She appears in the doorway a moment later, arms crossed again. “Is that…a reinforced plate for your bed?”
“Grav-hammock,” I correct. “And yes. Also doubles as a sled in emergencies.”
She looks like she wants to scream. Instead, she sighs and rubs her temples.
“Oh stars,” she mutters. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
I throw her a wink over my shoulder. “Regret’s just a fancy word foradventureyou didn’t see coming.”
CHAPTER 5
SABLE
Voltar’s boots make a sound like punishment on the polished tile of my salon floor.
Every step is a seismic event, drawing attention like a slow-moving thunderstorm with a big, stupid grin. He ducks under the doorway—barely—and scans the room like he’s expecting an ambush from behind the hydrating mist diffusers. Clients stiffen. One woman lets out a noise like a tea kettle and clutches her pearls like she’s in a period drama. Another starts recording him on her compad, whispering, “I think he’s a bounty hunter. Or a stripper. Maybe both.”
I sigh and adjust the mirror in front of my current client, a bride-to-be whose hair has more artificial volume enhancements than the economy line of personal hovercars. “Ignore the walking WMD,” I murmur. “He’s with me.”
Voltar beams like a sun grenade. “Hello! I’m her bodyguard-slash-partner-in-chaos! But unofficially. Don’t worry, you’re probably safe… unless you’ve made enemies with any shapeshifting assassins lately.”
I don’t even flinch anymore. “Voltar, maybe try sitting quietly? Over there?” I point to the waiting area, hoping against hope.
He salutes. “Absolutely, boss!”
Then he saunters over to the minimalist chrome chair, clearly designed for people under eight feet tall and not wearing a back-mounted blaster. The moment he lowers himself, there’s a tortured metallic creak, then the sound of catastrophic furniture failure. A leg gives out. The whole chair collapses under him like it’s been force-fed regrets.
“Oh no,” he says innocently, from his new position sitting flat on the floor surrounded by modern art rubble. “I think it was defective.”
Jacey bursts out laughing so hard she has to brace herself on the counter. “Sable, I swear to every precursor deity, this man is a menace.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Voltar stands like he’s levitating, no hands, just straight up like a hydraulic lift. The chair remnants crunch beneath his boots. “The structural integrity of that chair was laughable. If your furniture can’t withstand direct plasma fire, what’s the point?”
“It’s asalon,not a fortress,” I hiss through my teeth.
He grins. “Then you’re underutilizing your space. A good crossfire zone can be very therapeutic.”
I mentally file away every second of this for future trauma processing and turn back to the bride. “Sorry. Where were we? Ah, yes—the part where your curls are defying gravity like they’re unionizing.”
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of awkward introductions, stiff smiles, and Voltar trying to discreetly read fashion magazines upside down while pretending he’s not watching every single customer like they might explode. His idea of “blending in” is putting on a pair of glasses—no lenses, just an old Earth-style frame he insists is a disguise. He looks like a tank doing cosplay.
Eventually, mercifully, my last client leaves, and I begin the sacred ritual of pretending I’m not about to drop dead from emotional exhaustion.
“I gotta say,” Jacey mutters, loading towels into the steamer, “as far as government babysitters go, he’s more entertaining than the average spook.”
“Entertaining is one word,” I mutter. “So is exhausting. And illegal. I’m pretty sure most of what he’s done today violates at least four salon codes and the Geneva Accords.”
“Still. Shoulders, though.”
I throw a clean towel at her head.
We leave just as the sky starts to shift into its usual shade of Novaria Sunset #37—electric coral with hints of smog lavender. My boots crunch over sidewalk grime and glitter dust. Voltar is beside me, a half-step off, always scanning. He hasn’t spoken for a few blocks, which is weird. For him, silence is either reverent… or suspicious.
“You okay?” I ask.
He glances down, his eyes golden and unreadable for a moment. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating my threat matrix.”
