{Gait}

It took Sagan an hour to build up the nerve to Seamswalk to Lucas’ zeppelin. Once mustered, she took one tiny step in and one quick step right out. Same for when she moved to Gait. No activity to report, but she refused to give the voices much opportunity. Not with her nerves somersaulting over tonight’s impending insanity.

The Emporium looked lonely, with no one lining the streets for entry. Closed for the night. The owner waited for Sagan inside. He asked her to meet him early. Pulling the hood closed around her neck, she drew a deep breath of Korac’s scent and crossed the street.

Only weeks ago, she made the same trek into Razor’s den. And like then, he watched her approach from his favorite perch on the mezzanine’s banister. Now, his eyes shone less with predatism and more with ownership. Proud of his progress on the Seamswalker, who arrives on time at his invitation. Who only eats in his establishment. Who speaks his name in her sleep.

Razor still underestimated Sagan. Good. Her eventual withdraw would surprise him all the more. As soon as she convinced herself of when that time would come. Anytime. She could stop anytime.

She walked onto the mezzanine. He already turned to greet her. A nice black coat that shimmered from his shoulders to the soles of his boots concealed his ensemble. Aside from the shiny top hat, of course. But no cane. Withholding her disappointment, she met his strange orange and green eyes. He lined them with kohl. Against his tan skin and the shocking red eyelashes, it worked for him.

“We think alike.” Razor nodded to her coat. “Of course, mine actually fits.”

Sagan smiled. Might as well enjoy the evening.

He cocked his head to the side and admitted, “I am curious to see what you found worth concealing.”

“I look forward to the reveal.” If only she could record his reaction.

Razor held out one hand wrapped in black silk up to his fingers. For the first time, she took it and allowed him to escort her down the spiral stairs. She imagined a satisfied smirk on his face as they went, but never glimpsed one.

“Matt?” Razor called across the floor as he led Sagan to the addition. His shoes tapped in a way that made her suspect he wore heels.

“Yea, boss?” The auburn-haired young man stepped out of the line of booths he maintained. He took one look at Sagan in Korac’s coat and broke into a genuinely warm smile. “I don’t think that matches the formal dress code.”

She took in the carbon fiber jumpsuit and extra-gelled hair. He’d gone native. “I don’t think that matches either. You’re not joining us?”

Razor answered for him, “He’s in charge of watching the Emporium while I’m gone. There’s no place safer than the gala.” He released his hold on her and took a step toward Matt. “If you don’t mind, I’m running through the checklist one last time before we leave. We can finish while you eat.” He gestured to a tray of nibbles on the kitchen counter behind them.

Her stomach growled ferociously.

Both men looked at her, equally amused.

“Yea. Let me eat while you do that.”

“Hey,” Matt called to her before she turned away. “You keep forgetting your chain.”

Right. The port replaced the presence of the chain. Sagan stopped him from removing it. “Do you mind holding onto it for another night? It doesn’t really go with my outfit.”

“Yea. I got it.”

The two of them left to discuss inventory or something while she stuffed her face without smudging her lipgloss. Matt planned to meet her secretly in four days to trade intel. Her skin crawled, imagining all the weird shit he’d seen in this place. But with that in mind, Razor treated her with respect. It was his own distinct brand of respect, but all the same—

“Do you require more?” The man on her mind returned and pointed to the already empty tray.

Sagan’s stomach felt mildly relieved of its hunger. Enough to get her through the night. “I’m good. Thank you. It was delicious.” Honestly, euphoria came to mind.

“I always appreciate your appetite.” Now he smirked.

Under her lover’s hood, Sagan’s face burned. But since he brought up the subject, she asked, “When—”

“Three days. I’ll even close the Emporium for your privacy. I think you might want the immersive booths for what will be the final curated experience.” Razor gestured at the two special Divine Booths in the addition. Massive, they sat on a custom reinforced stage to hold their weight. Their white enamel casings shown with a pearlescent sheen. They looked like mausoleums.

And yes. Sagan caught herself glancing over at them many times. Fully. Immersive. What must that entail? And did he just say, “Final?” She asked it aloud.

The Pain Curator offered the Seamswalker his arm. The sadness of his smile shocked her. “I can’t keep spoiling you like this. I enjoy your company, but exploring your pain consumes me. It’s become an addiction of its own. I grant us tonight and three nights from now. And then I let you go. My clients need me. You don’t.”

