The developer's assistant stands, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. He's suspicious. I need to pull focus back.
"And now," I announce, "for my interpretive dance!"
I have never interpretive danced in my life. What follows is less dance and more a series of spasmodic movements that might charitably be called "experimental." I knock over the mic stand. It clatters across the stage with a sound like thunder.
The crowd is completely riveted now, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination. Pure train wreck energy, the kind of spectacle where looking away becomes physically impossible. People lean forward in their seats, mouths slightly open, champagne glasses forgotten in their hands. Someone whispers to their companion, and I catch the word "catastrophe" delivered with equal parts shock and delight.
I'm midway through what might charitably be interpreted as a rendition of a dying swan, or possibly a medical emergency requiring immediate intervention—when I hear it. A soft thump from somewhere above my head. Then another, slightly louder this time, followed by what sounds distinctly like metal groaning under considerable weight.
My interpretive flailing stutters for half a second.
The air vents.
Oh god. Grath is in the air vents.
Of course he is. Of course the massive orc who can barely fit through a standard doorway without turning sideways has somehow wedged himself into the building's ventilation system. Because stealth was always going to be his strong suit.
My stomach clenches. I dance harder, flailing my arms in what I hope passes for artistic expression. The crowd's attention is locked on me. No one is looking up.
Except the sniffer dog.
I didn't know there would be a sniffer dog.
The German Shepherd sits near the developer's assistant, and its ears perk up. It stares at the ceiling. At the vent directly above the storage hallway.
No. No, no, no.
I do the only thing I can think of. I leap off the stage.
Well, "leap" is generous. It's more of an ungainly tumble that nearly takes out a woman in the front row. I grab the edge of a serving table to steady myself and manage to knock an entire tower of canapés onto the floor.
The dog's attention swivels to me. I grab a handful of smoked salmon from the wreckage and toss it across the room.
"Fetch!"
The dog bolts after it. The assistant shouts. More chaos erupts as the animal barrels through the mass of people, trailing caviar and confusion.
I use the moment to dash toward the hallway. Toward Grath.
Toward whatever trouble he's definitely found by now.
The storage room door is locked, but I can hear sounds from inside. A kitten's angry yowl. Grath's muffled cursing. The crash of something expensive breaking.
I wrap my fingers around the handle and twist hard. It doesn't budge. The metal is cool and completely unyielding under my palm. Of course it's locked. Of course someonedecided tonight was the perfect night to actually secure the storage areas properly for once.
"Grath!" I press my face close to the crack between the door and the frame, trying to keep my voice low enough that it won't carry back to the ballroom. My breath fogs against the painted wood. "Grath, can you hear me?"
"Maris?" His voice comes through muffled and strained, like he's speaking through gritted teeth or holding something heavy. Maybe both. "The door's stuck from this side too. Something's jammed against it. And there's... there's a problem in here."
My stomach drops. The kitten. The filing cabinets. The very public chaos I just caused with a German Shepherd and several hundred dollars worth of seafood appetizers. Pick your disaster.
"What kind of problem?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know the answer. "Grath, what kind of problem are we talking about?"
Before he can answer, the developer's assistant rounds the corner. His face is red, his suit jacket askew.
"You." He spits the word like a curse. "I knew you were up to something."
"Me? I was just performing. Poorly. Very publicly poorly." I step in front of the storage room door, blocking it with my body.
