This is that moment.
Pax seems to feel that, too, an extreme sort of déjà vu. He looks at me at last.
Snick.
There he is. I feel both relief and reluctance. Nirav toppling that cabinet has unfortunately made Pax’s escape from the parlor very visible. All eyes shift to him, then back to Nirav.
Blanck edges toward Nirav, his anger palpable. The other guests, too. They creep toward my small friend, low grumbling in their bellies, the wolves that they are…
Pax pushes forward and grabs Nirav by the shirt collar. “What the hell was that, you little street urchin!” He lifts Nirav off his feet, marches him to the elevator.
“Get out of here, you stinking sewer rat! Scaring us all with your terrible prank!” Nirav kicks and writhes, but Pax manages to yank open the iron cage door of the elevator and toss him in.
Pax pushes the down button, and Nirav, crumpled in the back corner, slides out of view.
Nirav!
My heart slams in my chest. Where will he go now? This wasn’t the plan, and Nirav does not adapt well to change. Should I follow?
Pax is trying to keep a low profile and slip back into the kitchen. He should’ve never been seenoutsidethe kitchen, and here he is, all eyes on him.
Blanck approaches him. My fingernails dig into my palms.
Pax stiffens. I close my eyes briefly and send him a message,Keep calm. Pax looks about as calm as a tornado. His chest heaves with shallow, short breaths as Blanck squints at him.
Blanck extends his hand.
A… handshake.
I see it register on Pax’s face:a fucking HANDSHAKE?!
Oh, my heart. I feel sick.
“Thanks for handling that, son,” Blanck says. He lifts his hand slightly, as if Pax didn’t see it.
I watch as Pax quickly assesses his choices: Pax could twist Blanck’s arm behind his back and slam his skull into the nearest wall. He could spit into the outstretched hand, then swipe Blanck’s feet out from under him. He could ignore it, walk away.
But all these things would make Pax very, veryseen, and all Pax needs to be right now ishidden.
I reach out to Spirit, but still… nothing. Like shouting into a void. It angers me, and I fling a curse their way.
Pax grits his teeth, the cords in his neck straining, his pulse throbbing in his temple, but he shakes Max Blanck’s hand. The grip is just shy of crushing, and Blanck winces, but a man like Blanck would never admit to someone else’s handshake being too strong.
“Have a drink with us.” Blanck releases Pax’s vise grip and flexes his fingers. Blanck tilts his head at the staff who are producing more bottles of alcohol from the depths of Blanck’s collection.
Pax might grind his teeth to dust. “No,” he says. He points to the catering logo on his chest. “I have to work.”
Blanck guffaws and punches Pax on the arm. “Yes, work. Good boy. That’s how it’s done. Nobody wants to work these days.”
Pax spins on his heel and marches toward the swinging door into the kitchen, pushing it so hard, it slams against the counter inside.
It swings shut behind him. I long to run after him, to grasp his hand and run far away from this horrid evening. I allow myself a flash of what that escape would look like: us, on a train, heading out of New York City, his arm draped over my shoulder, my head resting against his chest…
I inhale, exhale, and reach out to Spirit again.
Silence.
Hollow, echoing silence. It both splits my heart in half and boils my blood.Spirit! Are you there?
