“Wait, what? I never sent anything over to you.”
“Yourfrienddid.” He says it with exaggerated scorn. “Right before he went to dance with you. Before I wanted to…to rip his head off.” His words are starting to slur together.
“Are you saying Martin gave you a drink and said it was from me?”
He nods.
“What did the drink look like?”
“It was…whatever you were drinking.” He tries to shrug, but the move makes him stumble slightly.
His answer has my eyes bulging. “He gave you Starshine? You drank Starshine with Honey Pyrus?” Everyone knows not to mix those two, no matter how small their doses. I clench my jaw, wishing Martin hadn’t left so I could punch him in the nose.
“It was…really good. I liked it.”
I shake my head, feeling my own inebriation beginning to clear. “We need to get you back to the church. Starshine amplifies the effects of Honey Pyrus, which means your hallucinations are only about to get worse.” I’m taken aback by my words as soon as they leave my lips. Why should I care about getting him home before his condition worsens? Isn’t this the perfect opportunity? An inebriated man should make for an easy target. If we danced maybe a song or two more, I wouldn’t need to wait for him to kiss me. I could kiss him and he’d have no idea it was even happening.
It’s a public place, I reason.Too many witnesses have seen us together. If something happens to him, I could be investigated. It’s a weak excuse, I know, especially when fae intoxicants are involved. There’s very little chance my kiss would be linked to his death. Truth be told, this is probably the least suspicious way to deliver it.
“Hallucinations.” He chuckles. “Is that why you have stars in your hair? What about the ones in your eyes?”
“That’s annoyance,” I say. Without a second thought, I turn him away from the dance floor.
He follows a few steps before stopping. “I want to see the stars.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re in my hair, aren’t they?”
“No. Real ones.”
“All right,” I say, gentling my tone as if I’m speaking to a child. “Follow me outside and we’ll look at the real stars.”
This time he lets me lead him all the way out of the club. The streets are dark and quiet, with only distant noise coming from central Halley Street where theatrics are still in full swing. We pause in front of the club, and Dorian tips his head back and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he takes in the sky above, releasing a heavy sigh. The stars are faint, with so much light from downtown obscuring their glow, but they’re there.
“This is what I do,” he whispers, a small, sad smile tugging his lips. “I come here to forget. Then I look up there so I can pretend I’m somewhere else.”
“Someplace specific?” I ask.
He nods, and his next word comes out wistful. “Home.”
I assume he means the home he grew up in, where fae were kept chained in the cellar. Where Dorian stabbed a sea fae seven times and bathed in her blood. The thought sours my stomach.
For a split second I consider delivering my kiss right now, getting this all over with, doing what I came here to do—but then Dorian slides his gaze to me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Normally I climb on the church’s roof.”
“We’re not climbing on the roof, but we do need to get you back to the church at once. The only cure for a bad blend of Honey Pyrus and Starshine is sleep. Otherwise…well, you don’t even want to know.” I’ve seen such effects firsthand when Klaus and Stanley decided to see what the fuss was all about. After about two hours, Stanley had emptied the contents of his stomach, ran around the theater to evade invisible spiders, and bawled for his mom. Meanwhile, Klaus went to bed and woke the next day with nothing more than reports of very odd dreams.
“Fine,” he says with a groan and starts off down the sidewalk.
“Not that way.” I grab for his arm and tug his sleeve in the opposite direction. “The church is this way.” He looks down at my hand, and I quickly pull it away before I start walking. I glance back at him to make sure he’s following, only to find him far closer than I expected.
And then he slips his hand into mine.
I nearly trip over my feet but force myself to keep walking, his palm warm against my own. I should pull away. Holding hands like this isn’t proper, especially without gloves. I may not know a lot about being a fancy lady or even a princess, but I know the accepted way to walk with a man is to place your hand loosely at the crook of his elbow. I see couples walk like that throughout the city all the time.
But this? Palms touching, shoulders brushing…
It just isn’t done.
I know all this, but I allow him to continue holding my hand. My excuse is that it will keep him from wandering off to chase invisible monsters and floating stars, but part of me likes the feeling of being this close to a person.
