"Mr. Malrik," she replied with a subtle raise of her eyebrow, "I coordinate events in Mystic Ridge. Trust me when I say I've handled overwhelming before."
"Tomorrow at ten," I agreed, extending my hand.
She shook it firmly, and I deployed a touch of my power. Just a spark, a tiny flirtation of energy that typically had mortals writing my name in their diaries with little hearts over the i.
Nothing. Not even a flicker of response. Just professional courtesy and a nod before she scanned the tent, already speaking into her headset about some crisis with the after-party champagne delivery.
I stood there, hand still outstretched, feeling like a rockstar who'd just watched his signature guitar solo met with polite applause and someone asking where the bathroom was.
Wait. What?
I'd never experienced this before. My charm had always worked. Always. From casual flirtations to grand temptations, it was as reliable as gravity. More reliable, actually, since I could manipulate gravity when the mood struck.
I watched her walk away, completely immune to charms that had once started a war. In my defense, Helen of Troy had asked for "just a little something" to make her more noticeable at parties. How was I supposed to know things would escalate?
For the first time, I felt... confused. I'd been manipulating desire since Eve first eyed that apple, and yet Charlie had looked at me with all the breathless wonder of someone checking items off a tax form.
And somehow, impossibly, that only made me more interested.
Raina had promised me "the best event coordinator in Mystic Ridge," but had conveniently failed to mention the woman was apparently resistant to demonic influence. I'd have to have a little chat with her about that oversight.
But first, I had an appointment to prepare for. And for the first time in centuries, I found myself actually concerned about making a good impression.
How... refreshingly mortal of me.
And how absolutely, positively intriguing.
3
CHARLIE
"Moonbeam silver or pearl iridescent?" Mariposa held up two fabric swatches that were, to the untrained eye, identical shades of sparkly white. Her translucent butterfly wings fluttered with indecision, catching the morning light streaming through my office windows and sending tiny rainbow reflections dancing across my consultation table.
"They're both lovely," I said diplomatically, knowing full well we'd been having this exact conversation for forty-seven minutes. My first appointment of the day had arrived at 8:30 AM sharp, armed with an encyclopedia of fabric samples and the supernatural ability to discuss color variations that would make a paint specialist weep. "The moonbeam has more luminosity under evening lighting, but the pearl picks up ambient colors around it."
"That's exactly my dilemma!" Mariposa sighed dramatically, her antennae drooping slightly. "The metamorphosis ceremony is at sunset, so the lighting will change throughout the event. What looks perfect during my emergence might look completely wrong by the time we reach the flight celebration."
I took a fortifying sip from my mug of "Client Crisis #3" tea blend. A special mix from my vintage bar cart collection that was chamomile, patience, and a pinch of something my supplier swore wasn't technically illegal even in this dimension.
"What if," I suggested, setting down my mug, "we used both? Moonbeam for the ceremony space, pearl for the reception. A transformation of color to mirror your own journey."
Mariposa's compound eyes widened. "Charlie Davenport, you absolute genius!" She clutched the swatches to her chest. "A metamorphosis of color schemes! It's poetic, it's meaningful, it's?—"
"Practical," I finished with a smile. "And it gives us design flexibility for both spaces."
"This is why you're the best event planner in Mystic Ridge." She beamed, carefully arranging the chosen samples in her portfolio. "Now, about the floral arrangements. I've been thinking about moonflowers, but is that too on-the-nose for a metamorphosis ceremony? I don't want to be obvious, but I also don't want to be obtuse."
From the corner of my eye, I caught Jada hovering in the doorway of my office, her silver hair gleaming and her pointed ears twitching in our universal signal for "we have a situation." She tapped her watch meaningfully, then held up a folder labeled "MALRIK" in bold red letters.
Ah. My ten o'clock. I gave her a subtle nod and turned back to Mariposa, who was now arranging and rearranging flower samples with the intensity of someone diffusing a bomb.
"For the flowers," I said, gently steering us toward a conclusion, "what about a progression? Start with closed buds for theceremony that gradually open throughout the evening? We could work with Vine & Petal to create arrangements that literally bloom during your event."
"A metamorphosis of blooms!" Mariposa clapped her delicate hands together. "First the color scheme evolution and now this! Charlie, you've outdone yourself."
Jada appeared at my elbow with impressive stealth for someone whose bangles usually announced her presence from three rooms away. "So sorry to interrupt," she said with professional smoothness that didn't match the slight panic in her eyes, "but your ten o'clock has arrived."
I glanced at my watch. 9:43.
