Page 7

EZRA

“ H ere you go.” Orion sets a plate in front of me and slumps into the opposite chair.

We’ve finally iced out the stragglers and closed down the club, and it’s nearly three A.M. Normally I’d just shovel a bag of cheese puffs into my face on the drive home, but I slipped and mentioned the state of my cupboards in Orion’s earshot, and he’s bullied me into eating one of Larch’s new burgers

It’s the kind made of lentils and soy, where ‘all the fixings’ means a bunch of toppings I’m not convinced belong on a burger.

I spot some leafy veg that’s definitely not lettuce sticking out the sides.

A pile of what look like fries are heaped on the side, but when I eat one, the texture is… not exactly potato. It tastes green.

People with less than twenty bucks in their bank account can’t be choosers, however.

I have to admit after the first few bites that whatever’s in the burger, it’s pretty damn good. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been eating a lot of plain spaghetti between tip-outs.

The quiet of the little back patio is eerie after the music and chatter.

String lights glow warmly, but it’s cool out, and I pull my hoodie tighter as the breeze picks up.

No show tonight, so we caught a bit of a break — still, the kitchen was hopping and drinks flew off the bar.

I’m hungrier than I realize, chewing through half the burger before I stop to take a breath.

“You know we get appies comped every night the kitchen’s open,” Orion says when I resurface.

I set the burger down and dig into the not-quite-fries. “I didn’t think farm-to-table would be my thing, to be honest.”

He chuckles. “Larch wants to host a pop-up next year at Whitecourt Lodge, so be prepared for the food to get a lot more rustic.”

“At least it’s not deconstructed.” I swipe up some of the mystery white dip that’s on my plate in lieu of ketchup. “I’m kidding, everything’s fantastic. My boxed mac and cheese is safe for another day.”

“That stuff is my weakness. I’ve been known to eat it from the pot. But please don’t tell Larch, I’m pretending to have refined taste.”

“See, you get it.”

“There’s a joke in here about eating the food of another realm,” Orion chuckles, leaning back in the wooden chair. His eyes glint oddly in the lights.

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing.” He shrugs. “So, how are you liking the job? You gonna stick around?”

The reply comes easily. “I like it here. Really. As long as I keep making those sugary nightmares the right way, I think Lysander will even let me stay.”

“You joke, but he complains when I make them now. ” Orion rolls his eyes.

“You need the extra —” I make a sprinkling motion. “Maraschino cherries.”

He grins and gets up. “You done?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” I polished it off while I wasn’t paying attention. I look up, my eye caught by a light on in the second floor window. The shadow of a figure passes over the window, transformed by the ripples of the gauzy curtain, and I shiver. “What did you say his show was again?”

“Lysander?” Orion stacks my plate on his, waving away a curious moth. “He does a rope suspension performance with Bear.”

I watch the window while Orion goes inside, even though I shouldn’t intrude. The curtain twitches. My heart pounds and I tear my gaze away guiltily.

Right. Sunday is BDSM night — and I haven’t worked a Sunday yet. Is that intentional?

I can’t deny I want to see it. Haughty yet awkward Lysander, immobilized in intricate ropework, hanging like a caught butterfly.

Does he enjoy it? For some reason the thought makes me hot all over.

Yet I feel like a voyeur even imagining it.

My gaze flickers back to the window, but the shadow is gone.

There’s only one hiccup when it comes to sticking around: I haven’t met the boss yet, and technically I’m still in my trial period.

It’s not like I’ve been counting the days or anything, but…

well, that’s a lie. I know the exact date the trial ends.

Everything seems great, and I’m sure I have no reason to worry, but the fact remains no permanent contract has materialized.

My brain is eager to take that and run with it.

What if they don’t want to keep me?

I groan, staring at the popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. It’s gonna be fine.

If no one says anything, neither will I. Maybe they’ll just keep scheduling me.

“Hey, your probation’s up today,” Plato says when I walk in the next day, which puts a pin in that plan. “Congrats, man!”

“Uh, thanks?” I grin nervously.

He beams. “You’d better go talk to Syril and get your am — your, uh, contract signed.”

“Syril’s here?” My stomach gurgles with acid, and probably also confusion about the potato chips I ate for lunch.

“Oh yeah, they’re waiting for you.” He claps me on the shoulder and I stagger. “Welcome to the team.”

Apprehension grips my gut as I shuffle down the hallway.

The short walk turns me from a grown-ass man of twenty four to a nineteen year old kid again, waiting to hear his doom spelled out in the curt, merciless voice of the law.

