Chapter 5 - Conversations at Parties with Strangers

Strings of light hung heavy on tree branches; luminous buds twice-reflected in the river running through the heart of the city. Party-goers, margaritas and beers in hand, walked the banks and underpasses. They enjoyed the humid evening and clear weather that graced the Texan capital.

Spike had seen many ports and many cities, most of them within the Americas. San Antonio, like New Orleans in the United States, was one of those cities that felt transported here from somewhere else. The Mexican influence was strong, seen in the murals on the sides of buildings, in the architecture, and in the food.

For once, food was far from Spike’s needs and wants. He was much too nervous. Nevertheless, the GSA's new hire forced himself inside the grand Hotel Vermillion, its lobby adorned by a colorful Diego Rivera mural wrapped around the walls. People in gowns and tuxedos filtered in from the outdoors, presenting their invitations to the rather intimidating security—broad men and women styled in tuxedos and luchador masks. Spike wasn’t sure if they were actual spellbreakers, but they certainly looked the part.

This is definitely Colt and Buck’s party, Spike thought, tugging on his sleeves and his bowtie, trying to make sure everything fit. The navy suit Buck had procured for him (a rental, as he had been warned several times the last few days) was both too tight and too lose. His whole presentation that evening seemed the hodgepodge influence of several mentors and classmates. Coach Liuliu had cajoled him into trimming his messy hair, insisting he wear it slicked back. Buck suggested wearing navy colors, to which Spike offered no resistance--it was his signature look after all. Upon over hearing Buck ask Spike if he wanted to wear a tie or bowtie, Cian even mumbled that Spike should go with the traditional tie option. When Spike picked the bowtie out of spite—and the order had already been put through—Cian later grinned and told him that the bowtie was his real choice all along, knowing Spike would choose the opposite of whatever he’d been told.

“How dare he make me look good,” Spike grumbled, checking himself out in the mirror. He didn’t look half bad, of course, but this was just not his scene. Spike was the naughty-boy-next-door. Approachable. Rough around the edges. The kind who could charm a guy’s mom while giving him a handjob underneath the table. When it came to parties, he was content to invite a few friends over for pizza, board games, and beers (and handjobs underneath the table). All of this classy, high-faluting nonsense? It blew. Worse, Spike had no life-raft to speak of, no wingmen, wingwomen, or wingtheys he could bounce off socially.

Dejected, and feeling deeply insecure, Spike crept up the marble staircase to the ballroom, stopping on the landing (which was only just slightly larger than his and Kengo’s room) to admire all the lilies and roses dripping out of the giant urns. Apparently, this had been Rosa and Buck’s idea. As he quietly regarded the flowers, a great shadow fell across him, and he suddenly overcome with the most unusual sensation. His head swam, thoughts scattered into different directions.

Spike turned around and stabilized himself, rubbing his eyes, trying to focus his vision on a party guest coming up from the opposite staircase. At first, he thought he was seeing things, or someone had slipped something into his drink (which wasn’t likely, as he had nothing to drink yet). This person coming up the stairs couldn't possibly be this tall. 

Now, Spike had met a lot of giant men (and women) over the last two weeks, but by far this was easily the largest human he’d ever seen—even bigger than Mr. Iron! The man, or god, in the well-tailored, silky, royal blue suit finally touched their polished shoes down on the marble landing. They had to be at least two ‘Spikes’ tall. With a dark complexion, and long, braided hair adorned with gold bangles, they were without compare. All Spike knew is that they were impossibly handsome, with a well-trimmed, slight beard, and that their neck and fingers dripped with gold jewellery.

Attractive? Certainly so, but beyond the scope of Spike’s comprehension. All the young spellbreaker could do was stare in awe at this absolute giant of a man, and pray they were not affiliated with Firebird.

Oh goddess, he’s coming this way. He’s…he’s gonna eat me!

The man’s shoulders dropped, and he made a sweeping, fidgety gesture, causing his millions of rings and baubles to jingle. “Habibi, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to go down to the garden?”

