The Crisis at the Royal Wedding: Part 1
I was attacked from behind.
Thick arms wrapped around my waist and shoulder. I struggled, shifting my weight in a vain attempt to throw my assailant off.
“Azo’lah Myax, release the royal archaeologist!”
I wilted to the floor, abruptly released from the cage of Azo’lah’s arms. I tipped backwards and stared up at the palace’s gray ceiling. The padding of the mats was blissfully cool against my sweat-soaked back. “Thank you,” I gasped, my limbs sprawling out, “I don’t think I would’ve survived much longer.”
Azo’lah straightened her tunic. “Do not be melodramatic, Myaxi.”
I frowned at her sweatless brow. Weeks of training with her and I still wasn’t much of a challenge for her. “I told you I wanted to learn basic self defense,” I said. “I feel like you skipped to the middle of the advanced Myax handbook instead.”
“That is because she did,” my rescuer answered. The inverted face of a Destyrian woman appeared above me. Her glittering, steel-gray hair was done up in an intricate bun. Her similarly colored eyes glistened with kindness. “Greetings, I am Milyna Myax,” she said, rounding the mat until her face was right side up. She extended her hand to me. “I will be taking over your training. On orders from Myax Jolail,” Milyna added, when Azo’lah’s jaw tightened, ready to protest.
I accepted Milyna’s hand and glared at Azo’lah, who was refusing to look at me—a much too common occurrence as of late. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake.” Milyna easily hauled me to my weary feet. “I just wanted to learn some basic skills to help me out in a lurch. I’m not becoming a Myax or something.”
“You have not given it enough thought,” Azo’lah said staunchly.
My shoulders sagged as I groaned. Ever since we returned from J’olpri two weeks ago, Azo’lah had been harping at us to hone our combat training. Or, as far as Chester and I were concerned, getting it to begin with. Azo’lah seemed dead set on inducting me into the Myax order, even though I was dead set on doing no such thing.
“Azo’lah,” Milyna’s voice was soft, but unmistakably admonishing. It seemed like she was upset with Azo’lah, and not my rejection of their order. “Sister, you said that Gretchen Myaxi wanted to begin Myax training. Clearly, she does not.”
Azo’lah crossed her arms. “It is her birthright.”
I bit down the now well-worn retort, Yes, if I was born on Destyr. The circular nature of this ongoing argument was becoming dizzying.
“As is her will to choose,” Milyna countered. “I think it is time you see your Soul Healer and address your last mission. This is unlike you.”
Azo’lah finally turned her attention toward her fellow Myax. Milyna was very short for a Destyrian woman, only a couple inches taller than Chester. It was therefore amusing to see her break Azo’lah’s broody demeanor with nothing but patience and a knowing stare.
“I already have an appointment this evening,” Azo’lah capitulated.
“Good.” Mylina squeezed Azo’lah’s elbow companionably before turning to me. “I will take over your instruction tomorrow. I often teach the introductory classes to new Myax. I am also experienced in fighting taller and stronger opponents, which will be of great use to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. She clapped Azo’lah on the shoulder, before exiting the room, the Myax oath glittering on the exposed lavender skin of her back.
The door rematerialized, and with it, the tension Milyna had so expertly dispelled. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, unsure what to say that would get us past this impasse. God, did Azo’lah think I hated the Myax?
Instead of broaching that delicate topic, I blurted the first question that came to mind. “What’s a Soul Healer?”
“You have them on Earth.” Azo’lah uncrossed her arms, clearly thrown. “In the films, the Fulyiti always insists on watching, they are the ones who say, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ Except, they rarely say that here.”
A startled laugh escaped me. “Oh, that’s what you call therapists?” Azo’lah nodded. I braved meeting her gaze. “They don’t actually say that much on Earth, either.”
Azo’lah smiled, a small soft thing. The knot in my stomach unclenched, if only slightly, at the sight.
“Foosball, Chester. They’ve been arguing again.”
I screamed. I’d been so in my head I hadn’t noticed the door dematerializing. I was shoved behind Azo’lah, her lethal zali’thir held in front of us.
“Whoa,” Chester stopped short, his arms held up in surrender. “It’s just us.”