Sagan closed her gaping mouth and glided to Razor. She took his arm, searching his eyes. Sad. He wanted her to know this saddened him. What was this? Was he developing feelings for her? Or trying not to? The intensity in his words, in his gaze, kept her from offering friendship. No. A man like him wouldn’t settle for less than what he wanted.

But what did he want from her—

“The car’s here.” Matt’s voice across the Emporium broke the spell.

An hour later, the anti-gravity limousine drove them through the conduit to Reipon. They sat across from one another in the spacious backseat, discussing the business prospects of a pain market on Earth. Thirty minutes into the conversation Sagan blurted, “Fuck this!” And threw the hood back, careful to conceal the choker with the jacket’s lapels.

The divider between the driver and the backseat returned her reflection. The diamonds in her hair sparkled like the ones at the inner corners of her lined eyes. The white and gray eyeshadow—the entire outfit—was the shade of Korac’s eyes. He’d love it. She planned to show him once the event ended.

“Breathtaking. I’m very intrigued as to the rest. Although, I hope you planned for a grander reveal at the gala.”

Razor’s teasing revived her congenial mood, and she laughed. “I’ll be the most fun date that doesn’t put out you’ll ever have. Swear on it.” She even crossed the jacket over her heart.

He laughed, friendly and rich. His downright professional treatment of her left a gaping hole of curiosity.

She pressed onward, “By your reputation I thought you’d get more familiar with me by now.”

“What purpose would that serve? You’re utterly taken and the last thing I need is an angry Seamswalker tormenting my business at any opportunity she’d like.”

Sagan smiled—no—beamed at his perceptiveness and the honest compliment within.

Razor stared at her in such a way that he took in her eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips. Like he committed the expression to memory. “But that smile would almost make it worth it.”

Her face fell.

“What bothers you more, Seamswalker? That I’ve not expressed any interest in sleeping with you? Or that it’s left you disappointed?”

She looked out the window. The sprawling space-scrapers and white stone palaces interested her little.

Out of her peripheral vision, she watched Razor lean forward and ask, “Why do you think that is?”

“What?” She kept her gaze on the scenery.

“Your disappointment. Do you need to be wanted? Will that ease your troubles?”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Sagan softened and confessed while looking out the window, “Men in a position of power desire control through sex. It’s a neat and easy diagnosis. Simple.” Facing him, violet eyes met green and orange ones. “So if that’s not your predation, then you want me uneasy for a more nefarious reason. You want me vulnerable.” She leaned forward to meet him halfway across the car, searching his eyes. “Why do you want me, Razor?”

The longer they stared in silence, the more arrhythmic her heart beat. A flutter with a skip. On the fourth skip, he startled her by falling gracefully back in his seat with a forlorn sigh.

“It saddens me you weigh your brilliance down with such negative thoughts. We’re business partners. Let’s keep our arrangement professional. I’m merely looking forward to our evening together. Music. Dancing. Watching you enjoy the food. You’re safe with me.”

But not from him. It bothered Sagan that he refused to answer her question directly.

They arrived after a long time in silence. Razor left the car first and held out his hand. Sagan took the alien’s hand and stepped foot onto a red carpet from a space limo and—

Wow… Her life was weird.

People from all over the Vast Collective worked and attended the gala with no limitation on species or origin. Two humans held the doors for them. One Mon3 drone offered to take her coat. A dwarf in a mechanized suit took Razor’s. Simultaneously, the ushers revealed their clothes.

No. No, no, no…

In a bizarre twist of fate, they matched. Razor dressed as a ringmaster in all black. The hat stayed as the coat stripped away. A silk jacket fastened at his ribs by silver chains with long tails in the back. Leather pants fed into freshly shined knee-high boots. Silver chains adorned the pockets. A coiled whip hung from his hip.

Sagan dressed like his lead acrobat. Well, aside from all the obvious badges she wore in Korac’s honor. And the port.

Razor’s mercurial expression set her on edge. As he appraised her, hunger burned in his eyes. But when they focused on her collar, something else burned there. Not anger. Ambition. It bothered her more than his reprisal. Behind those peculiar eyes, he calculated the means to replace General with Razor.

