Chapter 10: Dancing with the Enemy
The VIP section of Luminara floated above the main dance floor like a glass bubble suspended in neon. Holographic bartenders flickered behind a curved bar, their translucent hands pouring drinks that shimmered with enchanted light—violet one moment, gold the next, each sip promising a memory that would linger at the edges of dreams for weeks.
Mark had reserved the entire space.
Not a table. The entire space. Velvet ropes parted for them like water, and a hostess in a silver dress that seemed to breathe led them up a spiral staircase that hummed with residual magic from last night's performances. The air tasted like champagne and something sweeter—possibility, maybe, or the particular electricity that comes from a room full of people who know they're about to have a very good time.
"Okay," Mandy said, sliding onto a curved booth that wrapped around a table made of what looked like frozen moonlight, "I'm impressed."
"You're easily impressed," Beth countered, but she was already sinking into the cushions beside Marty, her hand finding his knee under the table.
"I'm not easily impressed. I'm appropriately impressed. There's a difference."
Mark appeared beside them, a drink in each hand, his smile easy and warm. He'd changed since this morning—the polo shirt and shorts replaced by a dark jacket over a simple black tee, jeans that fit him like they'd been tailored, and a watch that probably cost more than Mandy's entire IT setup. He looked like a man who was comfortable in his own skin, comfortable in this world of neon and velvet and enchanted cocktails.
"I took the liberty of ordering ahead," he said, setting the drinks down. "The bartender assured me the Luminous Fizz is life-changing. I'm skeptical, but hopeful."
Felicity peered at her glass. The liquid inside was shifting colors in a slow, hypnotic swirl—pink to blue to green and back again. "Is it safe?"
"Absolutely not," Mark said cheerfully. "But it's delicious."
Mai grabbed her glass without hesitation and took a long drink. Her eyes went wide, then half-lidded, then impossibly bright.
"That's amazing," she breathed. "I can taste... I can taste the ocean. And starlight. And—" She paused, licked her lips. "Is that tequila?"
"Top shelf," Mark confirmed.
Mai drained the rest in one gulp and signaled the holographic bartender for another.
Katrina settled onto the booth beside Calista, her eyes moving across the club below—the crush of bodies on the dance floor, the pulse of the music that vibrated through the glass, the way the lights seemed to move with the crowd rather than above it. She'd been to clubs before, back in her old life, but they'd been smaller, dimmer, less... this.
"Overwhelmed?" Calista asked, her voice pitched low enough that only Katrina could hear.
"A little."
"You don't have to stay. We can—"
"I want to stay." Katrina looked at her—really looked at her, this silver-haired half-elf who had made it her mission to drag her back into the world. "I want to try."
Calista smiled. It was a soft smile, almost sad, the kind of smile that said I understand without actually saying it.
"Then let's try."
The group descended on the drinks like locusts. Kim claimed a corner of the booth and nursed something amber and smoky that she refused to share. Maryam found a sports channel playing on a silent screen in the corner and immediately demanded the remote. Ben and Jess ended up side by side, their shoulders touching, their conversation quiet and easy—the kind of conversation that didn't need words, just presence.
Bruce arrived late, his hair still damp from the shower, his steampunk wrench tucked into his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world. He slid in beside Felicity and immediately started explaining the mechanics of the holographic bartender—something about light refraction and enchantment matrices and how he could probably build one if he had the right parts.
"You could build a bar?" Felicity asked.
"I could build a much better bar. This one's got a glitch in its matrix—you see how it flickers when it pours? That's a resonance issue. Fixable, but I'd need a—"
"Bruce."
"Yes?"
"Drink your cocktail."
He drank his cocktail.
Marty sat very still beside Beth, his red hair catching the neon light, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a man who had been dropped into a foreign country and was still trying to figure out the currency.
"This is... loud," he said.
Beth laughed—a real laugh, bright and warm. "That's the point."
"It's a lot."
"It is." She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his. "You get used to it. Or you don't. Either way, you dance."
"I don't know how to dance."
"Neither do I." She stood, offered him her hand. "We'll learn together."
Marty looked at her hand. Then at her face. Then at the dance floor below, where the lights seemed to pulse in time with the bass, where bodies moved in ways that made his head spin.
"Okay," he said.
He took her hand.
---
The dance floor was chaos and joy and sweat and glitter.
