the aimless alcoholics of the inner city.

The girl whose boyfriend cheated on her and disregarded her emotions.

I don’t belong here.

I won’t fit in.

I’m tempted to turn and bolt down the stairs—away from all this nonsense—but Archer releases my arm, steps ahead of me, and pushes the door open.

“Tasia,” he says softly. “After you.”

Cool air washes over me the moment I step inside the venue. The door softly closes behind us, and Archer approaches me from behind. He draws me in, pulling me tight to his side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. When I glance up at him, he’s staring down at me, reverence and adoration simmering in his gaze. He reaches up to trace the skin beneath my mask. “You are absolutely gorgeous.”

“Right back atcha, handsome,” I say, smiling softly.

“I’m serious.” His eyes roam my face. “Any man would be lucky to have you at his side.”

My heart thumps wildly. As I wait for it to calm down, I study the deep honey-colored hue around his body, and I realize that maybe he truly doesn’t belong here either. As cruel and lawless as people think the Phantom is, and as rich and arrogant as people probably think Archer Acciai is, he is none of those things.

To me, he’s simply Archer.

The man who’s protected me, fought for me, and made me feel safe and seen for the first time in my life.

Longing swirls in my stomach, and it’s suddenly so strong that it aches.

The lights flicker and go out, and I gasp. Archer tightens his grip on me as frantic muttering echoes through the hall.

A voice comes over the loudspeaker, effectively silencing us all.

“Thank you, citizens of Silver City, for joining us tonight in honor of Mesmeric Laboratories.” The lights flicker back on, but this time the illumination is a dim, red hue. I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust. “As you may have heard, there was an unfortunate event this evening, rendering a portion of the labs useless. We thank all of our patrons, vendors, and donors for being here, and we implore you to consider the implications of our loss. Our community is only as strong as our weakest, so we must work to rebuild as one.”

Polite applause rings out, and I glance at Archer, trying to follow his lead. The soft expression he wore a moment ago is gone. His jaw is set tight. Without a word, he leads me toward the ballroom.

I blink again, taking in the sight of Splendor Hall. A wide hallway adorned with chandeliers leads to an open ballroom. Flowing fabrics cascade from the ceiling down to the walls, where they’re tied to either side of the hallway.

Everything—the hallway, the ballroom, the twirling people and their excessive gowns—are bathed in a deep red hue.

If the masks weren’t enough to keep our identities mostly hidden, this new, eerie lighting helps. It’s aggressive and sensual, but it muddles the dozens of soul-shades around the room. Instead of vibrant, glowing colors, everyone has a barely noticeable fog wafting around them.

“Archer,” I whisper, panic gripping me once again. “I can’t make out any soul-shades in here.”

He glances down at me. “The lighting?”

I nod.

“I’ll get Pixel on it.”

“She’s here?”

He nods, scanning the ballroom. I assume he’s searching for her.

On the dance floor, couples and groups dance elegantly, practically floating around one another in perfect sync. It blows my mind how they can twirl so fluidly in their billowing layers and teetering heels. A slow, lazy beat plays loudly but crisply throughout the ballroom, dictating the pace of the dancers.

Massive chandeliers made of jewels and gilded chains hang above the dance floor, and off to the sides, more excessive drapery trails from the ceiling, down the walls, and all the way to the floor. It’d be overstimulating if it weren’t for the fact that all the textures, layers, and adornments bask in the same red glow.

Servers carrying trays of beverages mingle with the crowd. They wear identical, bland dresses with high necklines and skirts that skim the floor, and their masks have dark feathers on them.

When one of the servers offers up a tray to us, I politely turn them down. Archer follows suit.

“You can drink,” I say. “Not that you need my permission.”

He laughs softly, his eyes still darting around the room. “Not while I’m working.”

I exhale in relief. There’s something comforting in knowing he’ll be sober tonight, too.

My gloved fingers dig into Archer’s arm, and I observe his face expectantly. Soon, recognition flares in his eyes, and his shoulders relax subtly.

“I’ll be back,” he says, releasing my arm. “Pixel.”

“Okay.” I stand there stupidly, watching him stride away. “I’ll just…be over here,” I mutter to myself.

Across the room, a short woman wearing an owl mask and an incredibly revealing dress greets Archer with a wave. Archer doesn’t slow his pace as he approaches her. He breezes by, and she turns and follows him. They make their way toward the curtains on the side of the room and out of sight.

My heart squeezes, and a flood of disappointment washes through me.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Eyeing a three-tiered table full of elaborate finger foods on the opposite wall, I begin striding toward it. Snacking never hurts. It’ll keep my hands busy and my mouth full. Hopefully that will keep me from saying something stupid or looking like a lost lamb.

Two mini muffins later, my stomach protests, flipping itself inside out.

Damn nerves.

Sighing, I slowly stride along the perimeter of the dance floor, watching the revelry while trying not to draw any attention to myself. I square my shoulders, keeping my head inclined and my pace Sweetcreek-slow so I fit in.

