The Conspiracy for the Crown: Part 1
“Put it down, Gretchen.” A hand snaked around my wrist, obstructing the projection from my Ran’dyl. I started, the spoonful of spicy-sweet vegetable soup I’d been holding halfway to my mouth flying through the air and splattering across Ryan’s face.
“Oh shit, sorry, Ryan.” I untied the teal bandana around my neck and dabbed the soup off their cheek. “Oh, shut it, mate,” I grumbled at Matt, who was having a hearty laugh at my expense.
“No more reading event overviews at lunch. Captain’s orders.” Ryan flicked my Ran’dyl meaningfully before soaking a piece of thick bread in their own soup. “Lunch is for relaxing and pre-hydrating for the festival.”
“The festival is exactly why I’m not relaxing and you know it.” I chucked a piece of bread at Ryan who, like a show off, caught it in their mouth. Matt applauded them politely.
“That’s because you’re focusing on, like, the two official functions we have to attend, instead of the other ninety percent of the time where you lot get to be randy, and we all get to be sloshed,” Matt waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Isn’t that right, LinManHam?” he patted the bony crest of Fleetwood’s mammoth skeletal familiar, who was sunning himself beside the lunch table.
“Listen to Majumdar and drink up.” Ryan refilled my water from the carved pitcher on the table. They kicked back in their chair, turning their face upwards to soak in the warm, double sunshine in the palace garden.
Early Autumn had arrived on Destyr, and with it, the planet’s biggest holiday—a weeklong celebration commemorating the First Auhtula, the first Myax, and their legendary love story which shaped the foundation of Destyrian culture. Chester, the only one who had previously attended the festival, the year before the rest of us had arrived on the planet, promised nonstop fun and debauchery. However, he had failed to mention that, since the entire crew was either part of, or under the employ of, the royal family, we were expected to attend certain events as Royal representatives, and to behave ourselves as such.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Matt suggested. He dipped his bread in my soup, having already cleaned his own bowl.
“Has anyone heard anything about the Western continent?” I asked, turning my attention to eating and fending off Matt’s attempts to ingest more of my food.
“The iz’waij thing?” Ryan asked. “Shit’s wild. I still can’t believe they're trying to replace their queen with a fucking newborn. Imagine if that happened here.” They swung their feet up on the table and crossed their ankles.
“Would never happen,” Matt evaded my attempt to hold him off, dunking his hunk of bread so forcefully that more soup ended up on my button down than it.
“Dude!” I chastised, wiping my shirt with my already soiled bandana. “And why, praytell not?”
“Cause,” Matt said around a mouthful, “If Auhtula Ty’uria gets deposed, so too does our posh lifestyle. And we can’t let that happen. We’d have to fight for crown, queen, and planet. All that good stuff.” He winked.
Ryan snorted. “I think we’d have to get in line behind Azo’lah.”
I didn’t reply, instead choosing to mask my unease with a convenient sip of water. The growing unrest in the Western continent was concerning. If the obsession with return of the iz’waij spread here and Azo’lah’s powers were discovered, we would be in line behind her. Everyone would because she would be elevated as the default ruler of the Central continent.
“Ket’li crowns and official schedules!” Chester’s timely arrival saved me from repeating that alarming thought spiral for the fourth time today. Chester’s left arm was ringed by half a dozen impressive flower crowns adorned with embroidered, gem-studded ribbons. He deposited one on my head with a smile.
“These aren’t potatoes,” I said.
Chester shot me a bemused look as he wreathed Ryan’s laughing face with their crown. “You missing french fries or something, Gretch?”
“No, I know it’s an endearment for lovers. But once, Azo’lah called me that when we were undercover with the Sarl. When I asked her what it meant, she told me ket’li was a type of root vegetable. Like a potato.” I lifted the crown to inspect it. The flowers were small, brilliantly golden blossoms whose petals unfurled in an artfully asymmetrical and haphazard way. It reminded me of something. “What’s so funny?” I demanded as my friends roared with laughter.
“And you believed her?” Matt wheezed, reaching out to right Ryan when they almost tipped their chair backwards.