His voice was not at all what Spike expected. Dignified, yes, and deep enough—but nasally, almost cartoonish. His accent was impossible to place, as was any feature that might distinguish his origins. North African, perhaps, or Middle Eastern.

Spike finally forced his lower jaw back into place and looked over his shoulder to see who this god was talking to. There were no other party-goers behind him. In fact, it felt like this landing had been entirely displaced from reality, that strange, fever-dream sensation still holding sway.

So, Spike did his best to get a handle on this awkward encounter. “Hello…giant man. Have we me before?”

He hoped that was the right answer.

The dashing colossus cocked his head to the side, a somewhat puppy-dog movement, and tapped his finger to his chin. Every glance, every gesture, was dramatic and somewhat off-kilter. Spike was now greatly concerned that this stranger wasn’t just a muscle beast (had to be a body-builder, or magickally enhanced) but crazy as well.

Finally, the man snapped is fingers, a sound so crisp that Spike flinched. “Ah, your lapel...” He leaned in close--intimately close--giving Spike a waft of exotic cologne. Smelled sweet and burning, like incense. 

“Not yet, it seems,” he said, before giving Spike a graceful bow. He turned away. “A thousand pardons.”

Spike, dumbstruck, watched the man moved down the stairs with athletic grace. The odd sensation in his head abated. He blinked, and suddenly there were other guests around him, giving him somewhat odd glances, wondering what this attractive, short young man was doing standing on a staircase and looking out into space. Confused, Spike moved on.

Grateful to enter the ballroom, and in awe of its size and grandeur, Spike turned to the nearest waiter (also wearing a luchador mask) and picked off a champagne flute full of amber, bubbling liquid.

“I need this,” Spike choked, taking a long gulp. He wasn’t used to champagne. He made a face. How do rich people even drink this fancy stuff?

The ballroom was built in the shape of a circle, with a polished marble floor, and great pillars supporting the upper level. Spike craned his head to get a better look at the painted ceiling, which depicted two detailed figures. The dark skinned woman in the billowing, cloud-colored dress, resplendent in rainbow halo, was The Goddess--Aethrin. The other, a muscular man in gold, with a headdress and epaulets made of green and red feathers, depicted a god unfamiliar to Spike. Based on what he knew of the city and its origins, he might have been a god of the Nahua.

So taken in by the painting, and the overwhelming amount of guests in the room, Spike barely noticed the handsome, young man sneak up alongside him.

“You look a bit green around the gills there, pardner.”

Spike went to give Buck an annoyed look, but instead choked back his champagne when he saw just how damn sexy Buck sported his suit. A dark green, with a masculine floral pattern. He too just looked one size too small for it, but it somehow made him even more charming. Stubble completely shaven, hair gelled back, and glasses swapped for contact lenses, the Tamberly heir was barely recognizable.

Of course, he was handsome in any mode, Spike thought. He could wear a paper bag and look better than most men he knew…and come to think of it, Buck sporting just a paper bag wasn’t that terrible an image in Spike’s mind. In fact, he knew just where he’d place it…

“Did I sound just like my dad?” Buck said, giving Spike his Cheshire cat grin.

Spike threw back the champagne in one gulp. “He-hey Buck. Thanks again for the suit.”

Buck eyed Spike up and down, respectfully. Like, actually respectfully. “It looks great on you. Not that much wouldn’t.”

It was a rare thing for Spike to feel bashful in front of a boy. It was good to reminded he was still human. “Same to you,” Spike blushed, with half a mind to take Buck by the arm and suggest they ditch this joint for margaritas along the river walk. Of course, Rosa being Buck’s date, she was the only person on Earth whose man (official or no) he wouldn’t steal. Mostly because he feared her. Those thorns on her conjured rose branches looked very sharp...

Spike was glad for Buck’s company, as he felt he had just been seconds away from a panic attack. “I don’t know how to do this fancy sh-“ he stopped himself, catching sight of Colt (looking like a Dallas oil baron in his suit and bolo tie) charming some rather dignified looking attendees a few feet away. “...Stuff!”

