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Liar.
The gala was a blaze of opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the marble floors, and music filled the air. Silver strings and golden voices wove together in perfect harmony. The great hall stretched beneath a painted vaulted ceiling, while columns of obsidian and gold rose between curtains that billowed in an imperceptible breeze meandering through the tall windows overlooking New York. The Djinn Council had spared no expense, for this was no ordinary celebration. They had gathered to honor the Archmother's victory in the ritual by inviting all Her summoners. Wyoming was theirs, thanks to Mirage's tireless efforts, and the Council wished to make their gratitude known.
Mirage stood at the heart of it all, accepting the accolades with practiced grace: the bows, the toasts, the words of admiration. But his mind was elsewhere. That victory had cost more than anyone knew. The ritual had demanded everything from him, pushed him to the very edge of his limits, and yet he had emerged victorious. He should have been basking in the glow of his achievement. Instead, his gaze swept across the glittering hall, searching for the faces of those who had made it possible. Without them, he would have failed. Without them, Djinn's fate would be at risk. He raised his glass in a silent toast to his allies scattered throughout the crowd, and the other bodyguards followed suit.
There was Ivy, protector of Spanish Harlem, who had spent eighteen years dismantling a syndicate and was finally ready to see what lay beyond her borough. She stood at the center of the ballroom, studying the room and its unusual guests. For nearly two decades, her world had been narrow streets and fire escapes, the sharp corners of her neighborhood, the desperate faces of those she had sworn to protect. But the Mendoza Syndicate was broken now, scattered to the winds, and Ivy found herself adrift. Tonight, surrounded by beings she had never met, she allowed herself to feel something unfamiliar: curiosity. The world beyond Spanish Harlem was vast and strange, and for the first time she could explore it.
Across the room, Apollo moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of royalty. The prince of Ixia carried himself with an unshakeable dignity, his chin high, his posture immaculate. He had been exiled for his own safety, sent across the ocean to Blackmore Academy while political violence ravaged his homeland. But tonight, something had changed. The ritual's success meant his father's favor. It meant that soon, very soon, he would be called home. His hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, a gesture of habit. He had trained for this moment his entire life, had honed his body and mind to perfection on the piste, waiting for the day he could prove himself worthy of wielding his family's legacy. That day was finally within reach.
Dynamo stood among the guests. It still felt strange to him, to feel. His body, once lost, had been returned to him. He ran a hand through his hair, still marveling at the sensation of touch, of warmth, of skin. Yet some things hadn't changed. His spirit still burned with the same insatiable curiosity that had driven him to investigate that rift all those years ago. He cornered a young djinn scholar and launched into an animated discussion about the Ritual's mechanics, his hands gesturing wildly as he described theoretical applications that made the djinn's eyes go wide. Dynamo had always been a teacher at heart, and tonight was no exception. There were minds to inspire, after all.
Paige had excused herself to the grand library adjoining the ballroom, but she wasn't alone. Beside her stood her brother Bryce, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as they explored the ancient shelves together. Through years of dead ends, through heartbreak and exhaustion, through every moment of doubt that whispered she should give up. But she hadn't. And now, against all odds, he was here. The Archmother had granted her wish, and Bryce was back in her life, laughing at something she said as she pulled a leather-bound volume from the shelf. Paige pressed the book to her chest, her heart so full it ached. The world was vast and full of magic, and tonight she was grateful for every bit of it; especially for the brother she had found again.
And then... there was Drifter.
The ancient vampire stood apart from the others. He had roamed America for generations, preying on the living with an appetite that had earned him enemies across every territory. He held nothing but contempt for vampiric laws and tradition, refusing to bow to Viscounts or Elders. His refusal to toe the line had made him a marked man from coast to coast. There were bounties on his head, death warrants signed by powerful hands, and a thousand creatures who would love nothing more than to see him several meters underground.
And yet, here he was. Standing in the middle of a Djinn gala, surrounded by mortals and immortals alike, invited like any other guest. Because they had to invite him anyway. To exclude him would have been a sign of profound inconsistency, and the Council, however reluctantly, prided itself on fairness. So Drifter had been summoned, and against all odds he had decided to attend the event. Not because he cared about their celebration or their approval, of course, but because it amused him to watch others squirm in his presence.
A server approached him hesitantly, offering a tray of crystal goblets filled with shimmering liquid. Drifter looked at the wine with open contempt.
«Whose blood is it?» he asked flatly.
The server stammered an apology and retreated quickly.
Drifter chuckled. A low, dry sound that carried no warmth. He didn't need blood tonight. He didn't need anything. He was simply... observing. Waiting.