“Gretch,” Chester sighed, taking pity on me, “she was trolling you. Ket’li is a rare crystal that, as far as we know, is found only on Vas Roya. It’s what the First Auhtula’s coronet was made out of. The flowers are named after the crystal because of their color and distinctive shape. When used as an endearment, it means your significant other is a rare find, and you’re lucky to have them type of deal.”
“What a bitch,” I said, without any heat. I should’ve known better than to take Azo’lah’s word for it. Well, at least I realized what the flowers reminded me of now. I returned my flower crown to my head, tilting it at a jaunty angle for maximum effect.
“Damn, these look great in sunlight,” Ryan set theirs atop their pastel pink and blue hair. They weren’t wrong. The small, multicolored gemstones woven into the crown caught the light, drawing attention to the wearer. The ribbons, the navy, and silver of House Fuiq offset the golden blossoms. “Must be why everyone’s staring.”
“They’ve been doing that the entire time we’ve been out here, Cap,” Matt corrected. I glanced behind me to where he tipped his water glass toward two robed Destyrian diplomats who were eying our small gathering, heads tipped toward one another in heated conversation.
Chester took the empty seat on Ryan’s right, placing the remaining flower crowns in the center of the table. Two of them, which presumably had been designed for Azo’lah and Fleetwood, were larger and more elaborate. He tapped his Ran’dyl. “I’m sending you guys the schedules for the week. Fleetwood has color-coded them. Fuiq blue is an official, required function. Hot pink is required fun times attendance, and neon yellow is suggested fun times attendance, but you don’t have to be there. Fleetwood’s also listed out your hand-selected outfits for each event, so you don’t have to worry about the dress code—”
“THEY WILL CURSE THE WAY!” A familiar voice shouted, before altering, the accent changing into something vaguely British as it was filtered through our translator implants. “I swear on my mother’s throne, I will gut them if they so much as try, Azo’lah! How dare they imply what they did? To my face!”
“Is that Fleetwood speaking Destyrian?” Ryan, the teenager, transmuted seamlessly into Captain Thorley. Chester rose to his feet, expression wary. Fleetwood was rarely angry, let alone so irate that she slipped into her native Destyrian.
“FleetMerc, what’s wrong?” Chester asked as she rounded the corner. Fleetwood was blinding in her rage, or it could simply be her wardrobe: sparkly leggings and a blinged-out version of a Broadway-esque tuxedo jacket and her gold-glitter boots. Her usually smiling face was unyielding. Azo’lah, clad in her Myax uniform, followed a step behind her.
I stood, gesturing that Fleetwood should have my chair if she wanted to. She sat, the tails of her jacket catching on the back of her chair as she slumped in it. “Those pheasant fuckers,” Fleetwood fumed, back to her typical brand of self-taught English, “are implying that Gretchen is a threat to the security of Destyr.”
My stomach and, not to be dramatic, my world, bottomed out.
“Me? Why?” I asked. A hand settled on my shoulder. I tilted my head up to meet Azo’lah’s eyes. They were more concerned than comforting. Azo’lah caught my flower crown before it tumbled to the ground.
“Gretchen can barely shoot straight, let alone hurt a planet,” Ryan frowned. “In fact, she’s saved it!”
Chester looked at Azo’lah. “Who exactly implied this?”
“We were in a meeting with the Auhtula and several council members regarding the festival. The Technology and Arts worked together to create the display for the festival’s opening event,” Azo’lah explained. “As some of the artwork Gretchen unearthed at the Temple of Aluthua is incorporated in the display, her name was mentioned. And Councilor Kypail implied that Gretchen is utilizing her position as Royal Archaeologist for reasons beyond securing continued funding for her work.”
“Like what?” I put my flower crown on the table, not trusting my restless hands not to crush the blossoms accidentally. “What did I do that they think I’m some sort of...I don’t even know.”
Fleetwood levered herself out of the chair and wrapped me up in a fierce hug. “You have done nothing. The only ones maneuvering for political gains are them, and their briefs are in a pickle because they can’t control me, and my mother’s not dumb enough to fall for their equine shit.” From within the circle of Fleetwood’s arms, I saw another passing official slow down and look askance at us. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Did everyone in the palace think I was up to something?