Spike expected Buck to gently rebuff him or give him so dreck about needing to put on a brave face. Instead, he levelled with him, dropping his guard. “Friend, neither do I. I’m an introvert, to be honest.”

“Really?” Someone as put together, with that air of confidence…it just wasn’t possible!

Buck nodded, but then came the bite. “Yeah. Well. What’s your excuse?” He laughed.

"I don't have one! What do I do?"

"Well, in situations like this, I just fake it til I make it. Your mileage may vary.”

Buck reached into his jacket pocket, made a face (realizing he’d chosen the wrong side), switched his hand, and pulled something small out from his suit.

“Maybe this will help,” he said, placing the object in Spike’s palm. His hands were…very soft. “Every piece of art needs that little finishing touch.”

Spike looked down at the modest, but lovely, silver anchor pin.

He had no words. It was such a small gesture. But it spoke loudly. Spike looked up, at Buck, and met his eyes. There was a spark there, too bright and too sudden, as either man turned away out of shyness.

“Wow,” Spike finally said, upset that a magi like himself couldn’t conjure up more eloquent words of gratitude.

Buck picked the anchor out of Spike’s hand and took off the backing. “Do you mind if I pin you?” Buck asked.

Before Spike could help himself, the flirt took over. “I thought that was my job?”

“I have pro wrestling training too, you know,” Buck said confidently. He grabbed Spike’s lapel—maybe just a bit firmer, and forcefully—than necessary. “You might have magick, Spike, but don’t think that can stop me in the ring. I’m ruthless.”

Spike playfully bit his lip. “I bet you are.” Welp. The bubbles are working! Straight to my head. And not a moment too soon.

“By the way, remind me to get your opinion on something,” Buck whispered, giving his father’s cronies a mischievous look. “Rumor is, the investors are about to give dad a generous endowment.”

But your dad already has a generous endowment. It was a cheeky thought better left unsaid. “What does that mean?”

“Money,” Buck giggled, mischievously. “I’m in charge of providing the school some amenities. So…what do you want?”

"What? Like anything?"

"Not like a hot tub or something super big. But...I dunno. The cafeteria could use some spit and polish, don't you think?"

So could I, Spike thought. “I dunno. Er…a dart board. An ice cream machine?” It was hard for Spike to decide. He’d not been at the GSA for very long. “Something that would make everyone happy, I guess.”

“Hmmm. What kind of music do you like?”

“Umm…” Spike scratched his head, panicking. “Hmm. Let’s see. Brenda Lee. Nina Simone. Wanda Jackson. Buddy Holly. The Stray Cats.”

“Oh, he’s a soul and rockabilly boy!” Buck winked. “Wrong-side-of-the-tracks Spike. Got it. Hey, I gotta get going. There’s a rose I need to tend to. I’ll catch you later, Spike.”

He turned away, leaving Spike star struck, melting into the sea of well-dressed company. Just as he vanished into that crowd, Buck turned back and gave Spike ‘finger guns’. “Remember! Fake it til you make it!”

Alone, but not abandoned, Spike looked down into his empty champagne flute and decided what he needed was two more of these drinks in rapid succession. He looked around for another luchador carrying a trey, and nearly bumped right into an older man and woman barrelling through the ball room like a train off the wheels. They gave Spike no notice, even as he went to yell something rude to them on instinct. He stopped himself short, remembering where he was.

So, taking a note that they were clearly in the midst of a heated conversation, Spike eavesdropped instead. The swarthy man, with a salt-and-pepper beard, leaned in to speak to the eagle-eyed woman with the blue cocktail dress and the expensive looking up-do. They had the air of the upper class around them, Spike thought.

“Has Grigorivich gone mad?” the woman spat. She sounded Alban, probably from England.

“Oh, as if he wasn’t already.”

“He expects us to plop down a spellbreaking ring right in the middle of a damn archaeological site?”

Spike promptly placed his back to the pillar, pretending not to listen—but mostly definitely perking up his ears.