Chester was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. Glasses askew and beanie-less, he looked like Fleetwood had just finished putting him through his own paces down the hall. However, Fleetwood appeared to be a much less intense teacher than Azo’lah since Chester was nowhere near as sweat-drenched as I was.
Utterly unconcerned by Azo’lah’s harsh reaction, Fleetwood sidestepped the weapon and stood on her tiptoes to press her forehead to her cousin’s. As she bent to me, bringing our foreheads together, I noticed how uncharacteristically morose she looked.
“What’s wrong, Fleetwood?” I asked. “Is everything alright? Where’s Matt?”
“He decided to continue training, and, no, everything is grody,” Fleetwood intoned somberly. “Life has inexplicably gone down the latrine.” I purposefully didn't look at Chester for fear of laughing. “First, we lost Captain Thorley—”
“Stop making it sound like they died,” Chester griped. I repressed a shiver. That was too close to what had happened. “They just had to go back to Earth until they’ve finished school.”
“They are lost to us,” Fleetwood twirled, waif-like, around us, arms spread. “Our crew is captainless, my security has squeezed!” She shot Azo’lah a reproachful look as her long fingers clutched dramatically at her tunic. “And on top of it all, we are being ejaculated on a diplomatic mission.”
“I thought you liked diplomatic missions.” I gently took her wrists, prying them away from her shirt. Fleetwood draped herself over me. I pushed weakly at her shoulders. “Don’t. I’m all sweaty.”
“Bunned hair, do not care,” Fleetwood murmured against my head. “We sweat too. It’s not my diplomatic mission, it’s a tranquilizing mission from Mother.”
Understanding dawned. Fleetwood’s definition of a ‘diplomatic mission’ was usually an adrenaline-packed adventure under the pretense of helping Destyr or another planet. Her mother, Auhtula Ty’uria’s, were actual diplomatic functions where Fleetwood was expected to behave.
Chester snorted. “Fleetwood is being sent to represent her family at the wedding of the First Fulyiti of the Eastern continent.”
“Well, weddings are typically fun on Earth. Um...aren’t they fun here?” I awkwardly patted Fleetwood’s head.
“Not if you’re a Fulyiti,” Fleetwood whined. “At least you will cut carpeting with me.”
“No freaking way.” Having learned to translate Fleetwood’s odd self-taught brand of English, I figured she meant ‘cut a rug,’ meaning that I would dance with her, which meant—
“Oh, yeah,” Chester adjusted his glasses. “We’re all getting dragged to this thing. Especially you, Gretch.” I went cross-eyed as Chester booped my nose. “You’ve been specifically requested.”
“Absolutely not,” Azo’lah barked, hauling Fleetwood off me. “Why is the Auhtula not sending the First Fulyiti?”
“She’s off-planet,” Fleetwood said in an airy, authoritative imitation of her mother, “at a symposium on Skyria about intergalactic resource management blah blah blah.” Fleetwood rolled her eyes as though bored, but the tension in her brow spoke of her true feelings. “But really, it’s because Mother can’t risk the heir. The Eastern continent has been quite vocal about their ties to Pola, and tensions are the highest they’ve ever been. So, in case Pola attacks, the Auhtula must expend the expendable.”
My jaw dropped. I liked Auhtula Ty’uria. She had been a kind and just ruler throughout my time on Destyr, but this was—
“That’s fucked up,” I said.
“Preach,” Chester concurred darkly.
Fleetwood shrugged. “Say la bees when you’re me.” She grasped Azo’lah’s forearms, her eyes glittering with mischief. Clearly, this wedding would not be as much of a bore as Fleetwood’s theatrics would have us believe. “Azo-zo, choose three other Myax to accompany us. I already asked Milyna in the hallway. And now,” she released her cousin and waved her hand through the air with a regal flourish, “we must go get Gret’chen and my Favored fitted for their fancy duds. Toodle doodle do!”
Fleetwood shepherded Chester and me toward the door. We didn’t make it far before Fleetwood was caught bodily by Azo’lah.
“A regular complement of Myax for any visiting royal is eight. Why are we taking less than any other of your station will have?” Azo’lah demanded, her eyebrows constricting into an angry line. “What are you planning?”
