He grumbled as he readjusted himself, but he was soon jamming his arms through the sleeves and fastening the front of the suit. Shockingly, he looked pretty normal. Apart from the fact that the jumpsuit was like a second skin on him and left not one thing to the imagination, he didn’t look nearly as Vandar.
I tapped my chin as I eyed him, then I put down the blaster and snatched a prop weapons belt from the rack and looped it around his waist. That way the bulges in front and back weren’t as instantly noticeable. “That’s better.”
“What about you?” he asked, flicking his eyes to the racks.
To humor him, I tugged a bright red cape off a hanger and threw it around my shoulders. “Better?”
Before he could answer, a man with spiky orange hair and a clipboard hurried up with an exasperated sigh. “You two! On stage. Now!”
Chapter
Seventeen
Kolt
On stage?
The man had appeared so quickly, I hadn’t had time to hide or reach for a weapon, but it only took a breath to know he was no threat. Well, relatively no threat. His stern expression and rapidly tapping foot gave me the impression that he was not to be challenged. Despite being at least a head taller than him, the creature with orange, pointy hair gave me pause.
“All villagers in the next scene need to be in the wings.” He shooed us away from the door, his gaze snagging momentarily on my outfit. “Not sure if this is what I would have picked to wear as a villager, but I’m only the stage manager, not the costume designer.”
Skye slid the blasters that had been resting on a crate inside the folds of the red cape. “We’re not?—”
“Oh, I’ve heard it all, sweetie,” the man pressed a hand to her back and steered her away from the exit. “You were only taking a smoke break, it was just a kiss, you were only stepping out for some air. You two lovebirds can strip each other naked as far as I care, but after the show. Got it?”
Skye’s cheeks mottled a few shades of pink as she stumbled forward, her stammered explanations and protests garbled and incomprehensible. I snatched the blaster that we’d set on the crate and tucked it into the weapons belt at my waist, a true weapon among the fake ones.
The stage manager glanced over his shoulder, huffing out an impatient sigh. “Come on, tall, dark, and scary. No more dilly-dallying.”
I had little choice but to follow, even though I had no idea what dilly-dallying meant or if I had stopped doing it. I should have been grateful that the excitable man had assumed we were part of whatever performance was taking place, although I would have preferred to remain unseen.
At least we were no longer running from soldiers. No one had burst through the side door, and Imperial guards weren’t swarming the tight corridors we were being led through.
I tugged at the crotch of the costume, the fabric riding up uncomfortably. How did males of other species wear such constricting garments? As a Vandar, I’d only worn kilts or the occasional loose pants with a deep inseam to leave room for plenty of bulk and even more movement. Having my member pressed tightly to one leg was a curious sensation and one I did not enjoy. Not to mention, the bizarre feeling of my tail beingheld captive in the other pant leg. Every time it twitched, I feared a seam would split.
As we wound through a labyrinth of stacked boxes, dangling ropes, hanging backdrops, and various chairs, sofas, tables, and cushions stacked on top of each other like strange towers, I tried to memorize the layout of the place so I could retrace our steps. But the path we were taking was part of a larger space that had no set walls and only a soaring ceiling crisscrossed overhead with beams and more ropes.
I ducked my head as a group of small figures covered in yellow feathers waddled past, their brightly painted mouths dropping open at the sight of me. The sounds of cheering grew louder, as did the low hum of excited conversation and faint background music.
When we reached a group of people in various costumes, the stage manager dropped his hand from Skye’s back and spun to me. “Wait for your cue with this lot.” He wagged a chubby finger. “And no running off again.”
He eyed me more carefully now that we were in better light and grunted. “That costume needs something else.” He tapped a finger on his chin before looking at a table piled with hats and scarves and swords that looked too dull to slice through butter. He grabbed a metal helmet and thrust it at me. “Here. This should do it.”
Then he squeezed between a tall man in a pointed hat and a curvy female in a low-cut ruffled gown and was gone.
I eyed the helmet in my hands as Skye sidled closer to me. I’d never worn headgear for battle, and I balked at the idea of even more restrictive layers.
“I was right,” Skye whispered. “This is a theatre.”
I peered over her head—over all the heads—to a brightly lit stage where two figures were engaged in a sad sword fight. Lights blared from above and from the floor itself, but the crowds of people watching were in darkness.
“People pay to watch others pretend to fight?” I asked.
Skye popped up on her toes as if attempting to see the stage. “Are they fighting?”
I placed one hand on each side of her waist and lifted her so she could see. She sucked in a quick breath, her own hands gripping mine as she glimpsed the people pretending to battle.
When I placed her back on the floor, she took a step back and nodded. “Well, they do more than fight in most plays. Not that I’ve seen an actual play. I’ve only read about them.”