Azo’lah refilled my water glass, taking a drink before pressing it into my hand. Fleetwood released me, and I drank, vainly attempting to settle my nerves. “Do not fret,” Azo’lah ran a soothing hand down my back. “We will remain alert and find the source of these idiotic ideas. Then, the Fulyiti and I will take care of it. I highly doubt whoever is responsible will have time for rumor-mongering once the festival starts tomorrow anyway.”
Our unusually dour demeanor cast a shadow on our sun-dappled corner of the garden. Azo’lah turned, seconds before the rest of us even heard the rustling robes of the approaching Destyrian. Her midnight blue hair was braided into a crown across her head. When she was level with the table, she bowed respectfully.
“Fulyiti Kezira,” she began, looking as nerve-wracked as I felt. “Councilor Lija requested that, if you refuse to return to the meeting, that I…” she trailed off uncertainly, off-put by the full brunt of Fleetwood’s withering glare. Or it could be because LinManHam had unfolded all ten feet of his frame and was towering over his seated owner like Clifford, the big, dead guard dog.
“Councilor Lija has no right to request anything from me after he stood by in silence while his colleagues insinuated that I care not for the best interests of our people. So much so that I would willingly befriend someone who is actively plotting against them. Anyone who dares assume that my friends are anything but loyal to my mother shall have no cooperation of mine today,” Fleetwood said in the clipped, cultured tones of the translator. And then, in her normal unfiltered voice, “The council can suck my whole ass ‘n a teet.”
I let out a hysterical giggle. Even Azo’lah failed to completely repress a smile. I felt a bit bad for Lija’s aide. Apparently, so did Azo’lah, for she crossed to her, pressing her forehead to the assistant’s in greeting.
“Forgive the Fulyiti her foul temper, Roz’al.” Azo’lah’s voice was low, borderline sultry. “Her great failing is she loves fiercely and loyally.” Azo’lah pulled back slightly. Roz’al now looked a bit dazed and more than a little dazzled. I couldn’t blame her. Being in close proximity to Azo’lah would do that to anyone. “Councilor Lija sent you with files, did he not?”
Roz’al nodded and then said, a bit breathlessly, “Yes, I have the program for tomorrow’s opening, as well as the Fulyiti’s approved speech.”
“Comm it to my older sister,” Fleetwood drawled loudly. “Let her come do her job as crown heir, for once.”
Azo’lah grabbed the Roz’al’s Ran’dyl-bearing wrist. “Leave them with me,” Azo’lah instructed with a smile, running her hand across the device in what could only be described as a caress. “I’ll make sure she looks at them later. Wait,” she added, pulling the aide back as she moved to depart. Azo’lah’s long fingers slid across her temple quickly. “Apologies, you had a leaf in your hair.”
“My thanks, Azo’lah Myax.” Roz’al hurried back toward the palace, clutching one hand to her chest like she had to keep her heart in check.
“What?” Azo’lah demanded when she turned to find the whole crew staring at her.
“As your Captain, if you’re thinking what I think you're thinking, the answer is absolutely not. That’s a fucking order,” Ryan stood, crossing their arms.
“And what, pray tell, am I thinking?” Azo’lah reached up to stroke LinManHam’s beaky snout.
“If you’re planning to give that flower crown to Lija’s assistant, so she’s forced to spend the whole festival with you while you seduce information out of her, I absolutely forbid it. I have other plans.” Matt snorted at this pronouncement. Ryan immediately smacked his shoulder. The two shared knowing grins.
Azo’lah shrugged and plucked my water glass from my hand again. “I hadn’t thought about it, but that’s an excellent strategy, Captain.”
Ryan’s eyes lit up as they watched Azo’lah drink. Like water was suddenly exciting. Ryan picked up Azo’lah’s ket’li wreath and placed it on her head, the gold flowers fanning like a halo across her silver-white hair. “Approved heads given only, Myax,” Ryan said firmly.
“That’s what he spake,” Fleetwood interjected.
Azo’lah winked at me as the crew dissolved into completely mature laughter. “Of course, Captain.”
Anticipatory tension threaded through Thal’s air, like the ribbons of the flower crowns circling its citizen’s heads. Like its populace, the Central continent’s capital was decked out for the festival. Sparkling streamers hung from fountains, woven pendants danced in the breeze, bejeweled floral garlands winked in the light of the setting suns. As night fell, the First Lovers Festival began in earnest.