Beth dragged Marty into the thick of it, her body already moving before her feet hit the floor. She wasn't a good dancer—not in the technical sense—but she danced with the same abandon she brought to everything else. Full commitment. Zero self-consciousness. Pure instinct.
Marty tried to match her. He really did. But his limbs moved like they were controlled by a confused puppeteer, and the result was a kind of awkward shuffle that made Beth laugh so hard she had to stop and wipe her eyes.
"You're terrible," she shouted over the music.
"I know!"
"I love it!"
She grabbed his hands and spun him—a clumsy, off-balance spin that almost sent him tumbling into a group of women in matching silver dresses.
They didn't care. They just kept dancing.
Bruce and Felicity found a spot near the edge of the floor—not too crowded, not too empty. Felicity moved with a shy precision, her body finding the rhythm easily, while Bruce stood beside her like a man who'd suddenly forgotten which way was north.
"I don't dance," he admitted.
"Neither do I."
"You look fine."
"I took ballet for two years in middle school."
"That's dancing."
"That's ballet. It's different."
He grinned—that charming, lopsided grin that made her stomach flip. "Then teach me."
"I don't think it's teachable."
"Try me."
She did. It didn't work. They ended up laughing through it, his hands on her hips, her back against his chest, both of them moving more like they were trying to escape each other than dance together.
Mai found her own rhythm almost immediately.
She moved through the crowd like she owned it, her body a fluid counterpoint to the beat, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders. Within thirty minutes, she'd danced with three different men—all beautiful, all tipsy, all completely under her spell.
The first was a tall blonde with green eyes and hands that wandered. She let him touch her waist, let him pull her close, then spun away with a laugh that said maybe later and probably never.
The second was shorter but broader, with shoulders that filled out his shirt and a laugh that boomed over the music. She danced with him for one song, two, her back to his chest, her hips rolling against him in a rhythm that was less dancing and more suggestion.
The third was someone she recognized.
"Marcus?"
The man froze. He was handsome—dark hair, brown skin, the kind of smile that probably got him out of traffic tickets—and he was already backing away.
"Mai. Hey. Hi. I, uh—"
"What are you doing here?"
"I was... I'm here with friends."
Mai looked around. His "friends" were conspicuously absent.
"Right." She crossed her arms. "You know, I'm still waiting for that footage you promised me."
"I've been busy."
"Busy deleting your old posts?"
Marcus winced. "Look, my editor thought—"
"Your editor thought?"
"That maybe we should limit our liability."
"We." Mai's voice went flat. "You said we. That's adorable."
"I'll send you the footage."
"You'll send me the footage that mysteriously cuts off at the exact moment the serpent appears?"
"About that—"
"Save it, Marcus." She held up her phone. "I've already found other sources."
Marcus stared at her. Then at the phone. Then at her face, which was no longer smiling.
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
She wasn't. Mai knew a marine biologist with a submersible who'd picked up something on sonar three days ago. But Marcus didn't need to know that.
"I'll get you the footage," he said. "Give me a week."
"I'll give you nothing." She pocketed the phone. "I'm not some amateur. I'm Mai Harata. My mother rides dragons. My father's an English lord. I don't do amateurs."
She spun and walked away, leaving Marcus standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, looking like a man who'd just lost something important without understanding how.
---
Above the chaos, on a balcony overlooking the dance floor, Mandy sat with her back against the glass railing and a drink in her hand that she hadn't touched in twenty minutes.
Jess was beside her—close enough that their thighs touched, far enough that it was still casual. Ben had claimed the spot next to Jess, his arm draped along the back of the seat, his fingers occasionally brushing Jess's shoulder in a gesture that might have been accidental if it wasn't so deliberate.
Kim stood at the railing, her sword resting against her hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. She watched the floor below with the focused attention of a predator—not hunting, but cataloging. Every exit. Every potential threat. Every person who moved wrong.
"LeFaye's not stupid enough to attack us here," Mandy said.
"I know."
"You're still watching."
"I'm always watching." Kim's eyes didn't leave the floor. "You're the one sitting in the corner with your back to the wall."
Mandy looked down at herself. She was. Her back was literally to the wall, her body angled so she could see everyone in the room.
"Shit."
"Exactly."
Ben leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "It's not a bad instinct. After this morning..."
"This morning was a dream," Jess said. "A literal dream. It can't hurt us here."
"LeFaye is a dreamwalker," Kim said. "Dreams are his weapon. But you're right—he's wounded. He won't act again tonight."
"How do you know?"