“The Tsar hasn't certified at as such,” the man reassured her. His accent was harder to place. Possibly Mediterranean. He sounded like money. “Provided our surveyors deem the ruins structurally sound, I see no reason why we can’t host the global championship there. It’s unique. It would draw quite a viewership, Marianne.”

The middle-aged woman did not agree. “In the middle of the Russian wilderness…not even Moscow! Yes, this has the Tsar’s rancid stench all over it. He should be worried about affairs at home, not hosting a tournament.”

The man’s eyes darted around the room. “Keep your voice down! No, I wouldn’t doubt if Ol’ Nicky’s rotten fingers were all over this. I am keenly aware of Grigorivich's history with him. Yet, money is money. And who knows what opportunities this might yield if the Tsar is so eager to host us.”

A cold chill creeped up Spike’s back. This was juicy gossip if a world power was involved. Russia wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with the USA at the moment. But when had they ever?

Whatever the issue, the intense-looking woman failed to back down. She moved away, indicating the man should follow. Despite his equally intimidating persona, he relented.

“And you’re not the least bit concerned that this so-called lost city should just suddenly rise up from the depths?” the woman said, her voice slowly fading out of earshot. “No magickal analysis. No digging or documentation done? We might as well hold the global championships in Atlantis, for Goddess’ sake! No. I’m putting my foot down, Kon. This is absurd…”

The contentious couple vanished into the crowd, blocked by the far more welcome site of renowned spellbreaker commentator, Boomer Harlow, and his curvy wife, Ms. Clara—a former commentator herself. Spike tried to make it appear as if he hadn’t just been spying on their conversation, instead reaching out for a passing waitress’s trey, stacked high with sumptuous taquitos, just teasingly out of reach.

Boomer, in his signature Hawaiian shirt (complete with bowtie), moved out of the way, letting the waitress pass and inveterately costing Spike his movement. To make matters worse, he’d just opened Spike up onto their three-way conversation…with Cian, of all people.

“Your transition to the GSA was a big shakeup, sonny.” Boomer said to the red-head in the dark, emerald suit. He raised his glass.

Cian (drinking a beer from the bottle) smiled cordially. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, boy, I said your transition to the GSA was one hell of a shakeup!”

“I…”

Thankfully, Ms. Clara interceded on her quiet husband’s behalf. “Don’t worry, sugar,” she said, throwing her glamorous stole over her shoulder. “He’s hard to understand at parties!” She nodded to her husband. “Let’s go say hi to Colt, hon.”

She moved faster than Spike could duck away, and by then it was already too late—he’d locked eyes with Cian.

“You,” they said at the same time...through gritted teeth.

“You look frustratingly good,” Spike said, glaring, and taking in the sight of Cian’s fresh new haircut. "As always."

Cian was all too glad to spit fire right back at this mortal rival. “Well, well, well. That bowtie I picked out for you really ties that look together, slut! What are you doin’ over here anyway?”

“If you must know, a-hole, I was hoping for those or…orda…whatcha-ma-call-its.”

Cian cocked an eyebrow at Spike. “You mean…hors d'oeuvres?” He took a smug sip of his beer.

“Yeah!” Spike said, raising his fist.

Cian stepped in closer, chest inches away from Spike’s. “Do you even know how to spell hors d'oeuvres, BOYO?”

“Nobody knows how to spell hors d'oeuvres, Cian! Not even the French! I’ll KILL YOU.”

Cian lowered his voice. Spike could smell the beer on his breath (it was kind of hot, actually). “If Colt didn’t tell us to behave, I’d knock your teeth out right now and break your neck between my thighs! Instead, I’m gonna walk away.” He grunted, giving Spike the middle finger behind his back. “Have a good evening, lad.”

Spike seethed. Don’t you DARE tempt with a good time, fuckface. This party sucked. Everyone was either too up their own ass to talk, or they wanted to pick fights. Who knew that social functions were a hell of a lot like spellbreaking matches.

“You look lost, friend.”

Spike sighed, turning to see what new ghoul had decided to engage him now. “I’m not—” He stopped short, blinking. “Hey, it's you!”

The giant man from before (still handsome) smiled down at him. Spike had to crane his neck up a ways to look him in the eyes.