Destyrians flooded the streets in their finest tunics, their long hair elegantly braided and bedecked in ket’li crowns. We joined the masses, gathering in front of the palace where the opening ceremony was to begin shortly.
“Damn, this crew cleans up well,” Ryan said, admiring all of us in our official, royal wardrobe. Dressed in exquisitely tailored tunics in the colors of House Fuiq, even I could admit, together we made a striking image, not even my awkwardness could mess up.
“I’m a winter, so Navy is my color,” Matt said, ever-so-modestly. He puffed out his chest exaggeratedly, showing off the fine cut of his tunic.
“Navy is everyone’s color,” Chester corrected, though he too straightened his outfit.
Ryan linked their arms with Matt and Chester and tugged them both close. “No one pulls it off quite like us, though.”
Azo’lah cleared her throat, announcing her presence. “Hey, Azo--Azo’lah,” I greeted her. She was on duty tonight and was dressed in her formal Myax uniform, but instead of her typical low ponytail or serviceable braid, her bright hair was woven into a traditional up-do with her ket’li crown regally perched on top. She looked ethereal in the waning light—the soft beauty of her flowered hair contrasting with the hint of danger in her stance.
“Shouldn’t you be up on the platform with Fleetwood?” Matt asked as Chester linked his arm with mine.
“It is protocol to never have the Auhtula and the first three members of the line of succession in one location, even with a full Myax detail present,” Azo’lah said, inclining her head to her Myax sisters who stood along the perimeter of the central stage. I spotted Milyna dead-center, her bright eyes scouting the crowd for threats. I caught her eye and gave her an overzealous wave.
Ryan said, “But aren’t you fourth in line?”
“Yes, but in the event that something happened to both the Auhtula and Fulyiti Fleetwood, then I would be acting Auhtula until the crowned heir returned to Destyr from her latest political assignment,” Azo’lah explained. She took in all of our finery and said, “You all look nice. For humans, you wear our traditional clothes well.”
We all laughed; from Azo’lah, that was quite the compliment.
Overhead, the gathering darkness was suddenly broken by a resounding boom of drums and a radiant blossoming of purple light.
“Fuck yes,” Ryan murmured as we all craned our necks to look up at the Destyrian equivalent of fireworks. They looked almost exactly like Earth fireworks, except they weren’t actual explosions, but nanotech that Chester had tried explaining to me, but I didn’t totally understand. The crowd gasped as blue and green, magenta and crimson fractured in kaleidoscopic swirls overhead. The fireworks took on the shapes of Destyrian glyphs and even the ket’li blossom. The finale—a rapid-fire spark of whites and lavenders left an after-burn image of the First Auhtula and her Myax.
A cacophony of cheers rose toward the stars winking from behind the swirling, fading smokescreen.
The stage before us, previously darkened, blazed to blinding life, Fleetwood Mercury, in all her glory, stood at the center.
“Goddamn, FleetMerc,” Chester murmured at my side.
She was magnificent in a sweeping silver gown in the style of Ancient Destyr. Her navy hair flowed down her back in elegant waves and braids. With her extra bedazzled ket’li crown, she looked every bit the princess she was.
She smiled at the crowd, the same easy and sincere smile she bestowed upon her friends. “Greetings, beloved citizens. It is finally time to once again commence the First Lovers Festival.”
The crowd shouted riotously joyful greetings back to their beloved Fulyiti. And our crew, our little family, who loved her best, were the loudest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Azo’lah and Matt beaming with pride, Ryan screaming themself hoarse, and Chester dabbing at the proud tears welling in his eyes.
“I have been given the honor of welcoming you all to this opening ceremony,” Fleetwood continued as the cheers died down. “Over 200 centi-binary cycles ago, when a young Destyrian ruler fell in love with her loyal protector, they could not have known that their love would birth the thriving society we enjoy today. But we are living proof of the creativity and ingenuity of our people. Tonight’s special presentation is not only a marriage of our arts and technology but a marriage of our previously neglected past with our unquestionably bright future.”