"Because I would have felt him." Kim's hand dropped to her sword, fingers tracing the hilt. "He's not here. I'd know."
Mandy wanted to believe her. More importantly, she did believe her. But that didn't stop her from checking the exits.
Below, she caught sight of Calista.
Her sister was on the dance floor, moving through the crowd like a ghost in a machine. She wasn't dancing—not exactly. She was walking, but her steps matched the beat, and her body swayed with a liquid grace that made it look like dancing. Every time a man approached her, she'd turn, smile, and the man would back away with a dazed expression, like he'd forgotten what he was about to say.
Elf-glamour.
Mandy had seen it before, but it still made her skin prickle. It was one thing to know your sister could control people's perceptions. It was another to watch it happen, to see someone's face go slack and stupid as Calista gently redirected them somewhere else.
She could have used it on LeFaye.
The thought came unbidden. Unwelcome. Mandy pushed it away.
Calista glanced up. Their eyes met across the distance, and Calista smiled—a real smile, warm and tired and a little bit sad. She made a tiny gesture with her hand: Are you okay?
Mandy nodded.
Calista turned away.
The music shifted—something slower, deeper, a song that vibrated in the chest and made the lights lower. On the floor, the crowd moved closer, bodies pressing, hands finding hands.
And Mark led Katrina to the center of it.
---
They'd been dancing for hours.
Or maybe it was minutes. Time had stopped having meaning somewhere between the second drink and the moment Mark had first taken her hand, and Katrina had stopped counting.
He was a good dancer. Not showy—he didn't spin her or dip her or do anything that would draw attention to them as a couple. He just moved. Simple, steady, his hand on her waist, his eyes on her face.
"People are staring," she murmured.
"Let them."
"I don't like being stared at."
"Then look at me."
She did. It was easy—easier than it should have been. His eyes were dark, warm, crinkled at the corners like he spent a lot of time smiling.
"You're good at this," she said.
"At dancing?"
"At making people feel comfortable."
"Am I making you comfortable?"
She considered lying. Then she considered the truth.
"Yes."
He smiled. It was a nice smile. The kind of smile that made her want to tell him things she hadn't told anyone—not even Calista, not even Mandy, not even the people who had pulled her out of the void and back into the world.
"You know," he said, "this might be presumptuous, but... how old are you?"
"You're right. That's presumptuous."
"I said it might be."
She laughed. It came out unexpected, a bright sound that seemed to surprise both of them.
"I'm nineteen," she said.
Mark's hand paused on her waist. "I'm sorry?"
"Nineteen. Technically."
"Technically?"
"I was nineteen when I went into the void." She said it simply, without drama, like she was describing a trip to the grocery store. "I was in there for thirty years. But time doesn't exist in the void. So I'm still nineteen. Technically."
Mark stared at her. The music continued around them, the bodies moved, the lights pulsed, but for a moment, they stood still.
"That's..." He struggled for a word. "That's horrifying."
"It is."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't do it."
"No, but someone did." His jaw tightened. "Someone trapped you there."
"It's complicated."
"It's wrong."
She should have appreciated the anger on her behalf. She should have found it sweet, or touching, or something other than what it was—a window into something she didn't understand.
"Does it bother you?" she asked.
"What?"
"The age thing. Me being technically nineteen and actually... whatever I am."
"I'm thirty-six."
"That's not what I asked."
Mark was quiet for a moment. His hand moved on her waist, pulled her slightly closer.
"It would bother me," he said, "if you were actually nineteen. But you're not. You're someone who's lived through something I can't imagine, and you're still here, and you're still dancing with me. That's what I care about."
She should have felt relieved. Instead, she felt something else. Something heavier.
"You don't have to say things like that."
"I know."
"I'm not fragile."
"I know."
"I'm just... trying to figure out how to be human again."
His hand cupped her face. Gentle. Warm. His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch without meaning to.
"You're doing great," he said.
And for a moment—just a moment—Katrina let herself believe him.
---
The kiss happened at the end of the night.
They'd danced until the lights came up, until the crowd thinned, until the music faded to something soft and slow and done. Mark walked her to the stairs, his hand in hers, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For letting me in."
She stopped at the top of the stairs. Below, she could see the group—Mandy and Jess talking quietly, Ben and Kim comparing something on their phones, Calista watching from the corner with an expression that was hard to read.
"Thank you for showing me this," she said. "It's... it's been a while since I've done anything like this."
