“Forgive me. I shall not speak of it again.”
He made her a deep bow, then backed away, returning the sweet notes of his guitar to the music weaving about the court. The feasting tables were laid, platters heaped with delicacies for the ethereal and hideous denizens of the Dark Court to dine upon. Tall candelabras lined the tables, their flames unearthly still despite the night breeze. Gossamer-winged faerie maids laughed and danced, while black-haired creatures growled and slavered from the shadows.
The Dark Queen surveyed her court, then let her awareness expand to the very edge of her realm. On one side she was bounded by brightness, on the other, the newly rebuilt boundary between the Realm of Faerie and the human world.
Rebuilt, yes, but not without chinks in that obdurate wall. Her passage through might be barred for the moment, but soon enough she would hold the mortal key.
Two hours later, Spark’s hand cramped and ached from signing autographs. She’d known it would, but she still refused to use a stamp, or pre-printed photos. Sure, VirtuMax had made her their spokesmodel, but the fans were way more important to her than the company. It was important to keep the whole fame thing as real as possible—for everyone involved.
Rubbing her palm with her left thumb, she let her security guys do their job and escort her with minimal drama out of the Expo Hall. Once they reached the corridor outside, she realized how incredibly noisy it had been on the floor. Her ears still hummed from the aftermath.
She sighed, and Burt gave her a sympathetic glance.
“Two more days, Miss Jaxley.”
She wished her security team would call her by her first name, but they were sticklers for following protocol. It was one of the reasons VirtuMax hired the company in the first place. After a couple of tries she’d quit trying to argue about it.
“One day, really,” she said. “The con’s over after the big lunch panel tomorrow.”
After that, she was off to do a string of appearances at game emporiums and super-stores up and down the coast. The week of the official FullD release was packed with multiple events, plus a daytime news show interview and a guest spot at Bella Boingo’s sold-out stadium concert. SimCon was a vacation in comparison.
“Your guest has arrived, miss,” Joe, the guard at the door of her VIP suite, said. “He’s waiting inside.”
“Thanks.”
Right. She’d almost forgotten that she’d invited Aran to have lunch with her. It had been an impulse, but something about his reaction to playing Feyland had been off. And Feyland plus weirdness wasn’t something she could overlook.
Aran was reclining in a big white beanbag in the main room, texting on his messager. When he saw her, he tucked the device away and jumped to his feet. His smile really was cute, and she liked how the corners of his eyes crinkled from it.
“Hey,” she said. “Sorry to make you wait.”
“No stress. They give you way more comfortable chairs than us peons in the volunteer room. It’s good to slack after running around all morning.”
“You’re a volunteer?”
For some reason she’d thought he was on the con staff. Maybe because of his self-assurance, or his calm manner. It was refreshing to spend time with someone her own age who didn’t freak out in her presence. The rest of the Feyguard excepted.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m a gofer.”
“So you’re a local? Come eat, and tell me what I should see on my half-day off.”
Though part of her had considered spending her partial day off asleep, she also hated to miss seeing new places. This city, despite the dreary weather, seemed interesting.
She led him to the small table where the catered lunch was set up. Nothing special—turkey wraps with veggies, chips, and her favorite chocolate bars, imported from Belgium.
Aran snagged a soda from the assortment on the table, then took his own chair. He popped the top, the crisp sound loud in the quiet of the suite.
“Do you have an umbrella?” he asked. “A raincoat?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?” He shot her a look. “Or did you leave it at home?”
“It’s complicated.”
She took a bite of her lunch, suddenly embarrassed. Now that she was paying attention, she could tell Aran’s clothes were a little too worn to be fashionable. She’d bet credits that he’d worn the same jeans yesterday. Which was a normal thing, except that she knew what it was like to have one decent pair, and no money for more. And she knew that slight air of defiance that came from wearing the only presentable clothing you had.
“I travel a lot,” she said. “All over the world. When it’s winter here, it’s summer someplace else.”