With those last words, a series of images bloomed behind Fleetwood, the drums from before taking up a new, intricate beat. Whoops and hollers rose toward the sky as images of the mosaics we were working to preserve from the Temple of Aluthua were projected into the sky. The images moved and interlocked, a full-blown 3D rendering of the temple reforming above all of our heads. The building thrum of the drums overwhelmed the roaring joy of the crowd. As the cheers dissipated and the drumbeat changed, the temple disappeared in bright, flashing light. The First Auhtula and her Myax were rendered larger than life against the stars, the colors of the mosaics returned to their original vibrancy due to the technology employed tonight.
“I love that she sparkles even when there’s no light on her,” Ryan remarked, their eyes still trained on Fleetwood and her spectacular dress.
“As though we would expect anything less from our most radiant highness, Fleetwood Mercury,” said a voice at my back. Goosebumps broke out across my neck as I spun to find Maximilian Danger Shockley standing behind me, a knowing grin making his already stupidly handsome face even more so.
“Hell yeah, that’s my princess!” hollered Tyler Batista from Shockley’s side.
“What are you two doing here?” I hoped the elevated pitch of my voice was camouflaged by the still raging drums.
Shockley slid easily into my personal space. “Heard there was a party we shouldn’t miss.”
Heat flooded my cheeks.
“What’s good, my dudes?” Tyler asked, roping Chester and Matt into tight embraces.
“Aren’t you both wanted by the Auhtula for crimes against crown and continent?” Azo’lah asked as she frowned down at us all.
Shockley, eyes still trained on me, held his wrist above where Tyler and Ryan were being introduced for the first time. His wristband projected a familiar-looking comm. “Personal invitation from Fulyiti Kezira herself. It would appear as though we have special permission from the crown to be here.”
In the flashing light of the lasers, Azo’lah’s jaw clenched. “I will be speaking to her about that.”
“You do that,” Shockley lowered his arm, circling it around my waist. “How’ve you been, Name Police? Miss me?”
“I, uhm, I’ve been, er—” I stammered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. While Shockley’s sudden appearance was a pleasant surprise, surprises were still difficult for me and my social anxiety. It didn’t help that Shockley was wearing the hell out of the traditional Destyrian tunic and linen pants that he had donned for the occasion. Tyler, save for his backwards snapback, matched him perfectly. Even their ket’li crowns matched, though Tyler’s was slightly mis-shaped from stretching to fit around his hat.
Shockley’s grin gentled, understandingly. Instead of waiting for me to respond, he leaned close and said, “No worries, babe. I’m here for the whole festival. We have all week to talk.”
The last notes of the music faded out as the stage lights came up, hitting Fleetwood and turning her into the personification of a disco ball. She raised her arms wide as if embracing the cheering masses. “Thank you, my beloved people, for your kind attention. Now, let’s get this party started!”
“Oh, sorry, Under-Councilor,” I said reflexively. In retrospect, my apology was silly because she had collided with me. Chester pulled me sideways, avoiding the qua’pir sloshing over the rim of her cup.
Under-Councilor Twy’let stared down at me with overwide, dark eyes framed with snow-white lashes. “You know, Gretchen Myaxi,” she said thoughtfully, reaching up to straighten her ket’li crown but only managing to make it even more lopsided. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. You’re even nice to dead things. That one,” she pointed toward the dancefloor, where Fleetwood was dragging a laughing Shockley into a dance circle with Tyler, “she’s a menace, and he... it’s a shame he’s too stocky. He’d be handsome otherwise. Yes,” Counselor Twy’let proclaimed. She adjusted the robe she wore over her tunic before walking—more like stumbling—into the crowd.
“Is she drunk?” I gawked.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Chester snorted. “So’s the Minister of Royal Residences.” He gestured toward the aforementioned official who was gesturing with his glass, his alcoholic beverage of choice splashing onto the terrace’s mosaic tiled floor. “Everyone cuts real loose. Even stocky Shockley might look good to them by night's end.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You gonna dig that ass, oh Royal Archaeologist?”
I whacked his arm with the back of my hand while Chester laughed uncontrollably at my aflame face. On the dance floor, Shockley, Tyler, and Fleetwood shimmied with the choreographed synchronization of a 90s boy band. Azo’lah stood on the edge of the dancefloor and watched them with an annoyed smirk.