“Moi, plans?” Fleetwood fluttered her eyelashes, “I am but a concentric—”
“Eccentric,” Chester interjected.
“—royal, fascinated by humans and their strange planet. I couldn’t even be sent with adequate protection, so clearly, my mother cares little for me and won’t give a squadoosh should something happen to me. I am of no threat, nor consequence, so I will be mostly left alone. At which time, I will be able to befriend the other youngest royal there who might also be bored, ignored, and lonely.”
I watched as comprehension dawned on Azo’lah’s face. At least one of us understood. “You’re going to try and convince Auhtul Cal’ton of the Northern continent to align himself with us against Pola,” Azo’lah breathed.
Fleetwood winked and shot finger guns at Azo’lah. “Wham, bam, hit that ham!”
“I’m not sure if I like this,” Azo’lah admitted as she released Fleetwood.
Fleetwood flapped her hand dismissively. “You haven’t liked anything since J’olpri, which is as they say ass-matic.” I was pretty sure Fleetwood meant problematic but said nothing as she wrapped her arms around Azo’lah. “You go sort out all your heart bakes, and we’ll see you for dinner.”
“You should let your humans bathe before you take them to the poor tailor. They smell foul,” Azo’lah smirked as Fleetwood hauled us to the door.
“Not as foul as your face,” Fleetwood shot back merrily.
“Is no one going to tell me who requested me at this wedding?” I groused as the door rematerialized, blocking Azo’lah from sight.
My fingers drummed frenetically against my desktop. I hung my head back and groaned my frustration to the ceiling. My voice echoed across our cavernous warehouse/office, washing over the shelves that housed the artifacts ferried from Vas Roya to study. Our departure for the Eastern continent loomed ever closer. I was happy to assist Auhtula Ty’uria in any way I could, especially in archaeological emergencies, but attending the wedding of a political rival? Just the thought had me trapped in my own personal Bermuda Triangle of anxiety. Certainly, attending a major festivity would be a fascinating Destyrian cultural experience, but being surrounded by so many strangers—important, powerful strangers—
“Why me?” I moaned, drawing out the last syllable petulantly.
“Is everything well, Gretchen Myaxi?”
I almost fell out of my chair, clutching my chest where my heart somersaulted in shock. What the hell was up with Destyrians and sneaking up on me lately?
“Jesus,” I wheezed, turning toward where my assistant was bringing in the new shipment of crates from Vas Roya.
Sav’asa peeked around the side of the crates, her eyes wide and contrite. “Apologies for scaring you. I only wished to enquire after your state of being after hearing such noises of despair.”
“Noises of...” I trailed off. Right. The super mature whining I had indulged in seconds earlier. “That’s nothing,” I assured her. “Just nerves about attending the wedding on the Eastern continent.”
Sav’asa stepped out from the crates, tugging at the end of her dark ponytail. “It should be a lovely affair. Are weddings on Earth not joyous events?”
“Depends on who you ask,” I replied.
The door dematerialized, admitting Fleetwood. She was outfitted in a bedazzled AC/DC shirt and floor-length tulle skirt. Sebastian came in after her, batting at the end of her train.
“The time has come!” Fleetwood gestured theatrically as the door rematerialized at her back.
“The time has come for what?” I was befuddled not only by her words but by her presence. Fleetwood rarely came down to my office. Apparently, quotidien archaeology wasn’t as exhilarating as Earth pop-culture had led her to believe.
“Time for your final fitting!” Fleetwood insisted as Sebastian leaped onto my desk.
“No. No more fittings,” I argued. “Not only because I’ve had three fittings in as many days but because I have work to do!” I gestured to where Sebastian was daintily stepping across where my Ran’dyl and notebook laid. Purring, he batted at my propped-up tablet until it slid flat. Then, he curled up on it.
“Bash, no,” I cried, cringing but unable to force myself to move him. He was truly the cutest obstruction to productivity in the universe.
“If you have important business with the Fulyiti, I am happy to finish up here on my own,” Sav’asa inserted quietly.
“Thank you, Sav’asa,” Fleetwood cheered, grabbing my elbow.
I wrenched my arm from her grip. “No, Sav’asa is not finishing up by herself again. She already has to handle everything alone while we’re gone.”