Worse than any of it, he showed no trace of surprise at this disturbing coincidence. He sounded satisfied. “And here I expected to see the signature axes. But they were an understatement compared to this gorgeous ensemble. Did you tattoo his name somewhere on you in gold?” Once more, he offered his arm.

Sagan imagined all the places on her body where Korac would delight in branding his name as she took what Razor offered. “What an idea.” She grinned playfully up at him as he led them down a spectacular black hall.

The colors in his eyes spun when he stared down at her.

Around them, the polished surfaces—similar to Earth’s granite—shone like dark mirrors. More couples and trios followed behind them into the prismatic space. Sagan sparkled in the reflections as she caught glimpses of herself. And Razor.

The Pain Curator watched her intently. Leaning down, he muttered against her hair, “You stand out.” He caught her eyes meeting his in the nearest reflective surface. Their proximity, their clothes—it painted an intimate portrait of them. Quietly, he elaborated, “Your eyes. Your race. And you’re the only one not in black. I neglected to mention it with the invitation. Remember what I said about Seamswalking. No one will touch you with me, but if you explore too much on your own, I can’t protect you.”

She turned to meet his eyes. So close she could barely focus. “From what?”

“From Imminent. Welcome to our inner sanctum. Well, one of them, anyway.” Razor faced forward and swept an arm out for her to see.

Rock. The entire building was carved into a cavern, polished and furnished. Everywhere she looked, Sagan’s reflection stared back. A star in an inky dark sky. Bright and alive among black tuxedos and elegant gowns. Stand out? More like a diamond in a field of obsidian.

And most of them alien. On any other night, it wouldn’t bother her. But after the Pain Curator’s little proclamation, she wished she’d dressed more discretely. Maybe dyed her hair and worn contacts. At least then she might blend in with the other humans and Icari.

Stupid collar.

“Safe with me, remember?” Razor whispered once more at her side.

Sagan nearly glowered at him. What kind of trophy did she make on his arm? The Seamswalker at the ball with the Pain Curator. But how could she get angry? He said he brought her for this exact reason when he first proposed this idea. “I wish I’d known about the dress code.”

Carefully, he swept the bangs from her eyes. “Your face is more known in the galaxy than the former King of Cinder. The only person more recognizable than you is the current one.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Actually, I think you and the Sovereign Ambassador are equal.”

Her head spun, and her stomach turned. But don’t cradle a hand to it. Don’t let them see any weakness.

“The food is this way.” Every touch, every word, and every look, Razor disguised as a caress from a lover. That’s why the proximity and public affection. His eyes sparked with covert knowing.

Play along, they said.

Sagan kept her stride while leaning into him. She curved her arm around his back and allowed him to drape an arm around her shoulders. People stared at them and whispered. Ignoring it, Sagan gawked at the expansive buffet piled high with exotic eats. Heaven existed outside Korac’s arms. Minding her manners, she took lady-like nibbles off the first fourteen trays and beamed. Finally, food outside the Emporium that satiated her. She started to suspect Razor prepared magically addicting food, but this stuff tasted as amazing if not better.

“You’re practically purring.”

The Seamswalker met the Pain Curator’s gaze to find amusement shining in his eyes. Beyond him, she glimpsed a black Lamia in human morph and a female Icarus with short hair. She reminded Sagan of Tempest, one of The Brethren who advocated for the Shadow on Earth’s governing affairs. It wasn’t her, for sure. But…

“They’re related.” Razor leaned down once more to speak in her ear. “Betton is Tempest’s third sister’s niece. She joined us about six hundred years ago.”

Sagan tilted her neck, exposing more to him while reaching for his ear. Her lips brushed his skin as she whispered, “Tell. Me. Everything.” Leaning back to meet his eyes, she intentionally let her lashes flutter slowly and parted her lips as if intoxicated with him.

“You’re more convincing than I expected.” Razor smirked with respect in his gaze. “Come on. After the one dance you promised me, I’ll whisper your worst nightmares to you.”

On the dance floor, Sagan expected weird alien customs, but their movements resembled human waltzing. Each race contributed their own spin to it, creating a dizzying, multicultural mix. Razor brought Sagan close to him, put her hand on his chest, and stretched the other out in a mix of modern slow and ballroom dancing. He clasped her hand on his chest with a conspiratorial wink and twirled them around the floor. Her tiny skirt and the longer tails of his jacket flared with the motion.

