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Chapter Nine

G race

I wake the next day, my skin covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. I was having the naked performance dream again. Enough of this shit! I don’t have time for anxiety.

I run at top speed all morning, taking care of loose ends. At one point I realize all I have for shoes is a pair of crappy alien flip flops, but Savannah assures me she’s found a store on Emirus near the dress shop.

Finally, I’m waiting at the ramp to leave, my two instruments carefully wrapped in a large roller bag which Petra kindly takes control of. Tyree’s there looking handsome in his new uniform with his chainsticks and laser on his belt. The males could all be mistaken for Chippendale models with their muscular physiques, black leather kilt-like bottoms, and black sash-covered chests. They look imposing—and like an efficient machine.

“All this for me?” I whisper to Tyree.

“It seems you’re famous now, Amara . Crazy things happen. We want to make certain you’re protected.”

“Can I have your attention?” Zar’s sonorous voice intrudes over the cacophony of voices in the small exit area we’re crammed into. “Doctore and Stryker, you’re going to accompany Maddie to the mercantile and back as she picks up supplies. When she’s safely back here you’ll proceed to the concert hall to wait for the others. I’d like you to check out the hall itself, and the room where Grace will be housed prior to and after the performance. I want this to go off without any problems.

“Shadow’s in charge of this mission, I want you all to report to him. He’ll make all decisions on the ground. Theos, Dax, Steele, and Tyree will accompany Grace and Petra on their shopping trip, then to the concert hall. No extra stops. The concert hall will be easier to defend than any random street corner. Are we clear?”

“Is this really necessary?” I ask.

“Callista’s been monitoring comms. Sounds like off-worlders are pouring in from every corner of the galaxy for the concert. Scalpers are selling tickets for over five thousand credits apiece. We just want to keep you safe.”

My knees actually buckle. I would have hit the floor if Tyree hadn’t caught me under my arm and held me up.

“Shadow, keep me informed at thirty minima intervals,” Zar says. “Be safe out there.”

My guards form a phalanx around me, except for Tyree who stays at my side, one hand respectfully but firmly under my arm.

With over a thousand pounds of well-armed muscle surrounding me, it takes a moment for me to see what awaits us outside our vessel. My feet barely touch the tarmac when I see hundreds of aliens of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Some are behind ropes; those must be civilian onlookers. But there are dozens of beings inside the ropes, many taking pictures with tiny devices. Some are shouting questions at me as they press closer.

I feel Tyree tense beside me. “Can you walk under your own steam, Grace? I’d rather have both hands free to protect you.” His eyes are scanning the environment for threats.

I nod and move away from him, walking on my own steam. Okay, Grace, this is the moment of truth. You need to pull yourself together , I scold myself. I flash pictures on the mental screen inside my head—dozens of them. Times when I found my own inner strength and took care of myself. I straighten my spine, ball my hands into fists, and lift my chin.

I can do this. Dealing with Barbarian was harder than this. Calling 911 at age six when my mom overdosed and passed out on the bathroom floor in a pool of her own vomit was harder than this. Coping with the kids at school making fun of me because I smelled like dirty laundry was harder than this.

Fuck you! I think. Fuck you all. I can do this!

My spine is ramrod straight as I step forward. I’m going to meet an Emperor today. But I’m a queen, I tell myself. I’m a fucking queen, and they can all kiss my ass. I’m going to play music the angels would be jealous of. People are paying five thousand credits a ticket to hear my music. And I’m worth it.

The gladiators protecting me are all vigilant. I can see their tight muscles; they all have both hands on their weapons.

“Out of the way!” Shadow orders the onslaught of reporters as we move to the waiting hovercraft.

“I had no idea…” I breathe when we’re zipping through the streets of Almering toward the dress shop.

“I knew you were popular,” Shadow says, “but I didn’t know the crowd would look like that. I’m going to have Callista comm the Emperor’s staff and see if we can have reinforcements meet us at the shop and stay with us through your entire engagement on Emirus. There must have been a hundred reporters swarming us. This is a circus.”

Our hovercraft is speeding fast, like we’re on some important mission rather than going to a dress shop. I sneak peeks at the scenery out my side window. The Database said there were over twelve million people in this city, but it seems almost like a small town. Street after street with shops at street level and living spaces up above. Everything seems immaculate. I guess that’s what happens when you’re ruled by a despot who forbids spitting and littering.