Whatever the Council feared he might do, Drifter had no intention of doing it. Not tonight. Tonight, he was content to watch the mortals celebrate their victory, their joy, their fragile little lives. It was almost amusing.
He leaned against a marble pillar, his arms crossed, scanning the room with detached interest. Until...
Liar.
His eyes met Mirage's, who was watching him from across the room with barely concealed suspicion. Drifter offered the faintest smirk.
His gaze dropped, slightly, tracing the line of Mirage's jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand clenched at his side. Just "slightly", yet enough for Mirage to promptly turn his back on him and disappear into the crowd.
Why would such a noble bodyguard be so flustered about the mighty Drifter studying his body?
Simple. Because Mirage was a liar.
His tailored tuxedo was impeccable. It fit him perfectly, clearly custom made. It concealed everything it needed to conceal: the sharp lines of his body, the disciplined musculature honed through years of service, everything except the weight of the secret pressing against his skin.
The silk underneath was black, finer than anything he'd ever worn. Maybe even more than the tuxedo itself. The lace of the garter belt bit into his thighs with every step, hugging his hips. The basque brushed against his chest beneath the starched white of his dress shirt. The stockings reached nearly to his groin, held in place by the garter's silver clips that dug into his flesh with each controlled movement.
Mirage kept his expression neutral as he scanned the room for threats. Nashala was safe, her vessel pressed against his body. His duty was clear, his purpose was always the same.
And yet, for the first time in years of service, his body was betraying him in ways he couldn't control.
«Mirage, you've worked with the Drifter. Reluctantly, we have to ask you to keep an eye on him tonight, since you're the only one who can really do it. We are sorry that an evening of pleasure must turn into duty, but-»
Mirage bowed. «It is my job. I will do everything I must to prevent him from even touching us.»
Liar.
His nipples started to get more and more sensitive with every breath against the basque. The lace of the thong clung to him like a second skin, and he could feel himself growing hard against the delicate fabric.
He quickly ordered himself to stop thinking about what Drifter had told him.
«Wear it. One night.»
«Why would I agree to that?»
«Because you want to. Because you've never done anything reckless in your life, and the only thing more exciting than a secret is sharing said secret with the one person you shouldn't share it with.»
«You are making an obscene request of me, beyond any restraint.»
Drifter had laughed, low and knowing.
«A pity. It would've been thrilling, pretty boy.»
But Mirage had never said no.
Mirage shifted his weight, and the lace scraped again against his erection. He was bitterly regretting all his boldness and impudence, more and more.
Every second that passed was a futile resistance to his concentration, which was declining inexorably.
«Are you okay, Mirage?»
He abruptly broke out of his thoughts.
«Yes, Lady Nashala. Worry not about me. Are you enjoying the gala?»
«It is truly lovely. Why don't you bring me to talk with some representatives? In one hour or so I may leave my vessel and leave you to enjoy the evening by yourself.»
«With pleasure.»
The hour crawled by. Mirage made his rounds, speaking to other ambassadors, deflecting questions, maintaining his perfect composure. His hand shook only slightly when he accepted a glass of water, his voice remained steady when he refused champagne. Luckily, by carrying Nashala with him, he was rarely the center of attention.
As some djinn discussed in their vessels, their bodyguards kept complimenting Mirage's deed. He nodded politely.
His body, however, was a riot of sensation. Every step was a reminder of the silk sliding against his skin.
And through it all, he could feel Drifter's eyes on him.
He turned. Perhaps to confirm his instincts, trained year after year of service, or perhaps because of his eagerness to spot him in the room again. Pretending he didn't like knowing someone was staring at him all evening, eager for a moment alone with him. Not with senators, diplomats, or other summoners. With him.
Drifter was across the room, leaning against a pillar. He'd traded his usual rough attire for a suit that managed to look both elegant and threatening; definitely stolen from a victim. His smile was sharp, his eyes were red and knowing. By now, they shamelessly scanned his whole body from afar without even trying to hide it. When their gazes met, Drifter raised his champagne glass in a slow toast.
Mirage looked away. His gaze shifted to the fine marble floor to regain focus and resume the conversation. His face was burning. And not just his face.
The music swelled, turning into a waltz. Several couples took the floor.
Mirage looked up just in time to see a djinn, with enviable height even for his race, sharp features and indigo skin, offering his hand to Nashala.
«Ambassador Nashala Dion. May I have a dance?»
Mirage felt her quiver through the vessel in his hands. «Oh my, why not!»
Elegantly, Nashala stepped out and grabbed the stranger's hand. They headed for the floor, Nashala just in time to turn from his embrace to wink at Mirage.
Mirage allowed himself to smile at them. Nashala was impulsive, but very commendable. He wasn't surprised she had suitors.
