Page 50 of Faun Over Me

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Avery

For as much as she dreaded the dinner, it was no worse than any of the other political elbow-rubbing social engagements she’d been forced to attend as a kid. Cooky had made fettuccine Alfredo with a medley of grilled vegetables, and while the men of Lunar Asset Management launched into a discussion of the camp’s future prospects, Avery put her effort into keeping her mouth full instead of saying something she would regret. Just like she had for countless business dinners hosted by her father. The main difference now, of course, was Mac.

Nathan Payne demanded his children behave, smile, and stay silent, no matter what was said at the table. Over the years, Avery had become skilled at half-listening to his guests’ posturing and pride. Whether lobbyists, politicians, CEOs, or local commerce leaders, they were all aligned with her father, and their opinions were just as crude and backward.

When she was fourteen, she won the privilege of speaking at dinner, so long as her words were demure and docile and spoken only to agree with whatever fell out of the men’s mouths at the table. She lost the privilege when she was nineteen and dared to express what her father called an “inappropriate” opinion regarding the funding of Planned Parenthood.

Mac, unlike her father, wanted to involve her in the conversation. Not in any way that felt like she was parading Nathan Payne’s daughter around for everyone to see, but she couldn’t quite escape the feeling that that was precisely what she was doing.

The director had all but admitted to it, regardless of how well she knew Avery’s resume or could recite her qualifications for the job—which she had done at least three times since Cricket left with Ramble. It felt like Mac was trying to convince herself that Avery was the best choice when they both knew full well that she wasn’t, and in that effort, kept dragging her into the conversation around future plans for the camp, what funding they would need, and the organizations she had targeted for fundraising.

Avery had to admit, as upset as she was to learn she’d been a tool used by both her father and her boss, Mac’s plans for the camp and her desire to involve Avery and hear her thoughts were chipping away at the wall that had been thrust between them, even if she would never get the chance to come back after this summer and see those plans enacted.

Still, no matter how many times Mac attempted to drag Avery into this conversation, she was being carted out and placed on display, sandwiched between two suited men and being leered at by a third.

And not just any third.

Troy Wilkolak. The Georgia Man.

He sat across from her at the small dining room table, his attention as heavy and aggressive as his cologne. She’d caught a whiff of it the moment he entered the cabin, the lavender and wintergreen tickling her nose when he handed off his coat. Now, enclosed in the tight dining room, the scent was overpowering and undeniably the same one she’d caught in her cabin and on the monster in the wood.

Troy Wilkolak was inhuman, but what was he?

“Of course, we’ll have to adjust your proposal to reflect the leanings of our target audience,” one of the asset managers, a lean, rangy man who had introduced himself as Camden, said.

Mac froze, and a sauce-drenched chunk of zucchini fell off of her fork. “What sort of adjustments?”

“The ratio,” another of the Georgia Men said. Avery thought his name was Josh, but they all wore identical suits and identical haircuts; it was hard to tell them apart. Except for Troy. “A fifty-fifty human-inhuman will never fly with some of the people we would be targeting. If you alter the acceptance rate to the camp to, say, seventy-five twenty-five, we could capture the interest of more conservatively aligned parties.”

“Good thinking, Thad,” another of the men said. “Involve the wives, you know how they get. They want to be seen as socially progressive, but not too socially aggressive, as it were.”

The old anger rose. That banked fury Avery felt at every one of these dinners. Men arguing what was best for women and children. For the country they were becoming increasingly out of touch with. Who were they to decide how Mac ran the camp? Elkwater was privately funded through donations and Mac’s tireless work. There were no shareholders to please, no palms to grease. Why was she even entertaining this dinner?

“That would go against everything this camp stands for.” Mac threw her fork down, splashing Alfredo sauce on the sleeve of the asset manager beside her. He frowned and brushed it off with a napkin. “Some of these kids have nowhere to go. They have no opportunities in the world thanks to the”—she crooked her fingers in air quotes—“‘more conservatively aligned parties’ you want to target for money. Elkwater fosters their talent. This place nurtures those kids by giving them direction, a heading, a chance outside of these hills.”

“Well, little lady,” Thad started. Mac visibly bristled, curling her hand into a fist on the table. “Be that as it may, this is the reality of the world. Inhumans are still new—”

“They’ve been here for over a decade,” Mac argued. Red crawled up from the collar of her button-down and into her cheeks, barely hidden by the light layer of foundation she’d worn for dinner. “Hardly new.”

“And the world is hardly ready to fully accept them,” Thad finished. He glared at Avery, tipping his head slightly. It was a gesture of acknowledgment, lending credence to his next words, but his tone was derogatory enough that Avery slunk down in her chair on Mac’s behalf. “You’ve done great work here with the integration, but imagine what you could do with excess funding.”

“It’s a minor adjustment.” Troy pointed his fork at Mac, the tines gleaming in the lamplight. “In the grand scheme of things.”

Avery blinked, startled by the clean utensil, and peered at his plate—untouched. She glanced around the table as he spoke, noting the same of each of the asset managers’ plates. Their meals were untouched, and the utensils held in their hands unused.

What?

“We ran the numbers, and at seventy-five twenty-five, with full funding from our target donors, you’d be able to secure enough ROI after the fifth fiscal to adjust the acceptance rate without any real detriment to your donations,” said Camden. “I could have the boys put together a projection at, say, seventy-thirty and see where we land, but there is our broker’s fee to consider.”

“I—” Mac worked her jaw, voice creaking in her throat. “Five fiscal years?”

“For the audience we’re targeting?” Camden chuckled. “Five is optimistic unless Gore wins, which, c’mon.”

A torrent of laughter broke out around the table. Mac clenched her jaw, lips pressed together so hard they turned white.

Avery jumped to her feet. “More wine?”

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