I’m really goin’ nuts here! “Didn’t I just…” Spike shook his head. “I’m confused.”

Thankfully, the massive man looked just perplexed. “Hmm?” Seeing this was getting neither of them anywhere fast, he shrugged and extended his hand. “Salim. Enchanted, I’m sure.”

“Spike,” he said, hoping his hand wasn’t about to be crushed. Salim’s hand completely enveloped his, but it was gentle and, Spike noted, very smooth. If that’s the size of his hand…then…No. Stop. Behave.

 “Are you a spellbreaker?” Spike asked. He had to be. In fact, Spike wondered if he’d just shaken hands with the GSA champion. This has GOT to be the guy.

“And what would make you think that?” Salim laughed, musically. “Oh, if I had a dime for every time someone asked me that question, I would…have maybe two dimes.” He stared out into space for a moment longer than comfortable, before his expression shifted back to friendly. “Alas, I was born with this gorgeous, muscular body but…no magick. The gods must have looked at me sand said, ‘No, no, magick would be far too much. Too powerful! Which is all to say, I do not spellbreak. I merely fund it. I am something of an entrepreneur myself, but I find that to be a dirty word. Well, entrepreneurs are pretty dirty anyway. Us people with money are the scum of the Earth, and someone as pure-hearted and heroic as you--small friend--should have nothing to do with people like us!”

If words were ripples of water, then Salim’s manner of speaking was a tidal wave. And Spike was drowning. “I’m…a bit lost,” he said. He looked askance, hoping to find a way out of this awkward situation.

Salim wouldn’t give him the chance. The giant man slid his arm around Spike’s shoulder (his bicep had to be the size of Spike’s actual head), and before the young spellbreaker could balk, the sweet aroma of spiced cologne washed over him, calming him. It wasn’t the bold move of would-be paramour, but a friendly, almost brotherly gesture.

Spike blushed. “Oh. Ok. That’s happening.”

Salim steered him into the crowd. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, small friend.” Salim let go, giving Spike a little nudge towards a gray haired, friendly looking woman in a cocktail dress. “Hello, have you met my friend, Spike?”

It went on like this for several more encounters. Spike did his best to be polite and to charm. By all accounts, it seemed to work. Every guest—most of them, he imagined, would have been his parent’s age—asked him about his career aspirations, the GSA, and how he found Colt's teaching style. Spike knew enough about schmoozing to come off starry-eyed, but not naïve, and pay lip service to Colt wherever possible. Gratitude was the aim of the game.

“You’re doing great,” Salim said, steering Spike away from a well-dressed, exceedingly friendly man that Spike could have sworn had introduced himself as the President of Kenya.

“You know most of these people?” Spike whispered, failing to notice that his apprehension about this whole shindig had almost vanished by now.

“Hm? A good too many of them. Ah, David back there is a good egg—and you really should take him up on his visit to Nairobi. It is simply divine. If you think New York is high tech, you should see their transportation system! And their casinos.” Salim nodded to a small gathering in the center of the ballroom floor, an audience that Colt played to as if he were in-ring.

“Those are the other investors,” Salim said, with a subtle undercurrent of frustration, Spike thought. “Recognize any of them?”

There was an older, broader gentleman just to the side of Colt. With a slight hunch, but wide shoulders, his most distinguishing feature was the red and teal luchador mask he wore. He carried the air of a retired king or battle-hardened general; dignified and wise.

Spike knew it at once and felt as if he was back in the Atlas Arena again, meeting Colt for the first time. “Wow, Calavera Escarlata.” He wasn’t just a great, veteran spellbreaker—one could argue he was the first. In modern times, anyway.

“One of the greats,” Salim said, reserving a share of respect for the seasoned fighter. “The first global champion, and a hero to many. Well, hero is such an imperfect term, isn’t it? In any case, a fine man. And next to him, Mariposa Obsidian. A pioneer for lady spellbreakers. And, I believe, a former teacher of your classmate, Rosa’s.”