The shattering of glass—barely audible over the loud music—snags my attention. Flinching, I whip toward the direction of the noise. No one around me seems to have noticed it. They are all too busy with their own conversations or dances.

An obviously drunken trio shimmies past, much too close to me, giggling as they stop to pepper each other with sloppy kisses. One of their elbows accidentally juts into me, and I scowl. They don’t even acknowledge me, too lost to the sauce.

“Fun times,” I mutter, stepping away. I thought I’d gotten away from this uninhibited lifestyle by coming to Sweetcreek, but apparently they indulge as much as the inner city folk do.

I used to be just like them—letting alcohol lead me.

When I first quit drinking, I had a constant nagging voice in my mind, telling me to find a drink. Take a sip. Just one.

It took at least a year of me fighting that voice to get past the craving. And now, I find it easier and easier to stay away from alcohol—especially when I see how ridiculous it makes people.

Striding through the room, I find a less populated corner to stand in.

Nearby, a woman with a long braid and a sparkling fish-shaped mask leans forward, snorting something off another woman’s cleavage.

I’m about to turn away, to give them some space and privacy, when I realize the woman’s breasts are covered with a glittery substance.

Not glitter.

Dust.

It’s almost indecipherable in the single-hued lighting.

My hands grow clammy, and suddenly I’m wishing I could see their soul-shades, to determine with certainty that the color is still there. But I have no way of knowing.

“Come on, Archer,” I mutter, needing him to hurry up with Pixel so she can get the lighting situation fixed.

My feet move of their own accord, drawing me closer to the women.

“Hey!” I yell, but they don’t seem to hear me.

I grab my skirt so I don’t trip, and then I rush toward them.

“Stop,” I say, planting my hands on the woman in the fish mask and pushing her away from the other’s breasts.

My foot must land on her skirt, because there’s a loud ripping noise, and we both tumble to the ground.

“What in the Gods’ names is wrong with you!?” says the woman standing above us, who wears a fox mask. Powder still glistens on her chest. She lends a hand to her friend and pulls her to her feet. “Lennia, is this another of your lovers?”

I’m surprised when she turns her angry pout toward her friend, crossing her arms.

“No!” Lennia says. She scrutinizes me. “I mean—I don’t think so.”

The first woman slaps Lennia so hard that her fish mask flies off, clattering to the floor. I almost feel bad…until I remember they were doing dreamdust. Their recklessness is going to get them killed.

Rising from the floor, I say, “You shouldn’t do the dust.” They both turn to me. Lennia stoops to get her mask. “It’s tainted,” I say, taking a risk.

“Dust?” Fox-mask looks me up and down.

“Dreamdust.” I point to her breasts.

“Cocaine?”

“It’s— You’re doing coke?” I ask, dumbfounded.

She ignores me, gripping Lennia’s arm. They rush away from me, shooting me pissed-off glances as they put distance between us.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I smooth down my dress. I’m just on edge. I’m being a fucking idiot.

At least we were out of sight from most people. No one seems to be paying me any mind. With a sigh, I head back toward the snack table.

I make it three strides when someone sidesteps me, stopping me in my tracks.

“My, my, my,” a man whispers in a low, sensual voice, leaning down so his face is next to mine. “What a lovely little butterfly you are. Please, do me the honor of enjoying a dance with me?”

I take a step back.

His height is similar to Archer’s, and he has a broad chest and muscular physique. It’s impossible to make out the exact color of his hair and eyes in this lighting, but they both appear so dark that I speculate they must be close to black.

The mask he wears shines, and it looks heavy as hell. At each of his temples, the mask curves up into sharp horns.

Unease courses through me. Taking another step back, I offer the man a polite smile. “I’m a bit tired. Perhaps another time.”

“Tired?” he asks, leaning closer. “Perhaps you’re reserving your energy for more remarkable tackles?”

Frowning, I fight the urge to take another step back. “You’ve been watching me?”

Glancing around, I try to locate Archer, but to no avail.

“Your date is rather busy at the moment,” he says. Then his mouth tightens and his eyes harden. “If that’s who you’re searching for.”

I shake my head. “No.” I’m about to clarify that Archer isn’t my date, until I remember that he’s supposed to be. “I mean, yeah, but he’ll be right back.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain about that, Fantasia.”

My heart skips a beat. “How do you know my name?”

He smiles, leaning in to say, “I make it my mission to know everyone of import in my city.”

I almost snort but hold it back at the last second. There are over ten million people spread throughout Silver City.

Mycity? Who the hell is this guy, the High Chancellor? No, it can’t be. The Chancellor is an old, weathered man with a cane. I’ve seen him on the broadcasts.

“Impossible,” I say.

“Then I make it my mission to know all the soul-seers in my city.” He winks, holding out a leather-clad hand. “So, what do you say, Fantasia? Join me for a dance?”