“But we are running posteriorly to the schedule,” Fleetwood pouted. “We leave tomorrow, and your ensemble must fit perfectly.”
“It already does!” I said. “The tailor did an exceptional job. Maybe you can give the poor man the afternoon off after all of the work he’s done this week?” Fleetwood’s eyes narrowed as she bit her lip, her restless fingers fussed with the top layer of her skirt. “You’re bored with this mission already, aren’t you?” I surmised.
“Yes!” Fleetwood wrapped her arms around my waist and swung me about. “All of this waiting is humdrum.”
“But what about—” I cut myself off, my gaze going to where Sav’asa was once again invested in cataloging. I lowered my voice as I continued. “What about speaking with the Auhtul and forming an alliance right under the nose of Pola and the Eastern Auhtula? That should be exciting, right?”
Fleetwood sighed, dropping into my office chair like a swooning maiden. “I suppose…but that is days from now, and today Azo’lah is training, Chester is in his lab, Matt is getting his flight certification to fly Mother’s ship, and you are working.”
I wasn’t sure which was more catastrophic: Fleetwood on an adventure or Fleetwood bored, trying to find an adventure. I squeezed her shoulder and said, “Well, you and Sebastian can stay down here with Sav’asa and me while we work. As long as you promise not to be too much of a distraction.”
Fleetwood hopped from the seat jubilantly, shouting, “I can help!”
“Uh, sure? Okay,” I agreed, unsure if I had made the right choice unleashing Fleetwood’s patented enthusiasm upon a room full of priceless antiquities. “Why don’t you help Sav’asa with logging our most recent arrivals?” I directed her toward the stack of crates.
Fleetwood pulled herself up to her fullest height, stamped her feet together, and cleanly saluted me. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“Go on, soldier,” I said, retaking my seat. I slid the seat back beneath the desk—a difficult feat considering Destyrians had yet to invent chairs on wheels—apologized to Bash as I scooped him from the tablet, kissed the top of his head, and set him in my lap.
As I settled back in to complete my star-cycle report on our findings for the Auhtula’s councillors, there was a shout of, “Fulyiti, no!” at my back.
I winced in anticipation of an almighty crash that never occurred.
I turned to find Fleetwood propping up the entire stack of crates with her body as Sav’asa quickly returned stability to the pile. “Maybe you should be in charge of the log, Fulyiti?” Sav’asa suggested, holding out her tablet to Fleetwood.
Fleetwood accepted it graciously, her fingers hastily dancing across the screen. “Oh! Do you wish to see the latest cat compilation video Chester found for me?”
“No cat videos!” I ordered. If we started watching cat videos now, no more work would be done.
“What about an unfortunate incident compilation?” Fleetwood suggested. I slammed my forehead against my desk. “There is one involving a rocket-launcher and semi-truck that Chester loves—”
“Are there depictions of human weddings?” Sav’asa asked meekly.
“Of course!” Fleetwood crowed excitedly. “There are films! As well as recordings of actual festivities from all around Earth!”
“Fleetwood, stop distracting Sav’asa,” I instructed.
“It is not the Fulyiti’s fault,” Sav’asa said, twirling the end of her ponytail around one long finger. “I asked to see them!”
“Who wouldn’t?” Fleetwood patted Sav’asa’s shoulder. “Human courtship rituals are fascinating, and they vary from Earth continent to Earth continent.”
“Of course, it varies from continent to continent,” I interrupted. Once I had truly processed Fleetwood’s statement, I said, “Wait, are Destyrian courtship rituals the same across the whole planet?”
Fleetwood tilted her head. “There are small differences, but there are certain behaviors whose meaning are understood by all Destyrians.”
My curiosity piqued, I asked, “Such as?”
“The baring of the neck as a sign of interest,” Fleetwood extended her own throat in an elegant arc. “Though it is not an express invitation to board the train to funky town, it is—”
“Flirting,” I inserted, equal parts embarrassed and intrigued by this abrupt lesson in Destyrian culture. “How else do Destyrians flirt?”
“I should take these to the lab for Chester, her Favored, to assess!” Sav’asa announced, overly-loud. She hunched over the crate of orbs cradled close to her chest, her ears practically tucked into her shoulders like a turtle retracting into its shell. “I will see you upon your return from the festivities, Gretchen Myaxi.” Sav’asa stooped over to grab her bag as she hustled toward the exit. “May the seven stars light your path, Fulyiti.”
