The Famoux

Chapter 9

emeray

Light from within pours out onto the concrete. Objects of exorbitant pomp come into vision--a glistening copper chandelier, a polished hardwood staircase, a sleek steel table harboring a glass vase full of lilies; mourning flowers. It's only the foyer, and I'm already taken aback by the industrial grandeur of the Metropolix. If my school was nice, and my house was expensive, then this is a whole different category of nice and expensive.

I hear chatter from the room to the left, and my breath catches. Them, it's them. In what must be the living room, I assume. It has an open entrance, no door; if I walk any further forward they'll see me.

"Took you long enough to get home, Nor," one calls out. I can't identify which member said it, since I've never heard them speak. Nevertheless, the voice is angelic.

"Sorry," Norax says. "I got a little preoccupied."

I stay close beside Norax, but I'm already on her left, and she's already walking us forward. My heart beats faster than it did in the Fissarex, and I find myself almost longing to be back in that agony. At least I was alone, then. For a faltering moment, I begin to feel as I do when I don't want Carstan to find me.

"Who've you got there?" A girl's voice. I can't bring myself to look over at them just yet--instead I keep my gaze glued to the floor.

But no matter how much I bore my eyes into the hardwood, there's this glow casting shadows all over my view, as if the members have some kind of spotlight on them. I don't think I'd be surprised if this were the case.

"It's probably some reporter." This is from a boy. His tone is terse, which sends a shock through my spine. "Trust Norax to want us to make statements about Bree already. It's barely been a week."

I swallow. If they're upset about some columnist visiting in such a short time frame since the tragedy, I fear what they'll say or do when they find out that I am--no matter how many times Norax claims I'm not--the replacement.

"No, no statements tonight," Norax says. She gives my shoulder another squeeze, and I swear I must be visibly quaking. "This is Emeray Essence."

"Emeray Essence? Are we supposed to know her?"

"You will soon. Em, dear, do say hello. They're not going to bite."

Are they?

I remind myself that I'm not just a fan meeting them now--I'm one of them. There's nothing to be afraid of. I am one of them. Wiping my sweaty hands on the bottom of my dress, I force myself to look up.

And they are unreal.

Chiseled, prodded, and perfected through the reformation machine, the five Famoux members before me cannot possibly be human. I try to say something, but the words lock in my throat. My mind tells me to smile, idiotically, and nothing else.

I now completely understand the term starstruck.

"Hello, Emeray." This comes from Calsifer Race, who sits on a couch alongside Kaytee McKarrington. His voice is deep, comforting--almost thermal. Exactly how I imagined it would be.

"Hi," I say. It's all I can manage. I find myself feeling a little giddy, because Calsifer Race has just said my name. I try and stiffen my posture, regain composure. I'm one of them. No need to be giddy. No need to be giddy.

The others give their greetings. I can barely hear them over the pounding in my head, the thunderous rush of my blood inside me. My mind can't wrap itself around the fact that I'm here, meeting the members of the Famoux--being a member of the Famoux. I'm sure I look like a child, so overwhelmed and reverential, but I can't even remember to care about any of that. I can't even remember what I'm wearing.