When I get a glance through the front window I’m struck by two things: the pink sky (how’d I miss that when I stepped out of our vessel?) and tall buildings up ahead. They look hundreds of stories high. We must have landed in the burbs and are now traveling toward the city proper.

The dress shop had already closed its doors to the public, so it’s just the gladiators, Petra, and me in the small fabric-strewn space. It’s maybe thirty by thirty feet, the floor is grimy, but the dresses hanging on racks in every available space look like the most glorious things I’ve ever seen.

The staff is comprised of four spindly humanoid females with elongated faces. Their skin seems to be stretched too tightly over protruding cheekbones. I have no idea about intergalactic fashion trends, but one sports a lime green wig, one is neon pink, one fire-engine red, and the other is cotton-candy blue.

Their fingers are long and slim. Perfect, I guess, for seamstresses. The three dresses Savannah ordered are hanging neatly over a three-way mirror. My breath gusts out in a huff of surprise when I see them. I’ve certainly never worn anything so fine or fancy.

There’s a private room in the back for me to try them on. My image looks so foreign to me, it’s hard to register what I really look like as I’m helped into the first one. Blood red, it’s some type of material that feels softer than silk.

“Grace, you look hot,” Petra says, then licks her finger, presses it to her hip and makes a sizzling sound. “Amazing.”

I look more feminine than ever in my life. The waist is nipped, the hips are accentuated, and the color brings out my features. But the neckline is way too low. If I take a deep breath my areolas will show.

“Beautiful, ladies,” I inform the seamstresses who all seem to wait breathlessly for my pronouncement. “Can we...add some lace here?” I point to the decolletage.

“But that’s the style, Madam. And it looks so lovely on you.” The one with the lime green wig informs me.

“Right you are,” I tell her. “But I want to show less. Would lace work or do you have another idea?”

The four women put their heads together, then lime green shows me some black lace and tells me this will look attractive. We’ll use the black lace retrofit for the red and green, white lace for the white dress—all will be done within an hour.

It’s like that scene in Pretty Woman with all of them kissing my ass—so courteous and concerned about my every want and need. I’ve decided to just enjoy my little moment of fame. It will be the first and last time in my life I’m treated with this much deference.

Petra informs me we won’t have to leave the dress shop to look for shoes; they’ve hauled in a variety in my size from the store down the street.

I’m still wearing the emerald green dress, as we search for appropriate shoes. I need a pair that is the right fit, the right height and, most importantly, doesn’t have heels so high that I fall over when I walk.

If I wasn’t already embarrassed about the excess boobage spilling out the top of the dress, the look on Tyree’s face would push me over the edge. I’ve never seen him in this particular shade of red. His face is pinched in anger as he tries to keep his massive body between me and the gladiators so they don’t get a chance to ogle me.

I glance out the storefront windows and glimpse what looks like hundreds of onlookers pressing toward the glass. “Um, guys, could the weight of all of those people actually break the glass?”

The males follow my gaze and see the crush of people. Some of their features are distorted because folks from behind are pressing so hard they’re being smashed against the window.

“Tyree, Dax, you stay here and guard her. Theos and Steele, come with me, we’ve got to break this up,” Shadow orders. “For drack’s sake, get her out of sight.”

Tyree and Dax hustle Petra and I into the windowless fitting room. The males have both drawn their guns and are on high alert. I have no idea what’s happening outside this room, but I’m waiting to hear the sound of the huge plate glass windows splintering at any moment.

“Ladies,” Dax calls to the seamstresses in the tiny adjoining sewing room. How do they even work in there? They’re elbow to elbow, colorful heads bent low over their work. “Is there a back entrance to this shop?”

Cotton candy blue points to the back wall behind her. We’d have to move four chairs, four women, and two sewing machines to be able to open the door.

“If we hear glass break, we’ll be forcing through that door,” Dax informs them. “Best to get out of our way.”

Luckily, moments later we’re joined by Shadow and his men. “The Emperor’s guards have arrived. They managed the crowd. We’re fine.” He looks shaken—lips pulled down in a scowl, swallowing hard.

“What happened out there?” Tyree asks.

“Brutal. Shock sticks. Many of the soldiers were on mronckback and used the animals to push the crowd down the street. At least five were trampled and badly hurt by my count. It was just an eager crowd. They wanted a glimpse of Grace, they’re calling her ‘Musician of Angels.’”

“People were hurt? Trying to see me?” My panic hits in full force. It’s mingled with something else. Guilt? My chin quivers and I take a deep breath.

“It’s not your fault,” Shadow tells me. “You certainly didn’t ask for this.”