“That was truly terrible, Chester,” Ryan critiqued as they sauntered up next to me. “I can’t even tell if it’s a pegging reference or just a bad general innuendo.”
I almost spit out my drink. “You’re too young to know about stuff like that.” I raised an eyebrow when Ryan snorted.
“I’m eighteen and a popular author in my fandom. I know way more than anyone probably should.” They shrugged. “So, are you going to continue living in denial and fuck Shockley, or—”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Chester shaking his head rapidly, eyes comically large behind his glasses. I said, “Denial? What are you—?”
“Chester Leon!” In unison, our heads snapped up at the euphoric call of Chester’s rarely used full name. Striding toward us, was none other than Vic Mey-Ran, Chester’s fiance in the strangest arranged marriage this quadrant had ever seen. “Chester, my betrothed!” Mey-ran repeated, stopping right in front of Chester.
“Mey-ran! I mean, Honored Vic, I thought you weren’t supposed to arrive until later in the week!” Chester floundered a bit, perhaps due to Mey-ran’s unexpected sudden appearance or, more likely, his appearance in general. Mey-ran was lethally attractive on a good day, but tonight he looked extremely good. He had ditched the usual monochromatic utilitarian armor the Covlax favored for missions for what must be his people’s formal attire. He was wearing a structured scarlet tunic trimmed with black and dotted with golden accents that matched his leather-like bracers. Around his shoulders, he wore the artfully draped black cowl of an official Covlax ambassador. The whole ensemble complimented his jet-black hair and teal skin. But nothing set it off so much as the look of sheer adoration on Vic Mey-ran’s face.
“My sincere apologies for my unannounced arrival,” Mey-ran said. “There were a few issues for me to address before I could depart Covlax. But I completed them and am here for the duration of the festival. Would you prefer to be greeted in the human, Destyrian, or Covlax tradition?”
Chester blinked. “Um, whatever makes you most comfortable.” Mey-ran held out one hand, and Chester placed his into it, clearly thinking, like I was, that Mey-ran was going for the human handshake. Instead, Mey-ran twisted his forearm, drawing Chester close, their entwined forearms pressed between their chests. Mey-ran pressed his lips to the back of Chester’s knuckles with a look so scorching I thought Ryan and I should probably excuse ourselves.
“That’s how you all say hello on Covlax?” Ryan asked a little too nonchalantly. They were trying and failing to suppress a now-familiar expression—the same one they bore whenever their favorite characters on Cosmic Conquerors did anything that could be viewed as cute or romantic.
“It is how lovers greet each other, yes,” Mey-ran said in his usual, matter-of-fact way.
“You never mentioned you were lovers, Chester,” Ryan teased, taking a sip of their qua’pir. I should probably take it away soon.
Mey-ran looked utterly unruffled. “We will be. We are affianced, and Chester is very attractive.” The Covlax Vic lifted his own ket’li crown from his head. Whoever was in charge of making them had surely customized his. It was bound with black and gold ribbons, woven with Destyrian glyphs and another language, which I assumed was Covlaxi. “I was informed the custom is to offer this to the one you are romantically interested in. If they accept, you are to spend the festival together.”
Chester cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Mey-ran proffered the jeweled flowers, his smile soft. “Will you accept this and me until the flowers fade or the festivals’ end, whichever comes first?”
“Of course, Vic Mey-ran,” Chester answered. He removed his own crown, allowing Mey-ran to replace them with his. Chester proffered his humbler wreath. “Would you—”
“Yes,” Mey-ran said, not even allowing him to finish the traditional words. Mey-ran wrapped his hands around Chester’s, pressing the ket’li crown down.
“The honored Vic is wasting no time, I see.” Shockley sidled next to me, sipping what smelled like whisky but looked like Kool-Aid. Perspiration dotted his hairline like dew, and even that was attractive. “Gretch?” He held out his cup, his expression mischievous and more than a little heated.
“Oh, I’m good.” I gestured to my still half-full glass.
“Babe,” Shockley already sounded exasperated with me. I had no idea what I’d done to warrant it, though.
Ryan reached around Shockley to pat my shoulder. “Good job.”