“Bye!” I called to Sav’asa’s retreating back. I hated how I always did something to make her uncomfortable enough to rush off. I hoped I would soon understand daily Destyrian interactions enough that I would stop scaring her so often. “I wish I didn’t make her so uneasy.”
Fleetwood stared at me for a long moment, then slung her hand over her head, making a whooshing noise.
“What’s going over my head?” I asked as she grabbed the rarely used chair tucked beneath Sav’asa’s desk and joined me at mine.
Fleetwood slid elegantly down into the seat. “Destyrian flirting, dearest Gret’chen.”
“Okay, yeah,” I agreed. I sometimes got whiplash from Fleetwood’s ever-changing conversational topics. “What are the other gestures?”
“Should you wish to engage in actual courtship, you bare your neck and extend your right hand. If the other party is interested, they will bare their neck and take your hand. If not, you’re shit out of ducks. If you only wish for a singular trip to funky town, then you bare your neck and place your right hand on your collarbone.”
“Really? Why the collarbone?”
“To accept your offer, your partner must take that hand, thereby brushing your collarbone in the process.” Fleetwood demonstrated using her own hands. “The caress of the clavicle is the most intimate of touches and is strictly reserved for lovers. It is not crude and can be done in front of others, but only those in a coupling do it.”
“So clavicle touching isn’t flirting?” I asked, fascinated. Destyrians were such a tactile species. Touches intimate in Western culture—such as long embraces and hand-holding—were familial and platonic here. It was interesting that something so innocuous as the touching of a collarbone—something that could so easily happen accidentally—was an intimate act.
“No, it is a declaration. Our courting is not so confusing as Earth’s,” Fleetwood shrugged. “Desytrians do not like to play games. We do not have the patience to deal with the hijinks that occur in Earth’s romantic comedies.”
I laughed. “No one does. Rom-coms aren’t serious depictions of romance. They’re just...exaggerations.”
“Exaggerations? Then, human women are not deliberately ignorant of the terrible behavior exhibited by their male counterparts?”
I froze in my seat. “Um, I mean, not all—”
“And human men are not purposely emotionally distant because they have not dealt with previous trauma usually related to their mothers and their early indoctrination into misogyny?”
“Uhmm…”
“When I spoke with Captain Thorley about it, they said I shouldn’t judge all humans too harshly because of romantic comedies and their heteronormative nonsense but still,” Fleetwood sighed. “When courting, humans say one thing and mean another. Destyrians do not. We say what we mean and do not try again after being rejected.”
“Well, that must make things easier,” I conceded as Sebastian left my lap for hers.
“It does,” Fleetwood agreed, lifting Sebastian to rub her nose against his.
“So, at the wedding, if someone were interested in you, is there anything special they would say? In addition to the neck thing?” I asked. I had many embarrassing stories from my limited dating experiences. I was awkward to begin with, and with my social anxiety thrown into the mix, I had struggled. With things so clear-cut, maybe dating on Destyr was something I could attempt.
Fleetwood hummed as she cuddled Sebastian close. “No, but they would match their words to the gesture they issued,” Fleetwood smirked. Heat flooded my cheeks. “Why, Gret’chen, my Gret’chen,” she teased, “are you looking for a carnal connection at the wedding?”
“Fleetwood! I am asking merely out of professional, archaeological curiosity!”
I prayed that she didn’t call me out on my poorly constructed lie.
She reached out and cradled my cheek in her warm palm. “Your crimson crush says otherwise.”
“I’m not—”
Fleetwood pressed our foreheads together companionably. “Liar, liar, pantaloons on fire.”
“Fleetwood,” I pleaded.
“I am only joshing,” she promised as she pulled back. “Though, if you are looking for someone to practice your flirting techniques with as they do in all of the teenage dramas, I will happily volunteer!”
I pushed out from my desk, abruptly needing an excuse, any excuse, to distract Fleetwood. I unplugged my Ran’dyl from my tablet and returned it to my wrist. “Do you think the tailor is still available for my fitting? Come on,” I grabbed my bag and gestured to the exit.
