Blinking slowly, I glanced back inside the car, comprehending that they hadn’t complained because the heat had still been on low. It was warm enough for a Mys, but Ezra’s added power had kept me oblivious. Wrapping my jacket tighter around my shivering frame, I slammed my door and locked it. Next time, I was going to wear pants when it was this cold, even if I had to dress up.
Pearl was wiping her eyes — still chuckling — and I reached up, fixing a smudge of her shimmering gold lipstick, which she had screwed up smooching forever with Gideon. “There.” I shoved my hands in my pockets as the guards surrounded us. “No one will know you had your tongue down your mate’s throat for a half-hour.” I smiled sweetly.
Said tongue peeked out in a rude gesture. Yep. That was the perfect golden doll.
As we exited onto the streets, everyone’s eyes turned in our direction. Stared. Nearly all Commoners, only a few Mysticals in the mix. Like, a ten-to-one ratio.
I shivered, and it wasn’t just because of the nippy weather.
Pearl walked next to me, Ezra in front of us, Jack behind, and a shit ton of guards — a mixture of Mysticals all dressed in black — stalked in a protective box around us.
Weirdly, it felt like the longest walk of my life. Even though I had lived with Coms the majority of said life, anxiety still crept up my spine, stiffening my shoulders. I shouldn’t have felt threatened, but there it was: my stomach was a churning mess as I eyed the Coms. Living longer lives was nothing when we were so few compared to them.
None of us spoke as we walked that one block. As if at once, the four of us understood the severity of our positions. No jacking around like we had been on the drive there.
Instead, we walked and acted like who we were.
Prodigies, the soon-to-be Kings and Queens, of the Mystical world.
Chapter Seven
“Follow me, please,” the concierge Com mumbled, a slight tremor in her voice, her eyes wide on her chubby face. She marched in front of us, leading our way to the elevators. Her hands were slightly shaking and she walked so fast her breathing became labored. She punched the elevator button repeatedly, staring straight ahead at the doors.
We piled in when they opened, the four of us standing with our backs against the far wall as six guards squeezed in with us, blocking the view of the doors, while the other guards took the stairs, and would probably beat us to the floor the meeting was on.
I peered up at Jack, hearing the lady’s heart race at being stuck in here with all of us.
Us, the petrifying Mysticals.
Jack’s lips were thin, his face blank, but he still rolled his eyes at her behavior.
Pearl tried to maneuver to check her reflection in the mirror as the elevator started rising, but there wasn’t any room so, instead, she sighed heavily, sulking.
Ezra just stared forward. Mute.
Exiting the elevator, I saw that the floor was posh with thick champaign-hued carpet, the walls painted a shade darker and with golden art hanging expertly, all of which made our other guards who had beaten us there stand out in their black attire. The concierge charged right past the receptionist, and we followed. The floor plan was open, no walled cubicles, and we walked between rows of desks that sported flat screen monitors and where the employees had paused in their typing, the place silent as they gawked. We ignored them. This was a prestigious law firm in New York City, but I couldn’t remember the name.
What I did remember was that the Kings used this law firm and, apparently, most of the parents of the up-and-coming individuals we were meeting today — influential Americans — used this law firm, too. The firm was co-owned by a Com and a Mys, so it was even ground to meet on. Plus, the lawyer owners would be sitting in the meeting to keep conversation rolling. Lawyers loved to talk, so hopefully there wouldn’t be too many lulls. Pretty genius on the Kings’ part.
Stopping at the back wall of the large, airy office, the concierge opened one of the doors. The dark, hard wood of it banged against the inside wall, she flung it in such haste. She flinched at the sound, but gestured for us to enter, saying, “They’re inside waiting for you.”
The four of us didn’t move.
We let half of our guards go in first, and only when one came out, giving us the all clear, did we move. Their job of a quick sweep was accomplished, shutting blinds, checking any food, yada, yada. We had been dealing with this for three months now. We knew the drill.
The other three went in before me, my steps slower, and I heard chairs squeaking as the occupants stood in greeting. My progress halted next to Pearl as I scanned the conference room where we were to converse and be stuck for an undefined amount of time.
First, my gaze went to the guards that weren’t ours. They looked professional, and overboard in number. Good to know we weren’t directly trusted. While we, at least, had an excuse for ours, having been previously attacked, they did not.
Second, I took a quick inventory of the individuals we were here to meet. I ignored the owners, identifying them by their pristine black suits, and their familiarity and proximity of one another. That left three men and two women, their ages seeming to range in the twenties.
The Mys Mage owner strolled forward with the Com owner, taking the reins, and held his hands out, stating, “Prodigies, it’s an honor to meet you and to have you here.” He bowed his head slightly, politely. “I’m Kris Terry and this is,” a pat on the Com owner’s shoulder, “Blake McMullen.” The Com dipped his head respectfully, saying much the same in welcome. Kris continued, ushering us farther into the room. “I’ll make the introductions, if that’s alright?” Yeah, like we were going to stop him.
He gestured toward the first woman. She looked like the youngest in the room. Brown hair, glasses, and a pencil suit, which appeared tailored so as to fit her small frame. She reminded me of a mouse. “This is Beatrice Brantley. Her father’s Senator Brantley. She’s currently enrolled at NYU and aspires to follow in her father’s footsteps once her schooling is complete.”
A hand wave to the next woman. She looked about twenty-eight. Auburn hair, regal features, and a lithe body. She reminded me of a giraffe. “This is Justice Francis. Her mother is Justice Avery Francis.” Ah. Explained her name. “She’s a lawyer, working toward judge.” Also following in Mommy’s footsteps.
The next individual was a man around twenty-eight, though when I saw his dark eyes I judged he could have been a little older. Black hair, handsome, and a muscular physique. He reminded me of a wolf. “This is Philip Masterson. Congressman.” No other words were needed.