Playing the game, Sagan laid her head against his chest and let him take her around the room. One round, two… until their tandem movement seemed natural. The music played on foreign instruments in a four-beat composition that felt airy and ethereal. Perfect for the surroundings. With the black rock and diamond chandeliers, they danced on the cosmos.

Razor whispered against her hair, “I studied human dancing when I learned you were looking for me. Should the occasion arrive…”

Of course he did. Quick study, too. “It paid off. But now you keep your end of this bargain.”

He chuckled, and the sound rumbled against her cheek. It caused a pang in her chest. Sagan wished she was dressed up and dancing with Korac in a creepy black cave surrounded by sharks with her violet eyes like blood in the water.

The wrong smooth voice spoke against her hair. “The gala is a preamble of an annual fundraiser. It accumulates credits for the major ‘charities’ across the galaxy. I host the auction at the Emporium. But it’s a front to appease the Vast Collective’s leadership. They don’t know this location is one of many hearts that beat for our cause.”

Sagan set herself far enough apart to gaze up at him as they glided across the floor. Pragmatism poured from him and confounded her. Composing a mask of pure adoration, she asked, “Does Imminent funnel the credits into resources? What about the charities? And what exactly is your cause?”

Razor’s eyes darkened. He gathered their outstretched hands and twisted them into a lock at the small of her back, nearly restraining her. Where his hand swallowed her smaller one at his chest, he shifted it to cup his face. He smoldered at her with desire, making for a truly convincing mask that set her pulse hammering. They spun all the while.

“Chaos.” The octave dropped in the bass of Razor’s voice, and it startled her. Closer, almost kissing now, he explained, “We require chaos to exist. So we push pieces of focus along the board to establish more lines. More Probabilities. Rayne is King. You and the Progeny are knights and bishops. Your people are rooks. The humans are pawns—The metaphor is working for you. I can see the connections in your eyes.”

She swallowed twice before saying, “And the credits? What do you fund?”

“Everything. We are everywhere. We are Imminent.”

Icy terror flooded her veins. The certainty in his eyes, the faith in his words—It froze her in his arms. And then they stopped. The dancers and attendees faced the entryway. A breath from Razor’s kiss, Sagan inched her gaze away to the door. Eminents Wiw, Lance, Abresson, and Celindria entered the fray.

Gently, the Pain Curator brought her back to him with a single finger under her chin. His eyes asked something of her. “Remember. You’re safe with me.”

The dancing resumed with Sagan much less comfortable than before. Celindria, dressed in a black gown with revealing slits in strategic places, fixated on the younger Progeny immediately. Those bright blue eyes practically bore a hole in the Seamswalker’s back. Razor drew her close and whispered in her ear, “Before she walked in the room, I was the second most powerful being in it.”

She leaned back to catch his meaning. Her. The Pain Curator considered the Seamswalker more powerful than himself. Moving close again, she reached up to whisper against his neck, “Keep going.”

“As the galaxy’s primary pain merchant, I provide many outlets for business and operations. Sponsors and recruitment. Valuable services. Highly valued.” The tone of his voice hardened as he explained the rest, “Until she seceded the previously most powerful Tritan coordinator. Celindria undermines my authority and demeans my contributions as limited, petty trade. She interferes with my empire, and I’ve worked far too hard for far too long to grant her that. For the last two thousands years, I’ve arranged the pieces in my favor. And only recently she discovered the intentional slights, the botched engagements, and the counter-espionage. She knows I’ve fixed the game to benefit the current generation of Progeny. And right now, at this very moment, you’re aiding me in that game to bring her down.”

Breathless and dizzy, Sagan closed her eyes. Overwhelmed but terribly curious, she asked, “How?”

“With this dance. In one of many bases of her operations. She’s furious with me. But I’m afraid you won’t be permitted to remember its location.”

Razor brought their dance to a stop beside a Reipon Lamia. An attendant. He held out a device. “Madam, please unfasten your port for the siphon.”

Bothered, Sagan peered at her dance partner, and he explained, “It’s required of all non-member guests. We take the location from your memory bank. That’s all. I promise.”

No. She definitely wanted to keep this memory. Seamswalk. Ghost them—

A loud blast racked the cavern. Violent convulsions jolted and toppled them. A wall of fire and rock rode into the ballroom. Razor lunged for her and knocked them both down. Before they hit the polished floor, Sagan followed her initial instinct and fell into the Seam.