Spike looked to the tall, very scary—and pretty—woman in the black, butterfly mask with pink trim. Her power suit and pink stilettos turned heads in her direction. If Calavera was a king, then she was a warrior queen, scrutinizing Colt’s every word. Not one to trifle with.

Spike recognized the couple on Colt’s right, mirroring the spellbreaker duo. It was the intense-looking gentleman and the woman with the sour expression again, both of them looking out of place among such esteemed, spellbreaking legends.

Recalling that he’d most definitely overheard a conversation he should not have been privy, Spike nevertheless seized the opportunity to put two and two together. He nudged Salim, at once wondering if the other guests thought him Spike’s bodyguard. “Who’s that dork in the suit?”

Salim recoiled in shock. “That’s no way to speak about Colt, your teacher! Oh wow, I’m going to march over there and tell him you said that.”

“WHAT!” Spike squeaked, his hands going to his collar bone. He could already feel the impact of Colt’s piledriver. “No, no I meant—”

“I know who you meant,” Salim laughed. “And you’re right to say so. Don’t apologise for telling the truth. That’s Chairman Konstantinos, head of the ISC. ‘Conman Konstantinos’ to some. He sets the rules and regulations for all of the registered federations, the world over. You’d probably have a more engrossing conversation by talking to that marble pillar behind him. The pillar would probably know more about spellbreaking than him, too. Anyways, next to him his Marianne Zorn. She controls the purse strings. Essentially, she has the final say in all ISC matters, and should really be standing where he is. Not exactly a likable woman, mind you, but she knows what she’s doing. She, at the very least, has a soul. Somewhere. I think.”

Before Spike could even digest that info assault, Salim was off onto the next topic, pointing to the gorgeous ceiling overhead. “Gaudy chandelier,” he said, making a face at the brass and crystal monstrosity hanging above the party guests. “I despise chandeliers. Or ceiling fans. Or ceilings, for that matter! So…easy to hit one’s head on them.”

Between the size of the room and the size of the company, Spike had never felt smaller. He looked up into the tranquil eyes of the Goddess, thinking that the Sisters at Magnus House would probably be in awe of this artwork.

“Yeah. I do love that painting though.”

“Ah, I see you’re man of culture as well.” He looked longingly at the woman enshrouded in rainbow. “Think I met her once. Very long ago. Probably at a party. Lovely woman. Well, I should be over there hob-nobbing with those scoundrels and their deep, deep pockets. But I find them ever so dreadfully boring when they talk about money. I’d much rather talk to the small-folk.”

“Yeah…” Spike trailed off, lost in thought. He suddenly whipped his head back. “Hey, what does that mean, buddy!?”

Salim winked at him. “Well, you are small, are you not? But good things come in small packages. Oh, don’t look at me like that, habibi, that wasn’t innuendo. Or maybe it was. I do so love ambiguity! Gives one an out. Some…plausible deniability. In any case, back to complaining! Yes, those jerks make things so…very complicated. Especially for me. And I do not like being told what to do.”

“I’m shocked people would be brave enough to try it!” Spike pointed out. Without realizing it, he had latched onto Salim, and not even in a desirous sense. Though the man was plainly a god, his strange, contradictory, chaotic nature endeared him to the rookie.

“As am I. And yet…” Salim pointed to the empty champagne flute that Spike had been carting around the last few minutes. “I see that you drink. May I procure for you another beverage?”

“Sure!” Heh. Snagged me a date after all. And with a giant! A rich giant, too. Don’t shoot your shot with the sugar daddy yet, Spike. This is gonna be a long con…

Spike and his new, large companion sauntered over to the bar, where handsome Gio—in a dashing tux—shook a mixed drink for the delight of Calypso and Blue Dragon (who, by the looks of things, seemed to both be enjoying each other’s company). Spike suspected they were both tipsy, but if they were with Gio, they were in good hands. Behind the Italian stud, Spike thought he caught glimpses of Sanjay, rummaging behind the liquor shelf in a hurry.

