Page 19 of Luna Ascending

Chapter Fourteen

Freya's POV

The place is jaw-dropping – we're in an actual I-shit-you-not ballroom, there are chandeliers everywhere and waiting staff for your every whim. Despite all that, it's agonising. I'm paraded in front of what feels like an entire world of relatives, all dressed like royalty and moving with far more elegance and grace than I can muster in my borrowed heels.

Women peer at me, several looking distinctly jealous, others openly judge me, and the men ogle. Polite society or not, lecherous old men are still very much a thing. I seethe to myself as I remove my arm from the clutches of yet another tuxedo wearing feathery moustached French uncle. This shit is wearing!

Marc vanishes just into the second hour, exactly what he promised not to do. He deposits me with a group of his friends 'for a minute'.

The crowd of elegant men and women flutter around me briefly, taking interest as if I'm some new toy, before mostly getting distracted and floating gracefully away. I'm left with a few boisterous young men, all of whom are blatantly trying to one-up each other.

One man, Benjamin, is distinctly worse for wear already. He insists slurringly that I call him Benji, 'because all the pretty girls do' and seems intent on boring me to death. I have to try really hard not to focus on the crumbs inhabiting his moustache as he speaks at me.

“The problem you see Freya” he slurs “ the problem with Cava... is that it just isn't the samequalityas Champagne”

His voice seems to get louder and more obnoxious as he leans over. Good grief, is that a sword he's reaching for? I shrink back, alarmed.

“The problem” he continues, pausing to grab a unopened bottle of champagne from a passing waiter “... the problem is that not even the glass is good quality.”

He aims the sword toward the top of the bottle.

“The problem, chérie Freya, is that one can't ever take the top off a damn bottle of Cava cleanly with one's sword!”

He aims, remarkably accurately for a drunk man, at the top of the bottle which shoots off at the whispering touch of the metal blade.

Waiters dive forward with glasses as the champagne flows. Members of the crowd clap politely before turning away, obviously having seen the party trick many times before.

I accept a glass, groaning inwardly. Whoarethese people that even talk like this, like this is normal conversation. While he's momentarily distracted hanging the sword back on the wall I make an escape and sneak off in search of Marc.

I teeter through the hall, walking as normally as the blasted heels let me. It's possible the amount of alcohol I've had isn't helping either.

Finally I spot Marc's immaculate suit and perfectly coiffured curls in one of the vestibules. He's sideways on to me, talking to a French countess he introduced earlier, and I can't help but notice what a striking looking man he is.

A surprising prick of jealously needles me to stalk closer. The countess looks over Marc's shoulder and squarely into my eyes before smiling malevolently. I watch as the French woman glides her body hard up against Marc.

I'm so close now I can hear her purr “so lovely to get some time alone with you again Marciel” before she locks her arms behind his back and presses her lips into his.

“No fucking way!!” my mind explodes in anger. I am not putting up with being paraded around his relatives like some show-horse, and being dumped with his stupidly pompous arrogant friends, for him to abandon me at the first opportunity to lock lips with some French aristocratic harlot.

I feel really odd. I can't reason with myself, it's not like I'm emotionally attached to Marc. All the pent up frustrations and disappointments from the past weeks boil over.

I scream, loudly. It's as if I'm vibrating with a raw power I've never experienced before. My whole body is on fire and deadly cold all at once. My vision tunnels and I'm suddenly hideously nauseous and a thunderous pain splits my head.

Vaguely aware of a shocked looking Marc starting towards me, I turn and bolt into the ballroom. The place is in uproar – the nearest chandelier bursts into a million pieces shattering over a screaming crowd of guests.

I have just enough time to register that every guest in the ballroom is clutching their head, before my sight fades into blackness and I hit the floor.

Chapter Fifteen

Freya's POV

I groan, trying to peel one sticky eyelid away from the other. This is the equivalent of my worst ever hangover multiplied by going a boxing round with a giant, then sticking my head in a hornet's nest. My mouth is furry, my ears are buzzing and the light creeping past my eyelids is stabbing my brain, like a sword.

I groan remembering the buffoon and his stupid sword trick. Everything from that point on floods back in a rush and I sit bolt upright in alarm. Just sitting up nearly makes me vomit. I don't ever remember feeling so weak. Squinting against the harsh ceiling light I look around the room warily.

The plushly lined room is filled with books. My groaning causes the small group of people talking excitedly a few meters away to turn towards me en masse. I recognise a few faces from the evening's introductions but my muzzy brain can't put names to them.

A tall thin gentleman strides over puffing on a delicate black cigarette. For such a skinny man his voice is so loud it goes through me and I inadvertently flinch, covering my ears.

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