"That went well," Atticus observed mildly, watching Leigh circumvent the ever-growing mass of people attempting to push their way into the Constable's inner circle. The need to ingratiate themselves to their host seemed overwhelming.
From a distance, we watched Leigh paused once on her way unwillingly to join her parents, only to down her champagne and swap the empty glass out for a fresh one.
"The poor girl was willing to take a bat to the kneecaps of all your potential wives for you, and that's the thanks she gets?" I tutted. "Tossed straight to the wolves to give yourself a chance to escape. It won't even work, I'm afraid, at least not for long. You're far more interesting to everyone here than she is. They'll come searching for you again soon."
Atticus wasted no time flipping that same narrative on me. "You conveniently forgot to mention that you're nearly as infamous as I am. If you hurry to catch up to her, I'm certain my dear, dear mother can spin your fame to her benefit in no time at all."
"Oh, no she can't — I don't mingle."
His false smile grew fraction of a millimeter. "I don't, either. You can imagine I'm quite out of practice after all these years."
"Not so hopeless a case as me, I assure you," I replied. "You might have caught my press conference the other day? They're lucky I didn't projectile vomit all over their nice, expensive cameras on live TV like a demonically possessed horror movie nightmare."
From the moment I first saw him mere minutes prior, Atticus wore an unerring veneer of detached pleasantness as easily as he wore his perfectly pressed suit, draped in black from head to toe, save for a single white carnation on his lapel, so I delighted in seeing that perfect mask slip, that one corner of his mouth twisting up into something not carefully curated to glide him past people's defenses.
"You paint quite the compelling image," he said dryly.
"People tend not to like my descriptions. Can't imagine why."
He matched my flat tone. "A true mystery."
By that point, the group haranguing the Constable had began encroaching into our personal space. Although I was inclined to stand my ground on principle - I was there first, after all - one carelessly drove their elbow into my lower back and moved on with their day without even a half-hearted word of apology. I caught my balance before inertia could force me to fall into Atticus's arms, a prospect so utterly mortifying that I couldn't even spare the emotional space to muster enough annoyance to turn around and clobber my attacker.
"Sorry," I muttered in passing to another man I accidentally shoulder-checked, because, unlike whoever bumped me, I had manners, but he hardly seemed to notice me until I spoke.
He lowered his gaze from a point on the domed ceiling overhead and turned his neck just enough to fix me with one eye the exact sickly green color of olives. It hit me that the only part of him visible beneath the loose swaths of Guild Gray was that single eye, and I took an unconscious half-step back.
"Sorry," I repeated, practically a stammer.
I quickly placed him as the other Super tagging along in the Constable's entourage, the one I hadn't known. I wondered if his anonymity was by design rather than coincidence, because his very uniform seemed manufactured to push him further into the background. A ghost. Thin strips of fabric rose from beneath long-sleeves to wind around his shoulders, encircling his neck, and then wrapped approximately eighty percent of his face below his hairline, as though partially mummified. Whoever he was, he didn't care to dress for the fancy occasion, instead donning what I presumed to be his traditional uniform.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Super•Villainous
काल्पनिक"I've been looking for you." There was an unexpected rasp to his voice, a hint of desperation. He stretched out one hand, as if to brush it across my cheek, or perhaps wrap it around my throat. Oddly enough, I didn't know which option frightened me...