Fleetwood stood, a purring Sebastian curled up against her chest. Her smile was all too knowing. “Do not think you can divert my attention with—”
“I wonder if there’s anywhere in Thal that I can find appropriate wedding footwear with glitter,” I mused aloud.
Fleetwood rushed forward and grabbed my hand. “I have glitter dancing shoes!” She tugged me gleefully from my office, chattering animatedly about varying pairs of glitter high heels in her wardrobe.
I shuddered at the thought of the sky-high heels Fleetwood was bound to offer me, but then I remembered the conversation I had just successfully ended and decided it was a small price to pay.
“The couple has completed their trial successfully!” shouted a voice near my elbow. I tripped backward into our Myax guards as Matt yanked me sideways, allowing the young Destyrian girl to race past, trailing a rippling, glowing ribbon.
The gathered crowd picked up the girl’s cry, and toasts were raised. In the distance, I saw another child dart off to relay the message further down the winding streets of Virat, the Eastern continent’s capital.
We had landed in the early evening and, after settling into our assigned suite in the palace, we’d decided to check out the festivities.
“This is wild,” I murmured. I had never seen an entire city turn out for an event like this. Tents, woven with depictions of the soon-to-be-wed couple, dotted the streets. The doors to every shop, restaurant, and bar were open. Music punctuated the excited chatter as Destyrian’s of all ages tangled together in lively traditional dances beneath pennants embroidered with ancient marital blessings.
“It’s not quite B’iwav,” Chester observed, referencing the annual festival of the First Auhtula and her Myax. He looked over his shoulder, grinning at me. “But no one can say the Destyrians don’t know how to party.”
Beside me, Milyna chuckled. “Now that the couple has successfully completed the trials and the wedding is officially moving forward, the festivities will too. This is only the beginning.”
“What are the trials?” I asked, accepting a bite of Matt’s jli’nah, a sweet, cloud-like confection that was traditional to Destyrian weddings.
“Before couples can be married, they have to complete a series of tests meant to verify their compatibility and mimic the rigors of life in a partnership,” Azo’lah explained from the other side of Fleetwood, without taking her eyes off the crowd. Our silent Myax shadows mirrored Azo’lah’s every move. “In the past, if they failed, the wedding could not proceed.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Couples can elect to enter into a short contract, usually 26 binary cycles,” Milyna said, “at the end, they can choose to renew their bond or dissolve it. Royals have to go through the trials, but others do so to keep traditions alive.”
“Or because you can’t resist a challenge,” Azo’lah interjected. Milyna laughed good-naturedly.
“Azo’lah was one of the trial witnesses at Milyna’s wedding,” Fleetwood said around a mouthful of jli’nah.
“Yeah, but what exactly do you have to do in the trials—” Chester ended in a wheeze as Fleetwood smacked the back of her hand into his stomach. “Damn, FleetMerc.”
“Sorry, my love, but avast your bespectacled eyes! They have zlatah!” she pointed to a tented stall at the corner of the square we were approaching. It sported enormous cranberry-colored barrels. Two cheerful Destyrian men in traditional dress were pouring a deliciously scented something from the barrel’s taps into etched, pint-size glasses.
“Oh, shit,” Chester said in the way he did when Fleetwood was suggesting something that was probably imprudent but undeniably fun.
“Is that wise, Fulyiti?” Azo’lah eyed the happy but tipsy Destyrians sprawled on the large patch of purple grass behind the tent.
“You never remember the nights you were wise, Azo’lah Myax,” Fleetwood intoned, moving to take a place in line while typing away on her Ran’dyl.
As we waited, our party drew more than a few curious stares, most likely because humans were rare on Destyr. Or, it could be because of Fleetwood. While she had deigned to wear a long tunic and pants of traditional Destyrian cut, both were embroidered with enough multicolored gems to out-sparkle a figure skater.
“Who are you messaging?” Chester asked Fleetwood as we reached the counter.
“Your mom,” Fleetwood said breezily, tapping her Ran’dyl against the smiling vendor’s to submit payment. Matt distributed our glasses, excluding the Myax, who couldn’t drink on duty.
“No, for real. Who?” Chester demanded.
“FLEETWOOD MERCURY, FRENEMY PRINCESS OF MY HEART!”