"I gathered."
She laughed. "Was it that obvious?"
"Only to someone paying attention."
"And you were?"
"I was."
He stepped closer. His hand found her waist. Her hand found his chest.
"I'd like to see you again," he said. "If you want."
"I want."
He kissed her.
It was gentle at first—a question, not a demand. His lips were soft and warm, and they moved against hers like they had all the time in the world. She kissed him back, her hand sliding up to his neck, her fingers threading through his hair.
The world narrowed to this. To him. To the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms and the way he made a small sound against her lips like she was something precious.
When they broke apart, she was breathless.
"Wow," she whispered.
He grinned. "Yeah?"
"Don't get cocky."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He kissed her again—quick, teasing, a promise of more—and then he was gone, heading down the stairs, out the door, into the night.
From below, the group erupted.
"Holy shit!" Marty exclaimed. "Katrina!"
"Get it, girl!" Maryam shouted.
"That was smooth," Ben admitted.
"That was very smooth," Jess agreed.
Felicity was clapping. Kim was smirking. Calista was smiling—a real smile, warm and proud, like a sister watching her sibling do something brave.
Katrina descended the stairs on shaky legs. Her lips were still tingling. Her heart was still racing.
"That was—" she started.
But then chaos erupted.
Mai was back on the dance floor. Or rather, Mai was back on the dance floor with another man—a tall, broad-shouldered stranger with a smile that was too wide and hands that were too friendly. Mandy saw it first. She was already moving before she fully understood what she was doing.
"Beth!"
Beth was on her feet, Marty forgotten, her eyes scanning the room. "I see her."
They descended on Mai like a pair of hawks.
"Time to go," Mandy said, grabbing Mai's arm.
"I'm fine!"
"You're drunk."
"I'm not drunk. I'm—I'm delightfully tipsy."
"You're going home."
The stranger looked confused. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," Beth said, her smile bright and sharp. "Mai was just leaving."
"I was not just leaving. I was just getting started—"
Mandy pulled. Beth pushed. Together, they wrestled Mai away from the stranger, who watched them go with an expression of profound disappointment.
"You're ruining my night!" Mai protested.
"Your night was ruined the second you started talking to that guy."
"That guy was nice!"
"That guy was looking for a hookup."
"So was I!"
"Then think about it tomorrow," Mandy said, "when you're not covered in champagne and trying to start a fight with a guy named Marcus."
Mai paused. "How do you know about Marcus?"
"Because I know everything. It's my job."
They managed to get her out the door, still protesting, still beautiful, still Mai.
---
Mark walked three blocks before he stopped.
The alley was empty—a narrow throat between two buildings, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders rigid, and closed his eyes.
The kiss was still on his lips.
Her taste. Her warmth. The way she'd looked at him when he said she was doing great—like he was the only thing in the world.
He wanted to go back. He wanted to take her home. He wanted to tell her everything—the mission, the lies, the truth.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he'd memorized but never saved.
"It's me," he said when the line connected.
"Report." Evelyn Shaw's voice was cold, precise, the voice of a woman who had spent decades learning how to hide her emotions.
"I made contact. We spent the evening together. She's... receptive."
"Good. The plan is proceeding."
"Yes."
A pause. Then: "Is there a problem?"
Mark opened his eyes. The streetlamp flickered. A rat scurried through the shadows. The world was cold and dark and very far from the warmth of the club.
"No," he said. "No problem."
"Then keep me informed."
The line went dead.
Mark stared at the phone for a long time. His jaw was tight. His hands were shaking.
He was the Green Knight. He had been a Golden Wand for over a decade. He had taken lives. Changed them. Saved them. He had done things that would haunt most people for the rest of their days, and he had done them without flinching because he believed in the mission.
He believed in the mission now.
Katrina was the key. The connection to Mandy and Felicity. The weak point in their defenses. Through her, Evelyn would reach the others, and through the others, she would reach the artifacts she'd been searching for since her escape.
Katrina was a target.
Nothing more.
He repeated it to himself three times.
By the third time, he almost believed it.
His phone buzzed. A text from Katrina: Had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for being so kind.
He stared at the screen.
Then he typed back: The pleasure was mine. Sweet dreams.
He hit send.
He slid the phone back into his pocket.
He leaned against the wall, and he stayed there for a long, long time, staring at nothing, feeling the ghost of her lips against his and knowing—God help him, knowing—that he was falling, and that the fall might destroy them both.