Bat-like wings sway in the wind, a tail flicking lazily beneath, as a figure reclines on the museum roof.
It’s him.
5
Ellis
Lacey gasps as soon as she spots me, clutching a manicured hand to her chest. I really thought I had lined myself up for a smooth entrance, but she looks genuinely startled. “You’re the vigilante. You saved me last night.”
I can’t help but frown in response. I glance away and run a hand through my hair. “Vigi—no. I’m not...in that line of work, exactly.”
She crosses her arms, and I wonder if she’s cold. It is winter, and her dress doesn’t have sleeves. “Right, you’re one of Maestro’s minions.”
“Whaaaaaaat, Maestro? No, I wouldn’t work for thaaat guy,” I backpedal, but wince as soon as I hear myself say it. A smirk tugs one corner of Lacey’s mouth. I shrug and give my wings a stretch. “Alright, you got me. Gotta support the cold brew habit somehow.”
Lacey nods slowly but doesn’t quite laugh at my joke. Then she shakes her head. “There is...a whole room of people back there that are dying to meet you.”
She says that like it should mean more to me than getting to know her. I bite the inside of my cheek, listening to the rumble of hundreds of voices inside the museum.
“I don’t do crowds.”
“Evasive. Noted.” She hums. I can see her start to ask another question, but her eyes snag on my wings and the rest of her expression follows, transfixed.
Honestly, if she keeps looking at me like that, I might just give up my life of crime to flex for Ms. Vigil all day, cold brew be damned.
I try not to preen too much under her attention, but the look in her eyes as she watches me is unlike anything else in the world.
Her stare falls into a frown, her brows furrowing. Her shrewd eyes search the roof, the garden around us, alarm creeping into her expression. “If you’re here, then did Maestro—”
“It’s just me, really. Nobody’s crashing the gala,” I say and try to stifle a yawn. I wouldn’t have the chance to wander off if there was something planned. My feet and my wings hurt just thinking about it. After yesterday, I was hoping for a more low-key evening. “I mean, uh, nobody else is.”
Maybe a gala doesn’t count—one look at her, and I realize I’m clearly underdressed for it. Lately, I’ve really only seen her wrapped up in professional-looking coats with varying levels of puffiness, broadcasting from the street. I mean, besides last night. I don’t know if I’m really going to count that as seeing her in person, since she was tied up on that ratty old sofa for so much of it. It’s not my particular spank material either.
That dress is, though.
The satiny black dress that ripples as she moves is wreaking havoc on my pulse. The way the fabric creases and shimmers, outlining the rises and dips of her belly, suddenly I’m all too aware that I’m not doing anything better with my tongue.
She sees me looking her up and down, and adjusts her shawl, shimmying one end down and then tossing it over the opposite shoulder with an eye roll. “Then what are you doing here?”
I try not to grin. “I hang out on a lot of rooftops, obviously. And when I saw you...”
“You thought you’d just say hello,” she finishes for me just as dryly, then raises her chin, her gaze narrowing. “How’d you know where I live, yesterday?”
I turn away from her gaze for a moment, running a clawed hand through my hair. “Hazarded a guess. I’ve seen you on Channel 6. Everyone knows where Steel lives, anyway.”
“So, you just know about me.”
“In a very vague, broad sense.”
“And I don’t know anything about you.”
I can’t imagine Maestro would feel very forgiving if I gave too much away to Steel Heel’s girl.Ex-girlfriend, I remind myself again. But she’s still too close to him for comfort. I’m trying to keep it professional and not feel some kind of way about that.
Still, I can’t keep the smile off my face. I gesture at myself, hoodie and gray sweatpants. I only wear Maestro’s flying suit on work nights. “And you want to know me?”
“Shouldn’t I? If you’re going to keep kidnapping me,” she says innocently, and turns toward some generic-shaped contemporary art sculpture in the center of the courtyard. Even from the roof I can see her reflection gracing its glittering black marble, polished to a mirror finish.
I open my mouth to answer her, but whatever thought I had is stolen out of my brain as she lets her bun down in a cascade of silky dark hair by removing a single stick—no, a pencil? Some kind of makeup pencil is my best guess. She pulls a little cap off it and starts to line her lower lip. She rubs her lips together at her reflection on the polished sculpture. She caps and twists the pencil back up in her hair, and it’s hidden away as a bun again.