I glanced at Chester, wondering what I was getting praised for. “You missed his mating cue,” Mey-ran observed baldly. “He wanted you to drink from his cup, which, in an informal social setting, declares a romantic bond on this planet. Haven’t you lived here for a significant duration of time?” Mey-ran looked at Shockley. “If you are interested in Gretchen, I would recommend a direct approach. You could offer her your flowers, but I was under the impression—”
“Vic Mey-ran, fiance mine,” Chester reached for the hand that Mey-ran had curled possessively around his waist and threaded his fingers through it. “Let’s dance.” Mey-ran allowed Chester to pull him out into the crowd of dancers. Mey-ran moved fluidly, clearly having studied Destyrian dancing before arriving. Once again, I felt shitty that the Covlax Vic knew more about my new home planet than I did.
“The Vic is an odd duck, isn’t he?” Shockley mused, “But he’s got a point.” Shockley placed his glass down on the small table next to us, his hands closing around his ket’li crown. “What do you say? Will you take this and me?”
I knocked back the rest of my drink, certain I was hallucinating. Was Shockley really asking to spend an entire week doing everything together at a lovers festival?
“Gretchen Myaxi must decline.” Azo’lah materialized from the crowd on my other side. “Auhtul Cal’ton has just arrived from the Northern continent. He wishes to greet the crew.” Azo’lah raised a questioning eyebrow at Ryan, whose eyes were trailing between Shockley and Azo’lah like they were watching a particularly exciting volley at Wimbledon.
“I think Gretchen can decide what she wants for herself.” Shockley retrieved his cup and took a pointed drink before offering it to me. I hesitated, feeling trapped.
“Gretchen,” Azo’lah’s voice was low and urgent. “It won’t help your case in the Council’s eyes if you agree to spend the festival with a former enemy of the Auhtula who, I might add, received a sudden pardon from the Fulyiti just yesterday. Please, Myaxi.”
I looked up into her navy eyes and saw the seriousness of our situation reflected back at me. I nodded.
“Your princess is leaving your sightline,” Shockley drawled. He gestured with the hand that still held his flower crown toward where Fleetwood, Tyler, and Matt were wending through the dancefloor toward where Auhtul Calton, dressed in the crisp white of his own royal house, was waving excitedly at them.
Azo’lah shot Shockley a look so dirty it could’ve rivaled the New York City subway. “Myaxi, Captain, we should go give our regards to our friend.” She moved off, Ryan following reluctantly in her wake. They both walked slowly, clearly waiting for me to catch up to them.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Shockley, looking awkwardly at his left bicep. It was a very nice bicep. “We found out a couple of days ago I’m not exactly popular with the higher-ups. Some members of the Council think I'm a danger to the Auhtula. So, given your, uh, history, I probably shouldn’t be seen to favor you in public.”
I moved to join the rest of my friends, but Shockley caught my arm. When I looked up, his dark eyes were warm. “And what about in private? Can you favor me then?”
Arousal spiked, liquid hot, in my gut despite the obvious line. I nodded. “I could do that, yeah. In private, my flower crown and I are all yours until the festival ends or whatever.”
Alien gods, I was dreadful at this.
Thankfully, Shockley didn’t seem to mind. “Or whatever,” he echoed and finally released his hold.
I woke to the light of the twin Destyrian suns glaring through my windows. I had forgotten to activate my shades the night before, and now I was paying the price.
“Ugh, God, no, too bright,” I groaned, rolling onto my back. A heavy arm trailed from my waist across my stomach.
“Not a morning person, huh?” said the reason I forgot to activate the shades. I tucked my face against Shockley’s very nice, very naked bicep and grinned. I burrowed into his warmth. “Christ,” he said, his breath warm against my forehead, “doesn’t this damn palace have any blinds?”
Making noises of displeasure, I shifted toward my nightstand and grabbed my Ran’dyl. “Forgot to close the…” I waved my Ran’dyl tiredly through the air, “the things that make it dark.”
Shockley chuckled softly. “Your eloquence astounds me, Borowicz.”
“Fuck off.” I slapped at my Ran’dyl until I located my room settings and dampened the light trailing through the windows. I turned to gripe at Shockley some more but stopped my tirade when I caught sight of him in the diffused morning glow. He was stretching, his strong arms raised over his bedhead and his long legs arching beneath the sheets, his rogue-ish grin half-buried in my pillow.