I turned, almost spitting my drink on Milyna’s back as all of our Myax formed an immediate wall around us. There was no way…
“Frenemy Tyler,” Fleetwood called, bobbing on her tiptoes to see over Azo’lah’s shoulder, “you found us! Oh, quit being a ninny and stand down,” Fleetwood ordered, whacking Azo’lah’s back impatiently with her now empty jli’nah cone.
“Do you know them?” Milyna sounded amused.
“Unfortunately,” Azo’lah sighed, gesturing for the Myax to stand down. As soon as they shifted, all six feet of flower-draped Tyler Bautista went barrelling into Fleetwood’s extended arms. Fleetwood’s glass was saved from devastation only by Chester’s quick hands. Tyler rocked Fleetwood side to side, both of them humming off-key, their reunion more like long-lost friends than former rivals.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Tyler sighed into Fleetwood’s neck. “Max, look!”
“Oh, I’m lookin’,” Maximilian Danger Shockley said from behind Tyler. It was ridiculously unfair that he could look so handsome in nothing but dark jeans and a t-shirt. The effect of both was lessened somewhat by the celebratory sash he had draped across his torso and the large, star-shaped flower that was tucked behind one ear.
Shockley was indeed looking, right at me. I glanced down to see if I had spilled any zlatah on my dark blue button-up. Finding myself stain-free, I glanced back up to find Shockley grinning. It was wide and carefree, not the lopsided curated thing he usually issued. “Hey, Borowicz,” he said, drawing out the final sound into a snakelike hiss as he approached me. He leaned down next to my ear and whispered, “I was hoping you would be here Name Police.”
His breath smelled of the fruity zlatah. “How drunk are you?” I tilted back far enough to meet his glassy gaze.
“Pleasantly so,” he said, reaching for my cup. “Why?” he whined when a purple hand smacked him away.
“Absolutely not,” Azo’lah said stiffly. Shockley rolled his eyes.
“Urgh, I didn’t mean…” He trailed off, seeming to reconsider his words, “Well, only temporarily. Fine,” he sighed, scowling up at Azo’lah. “Tyler, I’m getting another round. You in?”
“Hell to the fuck yeah, bro!” Tyler wrapped his arms around Chester and Fleetwood. “We’ll find one of these tiny tables and listen to these sick harp things.”
“Save me a seat, babe.” Shockley pressed a kiss to my cheek before heading toward the back of the short drink line. I blinked and scrubbed at the spot on my cheek his lips had touched. Since when was I anyone’s babe?
It didn’t take long for us to secure one of the squat tables on the lawn. We piled onto the woven mat spread out beneath it while the Myax remained standing guard. Azo’lah joined us, but only after Fleetwood pointed out that she was technically in attendance as a guest and, if anyone was watching, she couldn’t appear to be on duty. I thought this sounded like a bit of a stretch but didn’t say anything.
Shockley returned, smugly bearing a full cup and a large pitcher, which he placed in the center of the table before squeezing in next to me. “Awww, you do care,” he teased, his thigh pressing up against mine. He put his free hand behind him—well, behind me— and leaned back on it. Over the rim of my glass, I met Azo’lah’s inscrutable eyes. She turned away sharply, fixing her eyes on Fleetwood. Next to me, Shockley snorted.
I turned to look at him, finding Azo’lah’s behavior more concerning than amusing. I must have done something to piss her off, but what?
Shockley’s face was scant inches away from mine. God, no one had a right to be this good-looking. “It’s not you,” he murmured conspiratorially, a gleeful grin still tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s me. She doesn’t like me. Especially here.” He nudged my arm with his.
“I mean, we weren’t expecting you,” I tried, still feeling like I was missing something. “Well, except Fleetwood...who texts Tyler way more than any of us thought?”
“All the time,” Shockley answered. “It’s weird. But kind of adorable. Like you.” Shockley’s gaze went soft. Being the sole focus of it made me uncomfortable and warm in a very pleasurable way.
I cleared my throat. “She should probably stop that. We’re sort of rivals.”
“Just for one mission,” Shockley said. “Now we’re friends.”
I choked a little. Friends seemed much too strong a word for what we were. “Until we end up after the same artifact again.”
