“Maeve,” Ambrose reproached her quietly, clearly seeing through her rouse.
She looked at him innocently and ignored his tone. Maeve apologized for her finicky fingers and quickly began guiding the Orator to a set of iron scrolled settees to reconvene their conversation.
“Oh dear,” said Maeve, holding back a smile. “Mummy will l be sour over that one.”
She gave a small wink to her father. There was a loud POP, and the mess was gone, and four new glasses appeared on the small table they sat around.
“I’m pretty sure that was your Great-Grandmother’s crystal,” whispered Ambrose.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not anything anymore, is it?” Teased Maeve.
Maeve looked across the table at Mal. He was already watching her. He had an uncommon look on his face, one she had seen before. A look that made her stomach flip in circles. A look of hunger. The first time she had seen it in weeks.
The conversation continued to flow until it was time for the party’s duel events. Mal excused himself to prepare. Maeve couldn’t take her eyes off him as he vanished into the crowd.
Ambrose walked Maeve back up towards the house. Moon walked ahead of them. “Everyone is very taken with Mal,” said Ambrose.
“As expected,” said Maeve, suppressing a smile, “and they haven’t even seen the best of him.”
She froze. Unfamiliar Magic swirled around her. Solid as steel. Foreign. But a sister to her own. To Mal’s even. Like called to like.
“Ambrose!” Moon quickly gestured for him to hurry.
Ambrose quickened his pace up the stone steps and into the ballroom. Heads turned towards the house, eyes lit up with excitement.
Maeve’s brows pulled together.
Buzzing whispers flitted into the air. Maeve hurried up the stairs and rounded the corner into the ballroom towards that magical power.
“Can you believe it?” Came Abraxas’ voice beside her.
She pushed onto her tippy toes and grabbed Abraxas’ arm for support. “No way,” she breathed.
Across the ballroom, in full black, was an Immortal.
But not just any Immortal.
Reeve, The High Lord of Aterna.
The most powerful being alive.
His smile dripped with swagger as strode across the ballroom towards Ambrose.
Magic shot across the floor with every step he took, cracking towards her. More magic than she had ever felt from another. It was ancient and holy and thick.
The Power of the Gods, they called it. The power of tens of thousands of Magicals all wrapped in one broad shouldered, striking man.
He was well over six feet, as most Immortals were, with skin kissed by the sun and shining black hair. Tattoos peeked out from his velvety ornate tunic up his neck. They ran across his knuckles as well. He looked to be in his thirties. But Immortals were gifted eternal beauty. They stopped aging in their second or third decades.
“I think I may faint,” said Abraxas.
Reeve and Ambrose embraced happily.
“That may be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen,” Abraxas said under his breath.
Behind Reeve was another man, but he was slightly shorter, the same glowing skin but with long features. His platinum hair fell past his waist. Tipped Ears, like Zimsy. He was part Elven.
He did not caress the crowd with the same confidence as his High Lord. He eyed them all ruefully. Maeve didn’t blame him.
