Capping the gloss, Darby tossed it onto the table in front of the bulb-rimmed mirror. Then he grabbed the back of my chair and spun me around so I could see my reflection. Dark liner ringed my eyes and swept out toward my temples in dramatic strokes. The blush dusting my cheeks gave my otherwise pale visage a touch of pink, and the gloss on my lips made them look freshly kissed.
Darby bent over my shoulder to survey his handiwork. Warm brown skin set off his white hair, which I’d first assumed was a wig or dye job. I’d since decided otherwise since he had white eyebrows and lashes to match. A pair of ram’s horns curled around his ears, and his barbed black tail waved idly through the air.
“Green’s a good color on you.” He tapped my shirt to indicate the shade of drab olive. “Makes you look like Poison Ivy.”
I tilted my head, and my nose crinkled. “The plant?”
“The supervillain.” He turned toward the makeup bag on the vanity counter. “The hot one.”
The dressing room door swung open, and the usual suspects filedin.
Colt led the pack, cackling at some joke while his brother, Callum, rolled his eyes. The twins would have been difficult to tell apart if not for one defining trait: Callum had horns and Colt did not. I’d never asked why. It didn’t seem like something I should question.
Horns aside, their similarities began and ended with their matching brown hair, smattering of freckles, and verdant green eyes. Colt was brash and bold, hard to miss and harder to ignore, while Callum hung in his brother’s shadow as a quiet, unassuming presence.
They were picking at each other now, whipping their tails around and throwing elbows until Callum snatched the cowboy hat off his brother’s hornless head and sent it sailing toward their shared dressing table.
Behind them, Oz tromped across the floor while tugging out of his shirt and mussing the sandy-blond locks around his nubby horns. He waved at Darby and me, no doubt catching me staring at his well-defined chest and arms. Those muscles were earned fair and square since the guy practically lived in the onsite gym. Though calling it a gym was a bit much considering all it contained was a singular Bowflex machine, a punching bag, and a rack of weights. When we weren’t sleeping, eating, or rehearsing, Oz was in there, watching his bulk increase in the full-wall mirror.
Elliot slunk in behind the rest, barely making it through the door before it snapped against his heels. His tail curled around his leg as he went straight to his table and sat down, hands in his hoodie pocket and face curtained by chin-length black locks. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.
Darby grinned after him. “Is today the day, Ellie? You finally gonna let me paint you pretty?”
Elliot pulled a gloved hand free long enough to flip his middle finger at Darby, who snickered in response.
“Crabapple,” he teased, then dove into his supplies to pluck out a brush and hair tie. He set to work smoothing my red locks into a half-pony while the sounds of the other dancers’ chatter filled the air.
I listened and tried to watch in the vanity mirror while clothes were shed, exposing the bare bodies I felt inclined to study. We were all demons here, but I was different. With my notable lack of horns or a tail, I appeared nearly human. My ruby hair and purple eyes could be dismissed as box color and contacts, which left an extra set of fanged canines as my only abnormal trait.
Coming into a demonic fraternity five years in the making was hard enough, and standing out as decidedly mundane made it more difficult. Maslow’s special treatment was the third strike against my chance of earning their acceptance. I was easy to single out without our boss making a spectacle of me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the other guys thought I reciprocated the wraith’s interest, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Darby, though, had been gracious from the start. He’d welcomed me on day one and made it his business to mind mine. Because of that, it shouldn’t have surprised me when he asked, “Where were you earlier? You missed rehearsal.”
The general din quieted as the room tuned in to what I would have preferred to be a private broadcast. Elliot shot us a glance from down the wall. He held the now-lit cigarette in the same hand he was using to apply his eyeliner. The sharp black lines made him look even more critical than usual.
“I uh…” I swallowed. “I had to talk to Mazzy.”
Someone made a scoffing sound, and I cringed.
Darby moved behind me, tugging on my hair while the frilled front of his shirt tickled my neck.
“He wanted to show me something,” I explained, though no one had asked.
“You can just call it a dick, Cherry,” Colt drawled. “We ain’t shy.”
“It wasn’t… not his dick,” I sputtered, feeling my face flush. Thanks to the mirror, I could see it too. It was extra mortifying to watch my shame splotch across my cheeks in real-time.
“Did you show him yours, then?” Colt asked. “He’s been gagging for it for weeks.”
Callum punched his brother’s arm at the same moment Darby snapped, “Knock it off, Colt.”
I slouched in my chair. Maslow wanted my power, not me. He thought we were equals. Predators-in-arms. Something like that.
The mood in the room grew somber, and quiet swelled until Darby asked in a softer voice, “Did he touch you?”
A sigh petered out of me. “No more than usual.” And no more than he touched them. It was possessive, the way he brushed his fingers over each of us in passing, taking any excuse to grab or grope like he was tasting us with his hands. We were his food source, after all, and while I was always hungry, I doubted Maslow ever was.
Darby paused in his preening and pinned me with a frown. “Then what?—”
