“Waters! Hey, Zephyr!” a salesman called out as Zephyr paused to wait for the traffic light.
This was it, the start of the future he’d been waiting for. He’d trained, and he’d readied himself, studying essays and treatises, paying attention to politics and laws of the Hidden Lands. All the while, he’d concealed those habits from all but his closest friends and become the person that best fit his role in the human world: spoiled, sardonic son of film legends.
Tonight he was going to see his friends, pretend to drink heavily, and flirt outrageously. He’d either leave with a girl whose name he didn’t bother to learn or he’d cuddle up to his best friend, Alkamy. He would, in essence, be the person that he was assigned to embody as his cover—and he’d enjoy it. That was the trick to the game: enjoying the lie you lived, finding the pleasure in it. Zephyr enjoyed a lot of it.
The bouncer at the front of the Row House didn’t even blink when Zephyr skipped the line. When school was in session, he was a fixture here. There were still a few regions where a drinking age was set, but the majority of the continent had eliminated that law well before Zephyr was born. That didn’t mean that he ingested poison, but he’d learned young how to pretend. It was a part of the role he lived, part of how he hid his true genetics. The fae-blood, those with any portion of fae ancestry, couldn’t drink alcohol without being weakened by it. Zephyr had never consumed more than the one glass of it he’d been ordered to drink to get a sense of the way it hurt. That was enough.
He couldn’t understand why Creed drank—or how he endured it.
Shaking away thoughts that would lead to a fight once he saw Creed, Zephyr paused so a cute girl could snap a picture of him. It wouldn’t be useful to go to the club without being seen doing it. The headmistress at St. Columba’s didn’t comment on the plethora of photos that cropped up online or in magazines proving that Zephyr routinely ignored the rules about leaving campus. Headmistress Cuthbert was a fan of minimal conflict and maximum donations. Neither Zephyr nor his teammates—Alkamy Adams, Creed Morrison, Violet Lamb, or Roan Kenrick—ever caught hell for flaunting the rules. Not surprisingly, the four of them were often in the same pictures with Zephyr. It was only their friend Will Parrish who stayed clear of the club and the cameras.
As he made his way toward the velvet rope, Zephyr scanned the crowd for interesting faces. Finding no one extraordinary, he reached his goal: the VIP section where he knew he’d find at least one of his friends.
The bouncer at the rope nodded at Zephyr, but no conversation was needed. Being the oft-photographed Zephyr Waters was a good thing.
Alkamy and Creed both lounged in plush chairs, seeming exceedingly polished and wholly jaded. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe they were both nothing more than the budding addicts they appeared to be.
“Kamy.” He leaned down to kiss Alkamy, but she turned her head so his lips barely glanced off her cheek.
“Watch the face!” She pouted with the perfect mix of woe-is-me and aren’t-I-lovely. She was actually stunning. Her hair was a shade of black that made everyone assume it was dyed. It wasn’t. Nor did she wear colored contacts to get barely blue eyes. Her lips were naturally as ruby-red as they seemed, and her skin was so pale that she was luminescent in the dark. Alkamy was a living vision of a gloomier Snow White.
He straightened and murmured, “Yes, dear.”
Her smile transformed briefly into something genuine, and he matched it with one of his own. She might look icy, but she was sweet to him. In another life, they might’ve ended up something more, but in this life, any feelings were steadfastly buried. Even if Lilywhite wasn’t his future, Zephyr couldn’t let his feelings for Alkamy go in that direction. She looked so similar to him that he’d wondered if they were siblings in truth. That fear was reason enough to keep her at a safe distance. If he allowed himself to fall in love with her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go no matter what the queen decreed. More importantly, Alkamy wasn’t the sort to accept being told she couldn’t do something. Far wiser to stay friends, to keep a wall around those feelings, and plan for a future with Lilywhite.
Alkamy flashed another real smile at him as she took in his appearance. “You look perfect, as always.”
Creed snorted.
Zephyr dropped into one of the plush chairs, intentionally drawing eyes to him. The Row House was all about being seen. The club made no apology for it. The VIP section was demarcated by a scarlet and gold rope, but it was in the center of the club. There was a back wall that was shadowed if one wanted privacy, but the front of the room was open, and the left and right sides were clear glass. Being here was being on display—and that meant strict admission rules. Unlike some places where anyone with a generous budget for the night could get access, the Row House was old-school: invitation or status were the only ways to cross the line.
Being in the VIP section required looking like you were meant to be watched. They acted like it, and they dressed for it. Alkamy was wearing some sort of dress that appeared to be mostly transparent. Wide red straps covered her body in strategic places, but the rest of the dress revealed skin. In the hazy blue lights of the club, she looked otherworldly—but safely so. Creed, on the other hand, seemed to have put zero effort into his appearance. Artfully faded jeans, a T-shirt for some band, and heavy boots marked him as just another teen boy—except everything he wore was designer label and the jewelry that he’d added was undoubtedly worth more than most cars on the streets of Belfoure.
Creed’s shaved head, visible tattoos, and dark complexion made him far too likely to be hassled out in town, but by now, all of the lawkeepers were well aware of who he was and exactly how much of a fire storm they’d be in if he got wrongly arrested because of their overzealous racial profiling. Whether they thought he was African American or Seelie, he’d be a target because of his heritage. Of course, Zephyr had thought more than once that Creed hoped for a wrongful arrest. He thrived on conflict, far more than even Alkamy or Violet.
Pushing away thoughts that would lead to yet another argument, Zephyr motioned to one of the waitresses who usually looked after their needs.
When the girl came over, she already had the drink that Zephyr preferred—an alcohol-and caffeine-free concoction of fruit juices. He covered for his toxin-free drinks by paying the waitresses for their silence. He’d never once been drunk, and if he had his way, he never would.
“Yes, it’s organic,” the girl answered before he could ask.
Then she handed drinks to both Creed and Alkamy without comment. They didn’t need to pretend to drink alcohol. Zephyr could smell it from across the table as they accepted their glasses.