Page 74 of Embers of Midnight

Thalos “Thorn” Virek ducks the lintel. He’s troll-blood, all breadth and calm eyes. He holds a bowl as if it might explode if anyone else carries it. “Potato salad,” he rumbles. “Vegan. Don’t tell the meat.”

Ilya Meris slides in on a breeze of something expensive and salt-tinged, hair like a wave gone civilized. He kisses the air near my cheek and calls me darling with an accent you can drown in. Rex Donovan brings up the rear with a grin like a campfire and a tray of skewers that glow faintly at the edges.

“Welcome,” I say, and mean it. “Come in. We have chairs and moral support.”

“Do you have ice?” Nyra asks, already clocking the room like a cat.

“In the kitchen,” I say. “And a suspicious crow.”

She lights up. “Perfect.”

We pour out onto the patio like so much good trouble. Introductions happen between tongs and plates. Nyra finds the best corner of the bench by instinct. Kieran critiques Ronan’s grill stance with the confidence of a man who has never been burned wrong. Ronan answers with a single eyebrow. A truce is reached in the form of coals.

“Professor,” I tease Kieran.

He points a bottle at me. “Off-duty,” he repeats. “Tonight I’m just the guy who once made the mistake of betting Ash I could beat him at charades.”

“What happened?” I ask, because my body runs on gossip and protein.

“I was destroyed,” he says, without shame. “He mimed a cephalopod union strike. I guessed it. He still won.”

“I deserved the trophy,” Ash calls from the grill. “It was shaped like a squid.”

Caelum appears with a bowl and the satisfied air of a man who talked greens into being sexy. Nyra eyes it, takes a bite, and groans. “Marry me.”

“He’s already booked,” I reply. “But he accepts fan mail.”

Caelum pinks and retreats to the drinks table under the flimsy excuse of slicing citrus. I let him. He prefers orchestrating to spotlight; tonight he gets both.

The first wave of food hits plates. The first wave of people hit chairs. The air picks up, but the patio heaters take the edge off. Laughter does the rest. I try to hold all of it in my chest and give up, which helps.

Taya and Laz arrive with a bowl that could double as a kiddie pool. Taya floats in like good news. Laz wears an apron that says don’t feed the banshee and immediately starts feeding himself. I wave them over with a skewer and two spare seats appear as if the patio wants us to win.

“Friends,” I announce. “This is Team Umbra—Nyra, Kieran, Thorn, Ilya, Rex. They allegedly commit heroics and definitely commit crimes against karaoke.”

Kieran bows from the waist toward Laz like a man who knows showmanship. “A pleasure.”

“Don’t flatter me in full sentences,” Laz replies, delighted. “I’ll write sonnets.”

“Please write sonnets,” Ilya says, handing him a drink. “The world needs more dramatic men.”

“Finally,” Ash says, raising his glass. “A man who sees me.”

Ronan flips ribs quietly. Darian refills water glasses with brutal efficiency. If he were not a person, he’d be a system.

We eat. Someone puts music on low because conversation carries better when it has something to step on. Stories start spilling like marinade. Nyra leans in and gets comfortable.

“Embarrassing fact trading,” she declares. “House rules. I go first. Ronan once baked a birthday cake for Caelum and forgot to check the altitude instructions. The middle sank like a guilt spiral. He filled it with strawberries until it looked intentional.”

Ronan doesn’t blush, because he is a weapon. He also doesn’t deny it. Caelum makes a small noise that might be a laugh disguised as a cough. “It tasted like an apology,” he admits. “I forgave him with my mouth full.”

“Your turn,” Kieran tells me, eyes warm. “Give us a safe one. We don’t need trauma to bond.”

“I once turned an entire diner’s worth of pancakes into charcoal because the new grill ran hot and I refused to admit it,” I confess. “Three hours later I cried in the walk-in freezer and ate whipped cream with a spoon.”

Nyra toasts me. “A woman of culture.”

“Rex,” Ash prompts. “Your crimes.”