The ladies finish the dresses one by one. As soon as I try one on to make sure the lace looks right, they present me with the next. The gowns are wrapped as if they’re precious jewels, then we’re off to the concert hall in our hovercraft, surrounded by five similar craft holding over a hundred of the Emperor’s soldiers.

Tyree

I can’t wait until we’re safely in the concert hall. Grace is far too exposed and vulnerable as we move her through the city. Luckily this vehicle’s windows are obscured, so no onlookers can see Grace’s lovely face pressed against the glass as she gawks at the sights.

“Oh my gosh. That building has to be three hundred stories high.” Her mouth is actually gaping open in awe. “Is it peaking above the clouds? And the pink sky! I can’t get over it.”

Even though we’re surrounded by soldiers as well as our own gladiatorial guards, I stay attentive. That said, I can’t help occasionally glancing out the windows myself. I’ve been a slave for a long time, either kept underground in a cell, on board a ship, or as a house pet. My home planet’s major mode of transportation was ortoni -drawn wagons. We had no structures higher than three stories. I must admit I’m fascinated by what I see whizzing by these windows.

At last, we pull up to the concert hall, which occupies an entire city block. I look over at Grace and see her swallow several times as she absorbs the enormity and scope of the building. To compare it to a palace would be a disservice. It’s incredible.

I keep myself focused on the business at hand, reminding myself that my primary mission is Grace’s safety. The other males are highly-trained gladiators. Until recently I was tripping over my own feet, still getting used to my new size. Despite that, I have an important job here. I need to protect her, preserve her safety, and keep her calm enough to perform.

Grace

The concert hall is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I visualize pictures from the Internet of the enormous marble government buildings in Washington, D.C. Then times it by ten or maybe one hundred in terms of grandeur and expense. The design of the building is timeless; the gleaming columns of red and blue polished stone are breathtaking.

I was so consumed by the sights of Almering I got distracted. But now that we’re parked at the concert hall my anxiety spirals. I take a deep breath, pull both hands to my sides, straighten my back and sweep into the huge anteroom, trying for all the world to act like a queen.

The foyer walls are azure blue, the doorways are burnished wood, and the ceiling is painted in intricate detail to resemble the pink skies of Emirus.

Everything else is gold. To my untrained eye, it is not gold paint or gold leaf or some fake metal. I believe every fixture, every knob and every kick plate on every door is real gold. I’m certain the cost of one doorknob alone could house a family of four on Earth for a year.

Mauritious introduces himself as the head of the palace guard. His navy-blue uniform is covered with enough gold buttons, gold epaulets, and gold braid for five generals’ uniforms back home.

He sweeps us through the next set of doors into the concert hall itself. To see this place, knowing I’m going to perform here in a matter of hours makes my breath catch in my throat. I pause, not breathing for a moment, then my heart hammers in triple time.

I reach toward Tyree and the backs of my fingers unobtrusively brush his. I’d love a treatment right now, but barring that, just the physical connection will do. A gust of his compassionate calm presses into me. It races along my synapses, relaxing my thoughts as well as my muscles.

“Thank you, Tyree,” I whisper. “I’m on overload.”

“I don’t blame you, Grace. It’s pretty overwhelming for a poor boy from Larian as well.”

Calm enough to really absorb what I’m observing, I pay attention to the enormity of this place. The word huge doesn’t do it justice. The size of the hall boggles the mind.

“Six thousand seats on the main floor and the three balconies,” Mauritious intones. “Another five hundred in the private boxes. And there,” he indicates with an arrogant thrust of his fingers, “is His Majesty, Emperor Quirinus’ private suite.”

I keep my mouth from flopping open in awe as I take everything in. From the plush blood-red seats and curtains to the most beautiful, intricately-painted mural of what looks like a pantheon of Emirusian Gods on the domed ceiling, everything is exquisite.

Mauritious stops in front of me, bows low, his long black braid almost sweeping the floor, then stands in front of me and clicks his heels. “His Majesty asked me to invite you to his suite to share an aperitif with him an hoara before your show.”

“I’m honored, sir.” I don’t think I’ve ever stretched my spine so straight or tipped my chin so arrogantly high. “I’m afraid I sequester myself into my private quarters prior to a performance. I meditate and commune quietly with my thoughts so that I may give a performance that will please the angels themselves. I must humbly decline his Majesty’s most generous offer.”

My heart is about to beat out of my chest. I just turned down the ruler of an entire freaking planet. Where did I find the nerve?

