Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
*****
Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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The tablecloth was stiff and white as a professionally iced cake, perfectly moulded to the table. I ran my fingers along the rounded edges, feeling every microscopic bump in the weave of the cloth. Each one reverberated up my arm and all of a sudden I was a child again, dragging a stick across the slats of a picket fence.
Strange, to feel that small and silly, in one of the most sophisticated places I'd visited in my entire life. Even the signs on the toilet doors made me feel poor, the bloody symbols gilded and polished to a shine reserved strictly for jewelry stores.
My family never had this kind of money growing up. It was a three-sets-of-cutlery kind of insanity, the stage for a performance the rich invented for themselves, all to avoid the crushing discomfort of boredom. Intermittent floor lamps and chandeliers cast shadows that leant the illusion of privacy, while tear-drop crystals scattered chips of rainbow across the floor like breadcrumbs.
Conversation abounded, but the other tables were too far away for me to make out specific words and phrases. Each group was bound by the light of the candle on their table, and so they were reduced to vague impressions of colour and sound, the blurry backdrop of a painting of which I was the star.
I hefted the menu, a single sheet of thick card, sick of staring at the empty chair across from mine – however nice the velvet upholstery and painstakingly carved arms.
The first item simply read caviar. "I suppose that makes sense," I muttered, my brows drawing together as the rest of the text followed a similar theme. Lobster. Quail. Overpriced pasta you could probably make at home. And my personal favourite, over on the drinks menu: a fuck-off expensive bottle of wine.
"I'll grab one of those," I said, sensing the waiter looming over my shoulder. I didn't really know how I'd gotten here, but I could only assume it was the kind of place you visited when you could afford it.
"White or red?" he asked benignly.
Paper crinkled in my hands. Snow-whiteskin. Bloody crescents mapping a path from wrist to throat, still sticky to the touch...
"White," I croaked, rubbing that ghostly stickiness from my lips. "Whatever you recommend."
"One bottle of Passion-Pop is for Povvos coming up," the waiter said graciously, without missing a beat.
I blinked as he snatched the drinks menu from my hand. As somebody who could only afford passion pop for high school parties and had come to enjoy it in a nice punch bowl, I tried not to feel too offended.
A flash of gold caught my eye, but it belonged to something far rarer than all the ornamental fixtures in the fancy restaurant combined. My heart expanded in my chest as a sculpted man with a boyish affect pulled out the chair across from mine, grinning sheepishly as he took a seat.
"Sorry I'm late," Sail said, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "I got caught up saving the world."
I frowned as another fragment of memory sliced into my mind: a derelict cafe overrun by Lost soldiers. Nora's lips, blue as Sail's had been; her orange curls spilling down her neck and across the floor like blood. My fault, I thought, recalling how the team had begged me to stop her heart. The only thing I couldn't remember was why. "Did she —"
"She's fine," Sail said, sounding abnormally serious as he reached over the table to grab my hand. "They all are, I made sure of it."
I sagged with relief. "Thank you."
"Any time. You know, unless I'm busy. Or sleeping."
I rolled my eyes, resisting his attempt to distract me. "Should we go and check on them?"
"After dinner," Sail insisted, arching an eyebrow when the waiter pivoted around the table to pour two glasses of sparkling liquid. "That looks expensive."
"Apparently Passion Pop is for povvos," I said, smiling when he chuckled. I liked the way his face scrunched up when he laughed. "Only the best for you, my love."
"Only the best for you," he echoed, pressing a kiss against my knuckles.
How sweet dreams could be.
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Thank you for reading!
I hope you enjoyed the song; I wrote and recorded it myself, inspired by the events in this chapter. I make a lot of sad indie stuff (the New Moon album must have changed my brain chemistry back in the day), so if you're interested in checking it out the links are all in my bio!