But Spike’s eyes were mostly drawn in by a black haired woman with painted lips and heavy eye shadow. She sat at the bar, with immaculate posture, wearing a slit dress in an intoxicating purple shade, and designer high heels that radiated power. She reminded him of a much more sinister Varla…if such a thing were possible. They might have even been around the same age too. That is, timeless.

Spike’s eyes flicked towards Salim, who took on yet another personality—his seventh or eighth of the night, by Spike’s count. Every single person they met, Salim tailored his expression, manner of speaking, and even aura. He could talk to anybody. Get exactly what he wanted out of them. He really had no need for magick in order to cast a spell.

The ‘Salim’ that presented himself now was unlike the others Spike had encountered over the course of the hour. This one was cold, sly, and slightly unnerving. Like a snake, Spike thought.

Strangest of all, mere moments before he spoke, the intense woman’s lips curled into a wicked smile—as if sensing his presence. It was then, as she turned her slender neck, that Spike caught her unusual necklace--snake-like as well, a gilded serpent swallowing its tail. Spike has seen it before, though could not place it. For some reason, it made his blood run cold.

“Ah, Recida,” Salim said, placing his hands on the countertop. He did not look at her. “I thought it was you, doing your best imitation of a spy movie villain.”

She laughed lightly, in a way that gave Spike goosebumps. “Mr. Netjeer,” she said with an accent similar to Gio’s. Italian, most likely. Her eyes went to Spike. They weren’t cruel, but intrigued. Spike suddenly felt like a butterfly pinned beneath a glass case.

“I see you have a young protégé,” she said, pointing a painted fingernail at him. “I recognize you.”

Spike grinned, uncomfortably. “Spellbreaker.”

“One of Colt’s many pretty boys,” Salim said, brushing the back of Spike’s neck.

It was only through sheer force of will that Spike supressed the gasp at his touch. He felt himself immediately aroused, and looked away, trying to ignore it. Who was this man?

“Ah yes,” the woman laughed. She turned the stem of an ice-cold martini in her hand. “The one who is found of showing his ass.”

“Sorry…” Spike said.

She laughed, and oddly enough, it put him at ease. “Do not apologise. It is a nice ass. Well, you two are together, so I see trouble finds each other out.” She took a sip of her drink and stared coyly at Spike’s new friend.

Was this flirting? Did they like each other? Hate each other? Both?

Salim smiled. “Are you here scheming, or making eyes at the bartender?”

The woman nodded to Gio, entertaining his guests at the end of the bar. “He is a boy from home. Handsome enough, but no. And I am always scheming. Are you not?”

“Something tells me if you’re here, it’s going to a more eventful night than planned.”

It was like watching a game of tennis. played with an invisible ball. Recida and Salim traded words with concealed meetings. A game, of sorts.

“I am not the one you need to worry about,” Recida said, a bit more forcefully than expected. She pressed a finger to the encircled serpent around her neck. “We both know this night is more than just about silly little sports, Salim.”

At that, she promptly stood, taking her martini with her. “Well met, Spike. Pleasant evening.” She moved with a wicked grace, far, far away from them.

Spike watched her, entranced. “She’s…really pretty, Salim. Like an orchid.”

“Orchids are pretty, indeed. And do you know how they survive, small friend?”

Spike shook his head, looking towards Gio, the nearest plant expert. He was too involved in sorting the cherries in an exact and precise pile.

Salim, shifting back into his more ‘casual’ personality, made an exaggerated claw with his hand. “They slowly reach their vines around other plants and strangle them. Recida is an alchemist. Do you know much about them?”

Spike did. And all too well, being from New York. “They’re like the mafia,” Spike said with disgust.

“The magickal mafia. Well, magick and science, or so they claim…”

“I know only what they did during the war. My parents were—” He trailed off.

Salim searched his face. Unsurprising, he knew almost exactly what Spike was thinking. “Toscana? Val d'Orcia?”

“...Yes.”

A strange look flashed across Salim’s eyes. Rage? Sadness? Triumph? Spike couldn’t pin it down. “Gods and Goddess. I am truly sorry. It was insidious. So many good men and women, turned into their own memorials.” It was the first time all night that Spike had seen him pause or think before speaking. “Have you been there to pay your respects?”