It was an excellent sight to start my morning.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Shockley suggested, catching my admiring gaze.
“Okay,” I agreed, holding up my Ran’dyl.
“You absolute smartass,” Shockley huffed. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me close. I couldn’t stop my delighted laughter as we tangled together, and his hands sought out my ticklish sides.
“Max, not the ribs! Max!” He curbed my giggling protests with kisses that I happily accepted.
Just as things were getting interesting, we were interrupted by my growling stomach.
Shockley pulled back, smug. “Worked up an appetite?”
I used the excuse of pushing at his chest in mock indignation to shamelessly feel him up. “Possibly,” I said. “Or possibly, I’m always this hungry. Breakfast?”
“I wish.” Shockley pressed his lips against my cheek as he pulled away. “I should get back to the Zone, make sure Tyler hasn’t caused an intergalactic incident.”
I tried to not let my disappointment show on my face. “Why? Tyler doesn’t piss people off the way you do.”
“No, he does not,” Shockley conceded, rolling out of bed. He stood there, gloriously naked, and continued. “But Tyler does unwittingly have sex with a lot of powerful aliens. Gets us into some weird situations. Once, he accidentally married an Oplitracan King. And unfortunately, the annulment proceedings on that planet were a lot less fun than their weddings.”
Pretending I wasn’t distracted by his nudity, I asked, “How do you accidentally marry someone?”
“When you don’t know that all it takes to do so is exchange orgasms.”
“Ah.” I eased down onto my pillows. “So by Oplitracan law, we’d be married?”
Shockley leered at me. “A few times over.”
I was about to see if I could convince him to delay his return trip to his ship when the door to my room vanished. I could’ve sworn I had engaged the privacy lock last night.
Azo’lah, in full Myax dress, strode in.
“Azo’lah!” I shrieked, scrambling to tug my sheet up to my chin. “What are you—”
“Leave.” Azo’lah glared at Shockley.
Not even bothering to cover himself, he asked, “Do you have a tracker on me or something?”
“Leave,” Azo’lah repeated, her glare intensifying.
“Maybe a fun detector that you use to hunt down good times to ruin?” Shockley suggested.
Azo’lah took a measured step towards him that Shockley smartly backed away from, hands held up in surrender. “Alright, I got it. I’m going.” He turned to me and winked. “I’ll see you later, Borowicz.”
A pleasant warmth rose in my cheeks as he hurriedly hopped back into his pants and boots. I reached out and toyed with the ket’li crown that sat on my bedside table. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Shockley, still shirtless, backed out of the room, tossing Azo’lah a sarcastic salute and me a deep bow. My door rematerialized, and any mortification I had been feeling at being walked in on was replaced with roiling fury.
“How dare you barge in here—”
“Get dressed,” Azo’lah cut in, not meeting my eyes. This passing of judgment on me, when she was the one who unceremoniously invaded my space and my privacy and probably used her powers to do it, enraged me further.
“No.” I folded my arms across the sheet that was covering my chest.
“Myaxi, we do not have time for stubbornness.” Azo’lah crossed to my wardrobe, opening it with precision. She pulled out one of my many pairs of Fleetwood-curated breeches and a button-down the exact shade of my eyes and tossed them at the bed. “Dress quickly. We must meet with Fleetwood immediately.”
Even in my haze of anger, that hooked my interest. “Why? Is something wrong with her?”
Azo’lah snapped my wardrobe close and strode to my door. “Not yet, but there will be if Councillor Lija is successful.”
“You have new intel on Lija?” I asked, reaching for my button-down. “From where?”
“Lija’s assistant.”
I gaped, freezing in the buttoning of my shirt. “Did you actually sleep with her for intel?”
“No, I used my powers on her implant and Ran’dyl in the garden. I’ve been monitoring her comms ever since.”
“Jesus, you bugged her?”
Azo’lah met my gaze across the room, and for some reason, I felt more exposed than when Shockley had been under the sheets with me. “Hurry, Myaxi. Lija has plans to get rid of you. We must act quickly if we are to stop him.”