Mauritious’ head rocks back in shock, his nostrils flaring, then he resumes his rigid posture. “I understand. You must prepare to entertain a discerning crowd of sixty-five hundred. I will tell the Emperor you’ve graciously declined.”

Is he trying to intimidate me? He did a great job.

“When we spoke with your manager, we were under the impression you would be sleeping on your vessel each night,” Mauritious says. “Might I suggest a change of plans? There are attached quarters off the rear of the building. Miss Grace, if you wish to utilize this it would be easier to ensure your safety and allow you to avoid trips back and forth through crowded streets. There are four sleeping rooms. They are adequately appointed—nothing fancy. I do not mean to insult you with the accommodations. I simply offer it as an option.”

I look toward Tyree, then Shadow, frowning in confusion.

“Thank you so much, Captain Mauritious,” Shadow says. “You’ve been very helpful. I believe we misjudged Grace’s popularity. The level of difficulty with crowd control took us by surprise. Might I inspect the area?” Shadow asks politely. I forgot that before he became a gladiator he rubbed elbows with presidents and kings.

He returns a few minutes later. “It looks safe and solves the problem of transporting you to the ship and back each day. I suggest we take the captain up on his generous offer.”

We hurry about half a city block through an underground walkway, to our appointed rooms. It’s just as Mauritious described, a small living area attached to four separate bedrooms, each with their own bath. Tyree swiftly inspects all of them and chooses the slightly nicer, slightly larger one for me, for us.

After Mauritious and the guards leave, I sit heavily on the edge of a couch, Tyree joins me. We’re so close our thighs touch.

“I imagine on a planet like this,” Shadow says, “no matter how welcoming the head of state or Captain of his Guard is, that traveling musicians and their gladiatorial escort are considered riffraff. If I were in charge, I’d have cameras placed strategically around to make sure no one walks off with a golden doorknob or two.”

I snort quietly, realizing I wasn’t the only one to have that idea.

“I would assume we’re being watched—everywhere.”

I groan. This means I won’t be able to fully put my guard down.

“Everything will work out.” Tyree gives me a piercing look and then blasts a gust of calm at me.

Petra makes sure the gowns are hanging straight on a clothes rack before organizing the makeup and hair products on the dressing table in my room. Someone suggests I might want to take a nap. I would like nothing better, I got very little sleep last night and my nerves are frazzled.

I glance at Tyree, silently requesting he accompany me. He quickly stands and helps me up. “I’ve been your personal bodyguard since you needed one, milady. I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone on this of all days,” he says, loud enough for any microphones that might be listening.

Okay, so that’s the cover story, he’s my personal protector and doesn’t leave my side. I don’t know how we’re going to manage the sleeping arrangements, but at least he’s not expected to leave me at any time.

“As usual, my lady, I’ll sleep on the floor near you, should you need me.”

“Of course.” I hope he can see my lips purse at the thought he would have to debase himself like that. “My ever-faithful servant, Tyree.” Okay, maybe we can have some fun with this. Don’t couples back on Earth role-play all the time? Well, instead of the French maid with her short skirt and feather duster, we have the hunky personal gladiator in his leather kilt at my beck and call. We’ll make this work.

Tyree performs his magic from his blanket-covered spot on the floor, and I’m asleep before I know it. I wake to Petra’s soft knock. “Grace, let’s get you beautiful. If we start now, you’ll have time for at least some tea and a delicious pastry the Emperor sent over for us. That is,” she raises her voice so everyone in the suite can hear, “if the gladiator hordes haven’t eaten every freaking one of them before you get a chance!”

“We can ask for more, Pet,” I hear Shadow call from the common area around what sounds like a huge bite of food. “They’re the best thing I’ve eaten since I was a free male on Morgana.”

“Even though I love you and Grace forgave you, you’re still a dick.”

“You wound me,” Shadow jokes as he stands in our doorway. He clamps a partially-eaten scone between his lips then places both hands on his chest and acts as if he’s just been shot in the heart.

As Petra slips between him and the doorjamb to leave, he playfully slaps her ass.

“Keep that up big guy and I’ll put you on restriction.”

“Restriction from what?”

“You have many favorite pastimes, Shadow, and they all involve me. Use your imagination.” She gives him a quelling look.

“My lady,” Tyree says, “I agree with Petra that you should try to get a little food down. Do you want a pastry, or would you prefer a sandwich?”

“I know my stomach, Tyree. Thanks, but no food until after the performance. Tea sounds good, though.”