An uncomfortable topic, to be sure. Spike did not like to dwell on tragedy. “’No. I…don’t have the heart go. It would feel too real to me, y’know?”

“I know. Hm. This is a night for festivity, not tears. I am sorry for prodding.”

“No, it’s ok.” Spike sighed, placing his champagne flute on the counter, glad to be rid of it. “Seems like there’s a lot of…complicated relationships at the top of the spellbreaking chain.”

“You have no idea,” Salim laughed, as if it was the understatement of the century. “Best not get involved, young Spike. Then again, a little mischief is good for the soul, no? Well, I would love to stay and chat, but it is my job to be a leech here. And engorge myself I shall.”

He pat Spike on the head—something Spike would have normally found condescending, especially coming from a man of Salim’s statured. In this instance, it was welcomed. “We’ll meet again,” the big man said. Suddenly, he looked very confused. “Or maybe we have met? Oh well! Hard for me to keep track!”

The strange man walked off with a cartoonish spring in his step, made all the more comical by his large frame. Spike was bewildered, but infinitely in a better mood than when he came in. Yet, his face didn’t show it. He hadn’t thought of his parents, or the war, in awhile—and something about Salim and Recida’s interactions unnerved him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to Gio, bearded and handsome, and unable to make eye contact.

“Spike,” he said, smiling—but looking down at the counter top. “You have too much of the pretty face to be so sad.”

“Thanks, Gio.”

The muscle man poured Spike a glass of red wine. “This is a great vintage. Try it.” He handed it to him and took the empty flute away. “Liquor before wine.”

“Thanks,” Spike said again, flustered. “Oh! This is good. And I don’t usually drink wine.”

“It is good to try new things.”

Before Gio could speak, a young woman in a yellow dress passed by and waved to him. “Thanks again for the autograph! Big fan!”

“Cio,” Gio said, blushing. He shrugged. “She is a fan.”

Spike narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what he meant. Something in the back of his head, some half-remembered TV show or movie—scenes of a jungle, or ancient times--tried to manifest itself. But it passed.

In any case, Gio continued. “Mr. Salim is very big, no? Big and strong! Might even be a challenge for Gio. But ah, no magick. Perhaps for the best.”

Spike laughed at Gio’s idiosyncratic speech style. “Gio, why don’t you ever look at me? Am I that ugly?”

“Do not speak such lies,” Gio said jovially. He continued not making eye contact. “It is…hmm…how do you say? I was born with a special brain. Different way of thinking. Eye-contact is…ehh….not so good, unless we are locked in the heart of battle. Then I shall stare ice into your soul!”

“Haha got it. Don’t worry.”

Gio suddenly looked flustered. Spike watched the gears turn. “Barback,” he called to the figure behind the shelf. “Please, some more olives.”

A toned forearm passed a jar of green olives to Gio through the gap in the shelves.

“Grazie.”

“Hey Sanjay,” Spike said, trying to catch Sanjay’s face between the slats.

“Hey Spike. Ugh, I smell like a dirty martini…”

Sanjay muttered something under his breath and vanished into the back, leaving Spike to sip his wine in odd contemplation. Maybe it was the alcohol doing its work, or that the ice has been sufficiently broken, but Spike was starting to feel okay about the night. Sure, he had no arm candy, no prospects of flirting (yet), and all his friends were preoccupied, but all-in-all, it wasn’t half as bad as he’d pictured it.

Perhaps he had misjudged the situation too soon, however, as his eyes fell upon quite possible the last person he’d ever want to see at a party—besides Cian. Strutting through the crowd with an arrogant gait, and nervous party-goers giving him a wide berth, Vahni Rage himself came into view. He removed his sunglasses (at night, of course) and scowled at the room, before adjusting the championship built slung across his immaculately tailored suit. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but with the air of someone who'd just decided there weren't enough worshippers at his feet, fawning over his raw majesty.

Spike sighed, took a long gulp of wine, and said, “Well…shit.”

Next Chapter!