Page 87 of Fatality on the Field

The decision was a five-to-one vote, and even Kaspar took their side. His agreement was the end of the argument, because if the dragon wasn’t on my side, then I wasn’t ever going to win. I told them all it was far too close to the event to get anything selected or tailored, but Liam immediately jumped in with a solution that was quick and would prevent anyone from planting something dangerous in the outfit. It made everyone but me happy, so I gave in—sue me.

The ticking grows louder as my patience thins. Channing gets off another call and looks up at me with a tiny knowing smirk. “They’re only fourteen minutes late,” she observes. “Maybe the portal had issues. Maybe there was traffic. Don’t let it get to you, M.”

“Maybe I got lucky and Kaspar fried her for her impertinence. Or, in all fairness, they could be caught at the gates trying to get onto campus, I suppose.” I hop off the desk and stalk to the window. “Did you see the line this morning? I bet it went all the way to the highway overpass. If I wanted to stand in line everywhere I went, I would have begged the Society for prison rather than this shit.”

“Their prison probably doesn’t get dental,” Channing says as she chuckles. “Besides, you didn’t have an ounce of say in your punishment; everyone knows that.”

She isn’t wrong about that—I would have preferred death to living in Magnus’s shadow back then. Huffing, I scan the foot traffic below, watching the swirl of students and media already pooling around the quad. It looks like an invasion, and that’s another thing gargoyles are very fond of. From here, I spot what looks like half the campus police force in their bright yellow jackets, trying to look helpful while not being trampled. The motion out there is a distraction, but the real spectacle is going to be in here any minute.

I check the clock again to see it’s now seventeen minutes past the hour. My left eye twitches as I frown and head back to my desk for coffee. Taking a sip, I close my eyes and try to calm my frazzled nerves.

Channing fills the silence. “What are your guys up to today? Other than the grumpy dragon providing an escort to the designer, I mean.”

This is her trying to cut the tension by making me talk about my home life instead of waiting for the fashion apocalypse to land. It won’t work, but I will give her the update anyway. “Li’s giving the Fae delegations a tour of the city. He hates it, but he’s pretending otherwise because politics at home dictate he comply. Iggy went to the hospital to check on the kids and then he’s off to the greenhouse with Slade—they’re checking in with Kimmi. Lucas is at the rink, hiding from the Bowl fan traffic. He said yesterday if he didn’t get some practice on the ice today, he’d go full bear in the house.”

Channing tilts her head. “Why would he need to hide? He’s not a football player.”

“According to him,” I say, “when there’s a big sports event like this, well-known athletes from every sport get bombarded by the media and fans. Lucas says it doesn’t matter if you’re a gymnast, a diver, or a fucking shot putter—if you’re good-looking and at the top of the field, you get stalked for B-roll interviews and press shit. The coaches apparently warned all the famous athletes about minding their safety and their brands, not in that order.”

Channing’s lips twitch. “He’s such a strange rich kid. I would have expected him to soak that kind of stuff up like a sponge, not hide from it.”

I grin to myself, nodding at her. “You’d expect him to be a douche in that way, but he’s not. I assumed it when I first met him at the rink, too. However, he’s more than proven otherwise over the past few months. You would have enjoyed how insightful he was in Hell, I think. It really underlined how different he is than that stereotype. They all are, once you get to know them.”

She grins. “Maybe it’s why you like all of them—you picked men who are so deeply rebellious against the fold that their rich-boy traits have been suppressed enough to be tolerable.”

I lift my hands in a helpless gesture. “Having that knowledge is better than having to stab myself in the eyes every time they do something out of touch. They’re still idiots at times, but at least they’re my idiots and I know their hearts are in the right place.”

Channing’s voice softens. “I get that. Sometimes I want to strangle Jax, but then I watch him nurse Eli through a hangover, and I remember why I like him. The others are more grounded because of their backgrounds, of course, so they help balance that, too.”

I realize I’ve been pacing while I listened, a neat track worn in the carpet between the window and the desk. Once I catch myself, I sit on the edge of the desk again. “What do you think happens after this thing is over? I keep wondering if we finish the Bowl and things go back to normal or…”

My friend considers it and shakes her head. “I don’t think so, M. Whatever this is, it’s not stopping with the things we’ve seen so far. In fact, that opinion is shared so fervently that Thorne Enterprises is already building a new HQ so his team can stay close. They believe that some of the activity from the bad guys is epicentered in specific places important to the Society. That includes this area, obviously.”

I sigh deeply. “I was afraid of that. Hearing weird stuff is going on not far south in that enclave, plus in Hell, plus in Bay City made me consider that. There’s a Guardian training facility in Bay City, you know.”

“If you’re hoping for quiet, it’s not coming,” Channing murmurs. “Nor is peace, I don’t think.”

Before I can respond, the door flies open. Not a knock and enter—no, this is a full-on, hinges-straining, dramatic entrance. Kaspar stands in the frame, not even pretending to look polite. His coat is dusted with snow, and his jaw is set so hard it’s probably about to crack a molar. As I arch a brow at him, he steps aside with the bored flourish of a man who’s already decided he hates what’s about to happen.

A Fae woman sweeps into my office looking like a mid-tier demigoddess of couture. She’s got hair in a spiral tower, half the strands silver and the rest a shifting palette of colors I don’t have names for. Her eyes are painted in concentric rings, giving the impression that she’s wearing ceremonial war paint and is ready to go for the jugular. It doesn’t have any snow, but her coat is made of at least three iridescent fabrics, layered over a wrap dress that would look ridiculous on anyone less confident. She has rings on every finger and she’s pulling a caravan of luggage including two trunks, three garment bags, and a hatbox that could easily fit a human head.

Standing in the center of the room, the woman pivots in a three-sixty, sizing up everything at a glance. “Morgana LeCiel,” she says in a voice like velvet with teeth. “We’re going to fix you. Oh, yes, we are.”

Kaspar grunts, which is the only signal anyone needs to know he’s finished here. He pivots on a heel and is gone before the door even closes.

I look at Channing, who has already gone back to her tablet with the pointed focus of a woman who knows this is not her problem.

The Fae artisan chick claps, and the motion sets her jewelry into a low jangle. “We need more space, darling,” she says and before I can stop it, her magic is rearranging my office to clear the floor.

Gathering all my minute amounts of patience that are left by today, I brace myself as the designer opens her trunk and starts unfurling an impossible sequence of garments.

I look at them in horror, feeling the last molecule of resistance in me die a silent, tragic death. The universe is going to keep doing this to me, I think, and I’m just going to have to survive it.

I inhale through my nose, let it out slowly, and watch as my office is converted into a tailor’s war room.

If I get through this, I’ll be ready for tomorrow—or at least, I’ll be dressed for it.

fifty-three