Page 112 of Shades of Silver City

"Further examination reveals fae may possess soul-shades in spectral colors beyond the perceptible range of the human eye…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

CHAPTER 26

FANTASIA

Ireach up and accept the mystery man’s hand. He knows who I am—what I am—and something tells me running won’t do anything for me.

In the moody lighting, I can’t see what color radiates from his body, but based on his arrogant demeanor and the way he called Silver City his city, I’m willing to bet he’s an important man. Surely he wouldn’t do anything to me here.

We walk to the very center of the dance floor. People scurry out of our way.

The man draws me in closer, and for a moment, we stand there with our bodies unbearably close, just observing one another. A nervous laugh bubbles out of my mouth.

His head tilts to the side, and the corner of his lips quirks. “Something entertaining?”

“I can’t dance,” I choke out.

“Follow my lead,” he says.

Before I can protest, he pulls my arms up around his neck and plants his strong hands on my waist. Our bodies gently touch as we sway, and I’m not sure if I’m annoyed or grateful that the music has slowed to something that barely warrants movement.

Glancing around, I notice most of the dancers are moving similarly to us, albeit much more closely—more intimately—with their fronts fully flush against one another. One woman nearby rests her head on her dance partner’s shoulder.

Thankfully, the man makes no move to pull me closer.

“What do you want?” I whisper through the lump in my throat.

“The lights are nice, no?” he murmurs. His body goes still for a second, before a low, quiet chuckle escapes him. “The red is harsh—bold enough to make a statement. Powerful.”

He tilts his head down, giving me a knowing look. I try to ignore how beautiful his face is. How decadently sinfully his body moves against mine.

My cheeks heat. I hate my involuntary response to him.

“Yeah, I get it,” I mutter, scanning the room over his shoulder, hoping to see Archer.

The man’s body vibrates as he laughs again. Then he stops moving. One of his hands slides sensually up my spine until it grips the back of my neck beneath my hair. His fingers bite into my skin—not enough to hurt me but enough to send a searing bolt of danger through me.

“The red eats up all other colors—the predator of the color wheel. Perfectly concealing even the most vibrant of soul-shades.” Leaning forward until his lips brush over mine—not a kiss, more of a promise—he says, “Tell me, pretty butterfly—”

“Get the fuck away from her,” Archer says from behind me, his voice low and threatening.

Sweet relief floods my veins.

The strange man releases me. “Why, hello, Archer Acciai.”

Archer tugs me to him. His warm, firm body presses against my backside as he wraps an arm protectively around me. I shudder, relaxing into his touch.

“Arlo Osiander,” Archer spits. “Finally, I can put a face to the notorious name.”

“I’m impressed with your little show at the lab tonight.” The mystery man in the horned mask winks. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” Archer makes a deep grumbling sound. The man chuckles. “No worrying. We shall keep that our little secret.”

Then, not sparing Archer a glance, he stuffs his hands into his suit pockets and turns on his heel, gliding into the crowd.

Releasing me, Archer spins me toward him and cups my chin, bringing my gaze to him.

“Are you all right?” His eyes roam my body, as if he’s hunting for some obvious damage.

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