Shockley hummed noncommittally, hooking his chin over my shoulder. “Well, for this week we’re friends,” his voice dropped lower, “we could even be more. If you want.”
Was he...hitting on me? That was impossible.
“Is not,” Shockley pouted. I simultaneously realized two things. First, that I had said that out loud, and second, that the entire table was silently staring at us.
“Did you just threaten her?” Azo’lah growled.
“What? NO!” Shockley threw up his hands in universal surrender as two Myax whirled on him.
“Easy,” Fleetwood barked. “It’s a mistranslation of a human idiom,” she explained, her voice sounded oddly filtered and suddenly, vaguely British, and I realized she must be speaking in Destyrian for the benefit of the Myax. “Shockley is only attempting to ask Gretchen to have casual sex with him.”
I dropped my burning face into my palms as my so-called friends, Azo’lah excluded, howled with laughter. I snatched up my glass and chugged the rest of my drink, far too sober and far too mortified to deal with people.
“Aww, Gretch,” Chester cooed, reaching across the table to pat my head soothingly while Fleetwood refilled my cup, “don’t be embarrassed. Shockley should be if his attempt was so bad you were that confused.”
“Now, dude-friends,” Tyler said, banging his cup on the table like a gavel, “you cannot blame Max for shooting his shot. This is a very attractive table. I would happily sleep with anyone here, except Matt.”
“Why?” Fleetwood and Chester asked in the eerie unison they sometimes had.
Chester held two hands out on either side of Matt’s face. “Just look—”
“At this gorgeous mug,” Fleetwood finished, both Chester’s thought and his vogue-like framing of Matt’s face.
Tyler shook his head in the overly emphatic way of the inebriated, his neon green snapback slipping from his forehead. “Matt is hella hot,” Tyler said matter-of-factly as Matt’s ears tinged pink with embarrassment. “But I tried once, and he said no, and I respect that.” Chester awarded that statement with applause, but Tyler’s face fell. “I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m too dumb for him.”
“You’re not dumb, frenemy Tyler!” Fleetwood protested, climbing over Chester and Matt to wrap him up in her embrace.
“I’m too dumb for smart former fighter pilots with cool accents. Beams of light sleep with me. Why not Matt,” Tyler sighed. I desperately wanted to unpack that statement, but Tyler sounded terribly like he was getting choked up.
“Hey, man,” Matt said gently. “I don’t much want to sleep with anybody, it’s not you. I’m demisexual.”
Matt was suddenly engulfed in a pile of Tyler and Fleetwood, who had yet to let go of the former. “And we’d just met. Rad,” Tyler proclaimed into Matt’s hair. “Explain no further, friend. Max, bro, remind me to apologize when I’m sober.” Tyler slapped his palms on the table. “We need more drinks. For friendship.”
“We’re out, though.” Chester shook the empty pitcher demonstratively.
“There are ninety-nine bottles of alcohol on the street,” Fleetwood cried, throwing her hands up. “Let our cups runneth over!”
“And our dance moves be sick!” Tyler got to his feet before holding out a hand to assist Fleetwood. “Also, we gotta get you guys some of these dope flowers!” I stood as the merry band picked their way across the lawn, surrounded by four of the Myax. I pointedly did not look at Shockley, unsure what to do.
“Gretchen,” Azo’lah nodded her head toward the others. Right, she would want to stick with Fleetwood. I took a step forward, but Shockley grabbed my hand.
“Hey,” he said, turning his fingers so that my hand was engulfed by his. Had his hands always been this large? “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. But I was serious. If you’re interested, I definitely am.” I ignored the way his other palm came to rest against my hip, warm even through the fabric of my shirt.
“Uh,” I said, painfully aware of Azo’lah’s presence. “Not tonight. You’re drunk, and your judgment could be impaired, and consent...consent is good. Yeah,” I finished lamely.
“So, if I ask you when I’m sober,” Shockley tilted his head slightly. I thought he might kiss me anyway.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, my throat dry as the sands of Vas Roya.
“Mmm,” Shockley said. He tugged me back onto the stone street, not once releasing my hand. Azo’lah followed. He looked down at me, grinning. “I’ll see that you do, Borowicz, I’ll see that you do.”