Two years rings in my ears, which is dumb as hell. It’s a job, not a sentencing hearing.

But if I lose this job… I’m kind of running out of options.

The office door looms. Before I can knock, it swings open to reveal a tall, slender individual in a demure gray suit pressed so sharp the creases could cut.

Long, gray-streaked dark hair is slicked back from their face, highlighting a probing gaze that immediately makes me feel pinned like an insect.

I put a hand out instinctively.

“H-hi, uh, Syril? I’m Ezra. Ezra Pine.”

“Yes, I know.” Their grip is firm and dry as their voice.

I flush. “Sorry.”

“Come in.” Syril steps aside.

“I like working here,” I blurt as Syril sits behind the desk.

I hover next to the chair instead of sitting.

One impeccably groomed eyebrow goes up and my face heats worse, the horribly familiar warmth warning me I’m about to start babbling.

But when did I ever let warning signs stop me?

“The vibe — the, uh, atmosphere is really welcoming. The guys are great. I even like the customers, which is saying something. I’ve really enjoyed the last few weeks. ”

“I’m glad,” Syril says with an amused look.

“I know you took a chance on me, and I’m grateful.” Someone please stop me. What if they finally looked at my background check? What if they didn’t , but my stupid blabbering makes them check it out?

Syril holds up a hand. “Ezra.”

My mouth snaps shut.

“I want to keep you on.”

I swallow. “But…?”

There’s always a but.

“It’s not my choice. It’s yours.” Syril pulls out a long, slender black box and sets it on the desk.

My brain screeches to a halt, confused. “I mean, of course I want to stay.”

Syril nods calmly. “Orion tells me you get along well with everyone, but I knew you would. Maddox is a good judge of character — that’s why I asked him to find me someone.

You see, our community is rather insular.

Old-fashioned, even. We need fresh perspective to drag us into the modern age, or quite frankly, we’re going to slowly disappear into the shadows. ”

“You think I’m the fresh perspective?” I frown. I don’t understand what Syril means by ‘ our community ’, but more than that, I’m hardly anyone’s idea of fresh.

My life is bog-standard and that’s the way I need it to stay. I work, sleep, and go to the gym. I ate plain cheese tortillas for dinner the last five days in a row, and my idea of a good time is a cup of hot chocolate and a marathon of Unnatural .

Sure I wasn’t always like this, but being fun isn’t exactly high on my priority list these days. Jumping feet first without looking was how I got into trouble the first time around.

Syril doesn’t reply, only slides the box toward me. “It’s your choice,” they repeat.

Okay . If it’s going to be like that.

I open the box. Inside is some kind of pendant on a braided cord, a deep red gem in a silver setting that gleams in the low light. I lift it by the cord and hold it up to the light. The gem glints with an inner fire, a multitude of colors winking back at me.

It’s a real stone. The thought enters my head in a flash. I drop the necklace back into the box like it burns, heart pounding.

“What’s that for?”

“Put it on,” Syril says.

Their voice is suddenly commanding. My hand moves without my permission and the pendant is in my palm, cold and heavy.

But oh no, my stubborn ass can’t just do what I’m told. “What if I don’t want to? This could be some kind of trick.”

“Then you’re free to leave. I’ll give Maddox a good reference, and he’ll find you another placement. A simpler one.”

Syril’s cool, even tone calms my kicking pulse. I take a deep breath.

“Okay.” The pendant settles on my breastbone, cool through my thin t-shirt. The metal warms to my skin right away. “Now what —?”

The words die in my throat. In the mirror on the far wall, the reflection of the office isn’t quite right. There’s me, standing like an idiot in front of the desk. Behind the desk, Syril has been replaced by a person with branches growing out of their head.

Panic claws me. For a moment I’m back in the Jungle, tripping hard on acid after three days of partying on uppers with Jasper’s friends.

It’ll calm you the fuck down, Jasper’s voice rings in my ear.

Jesus, Ezra, stop being such a pissbaby.

Stay here and put this on your tongue. I have business to take care of.

I grab the amulet, ready to rip it off. But something stops me.

It’s the look in those dark, narrow eyes — the gentle, knowing look.

Instead, I sit down.

“Mind telling me what the fuck?” I prompt Syril.

The branches arch gracefully from their forehead, like antlers, entwining to form a crown. Some of them have wicked thorns. White flowers dot their tips. Syril’s face is… the same, yet different. Sharp and inhuman. Elegant. I blink hard as my head starts to spin.