At that point, a lot of dancing couples had taken the floor, miraculously synchronized in managing not to bump into each other. It was a spectacle of silk dresses billowing across the room and skillful legs intertwining.
Mirage knew how to dance. He had to learn, having the prospect of attending several high-class events.
Who knows, maybe one day he'll be able to dance with...
Liar.
His absent smile faded when, past Nashala, he spotted Drifter looking at him and nodding toward the elevator on the other side of the room.
Mirage glanced around the crowded ballroom, his gaze sweeping over the clusters of guests in their finery and the servers weaving through the throng with silver trays. No one was watching him.
When he searched for Drifter again with his gaze, the vampire was already gone. The elevator was ascending, its polished doors sealed shut, the floor indicator ticking upward floor by floor.
«Alright,» Mirage murmured under his breath.
He placed Nashala's vessel with a soft clink on a table, already covered with other empty vessels.
Nimbly, he made his way through the crowd; weaving between clusters of laughing guests, sidestepping a waiter with a tray of champagne, offering a polite nod to a senator who barely registered his presence. He managed to reach the elevator without engaging in a single conversation, thank God. After pressing the call button, the soft ding of arrival released the tension built up in his shoulders. He got in.
As soon as the doors sighed shut and the last sliver of light from the ballroom faded into the cabin, Mirage let go.
The rigid, upright posture he’d maintained for hours collapsed. He leaned his back against the cool wooden wall, closing his eyes. A long, shuddering breath escaped his lips. He reached down, his fingers brushing the tent in his trousers, feeling the texture beneath. But after few seconds he snatched his hand away, forcing his palm against the wall.
«Behave at the gala, pretty boy. Don'tcha dare to have fun without me.»
Looking for the button of the right floor, he noticed one covered in blood. So romantic. He pressed it.
The words echoed in his skull, Drifter's low drawl wrapping around each syllable. Mirage had behaved. He had smiled at ambassadors, made polite conversation, ensured Nashala's comfort. He had done everything expected of him.
Except slipping away to an empty elevator to follow a vampire.
What am I doing...
The car slowed, then stopped with a soft chime. The doors slid open onto a dimly lit corridor, sconces casting amber light on all dark wood paneling surfaces. The air was cooler here, away from the press of bodies and the heat of the ballroom.
A door at the end of the hall stood slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the crack.
Mirage's mouth went dry. He should turn back. He should return to the gala, retrieve Nashala's vessel, and pretend this momentary lapse in judgment had never happened. He was a professional. He was disciplined. He had spent years honing his body and mind into weapons of precision, and he would not-
A hand shot out from the darkness beside the door and yanked him inside.
The world spun. Mirage's back hit the wall with a soft thud, the breath driven from his lungs. The door clicked shut, plunging them into near-darkness save for the single lamp on a nearby desk. And Drifter was there, pressed against him.
«You are one of the craziest motherfuckers I have ever laid my hands on, do you know that?»
Drifter's claws explored his body without restraint. The cold of his skin, contrasted with the heat of his breath, sent shivers down Mirage's spine.
«Acting all prissy around the crème de la crème of New York, only to come and get fucked in the ass by the vampire you're supposed to be protecting them from.»
His voice was raspy, his mouth close to Mirage's ear. «You actually followed me, Gods. You're so deplorable, you make my skin crawl.» and his hips bucked against Mirage's re-awakened erection. «And my cock harden.»
Mirage's heart hammered against his ribs. «Drifter-»
«Shh.» Drifter's fingers found his bow tie, loosening it with ease. «I've been watching you all night, cher. The way you moved. The way you smiled at all those boring rich pricks while knowing exactly what you were hiding beneath that perfect little suit.» His hand slid down Mirage's chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his dress shirt. «Did you think I wouldn't notice? The way you shifted your weight every few minutes, trying to find relief? The way your breath caught when you saw me across the room?»
Mirage's mouth opened, but no words came. The basque pressed against his chest, the lace of the thong clinging to him, the garter biting into his thighs; every hidden piece of silk suddenly felt like it was burning against his skin.
Drifter's lips curved into a sharp smile. «I know exactly what you're wearing. What you've been wearing all night, pretending to be so composed while your body was singing for me.»
«Stop it-» Mirage started, but the protest died in his throat as Drifter's knee pressed between his thighs, parting them. The pressure against his erection made him gasp, his hips jerking forward.
Drifter's hand found his hip, gripping hard. «Does my voice make you hard, pretty boy? Should I really stop?»
Mirage's composure cracked. The mask he'd worn all night, the careful control he'd maintained through hours of torture, shattered like glass.
«No. Don't.» he breathed, his voice rough. His accent sounded stronger than usual, and Drifter found it electrifying. The hard syllables caressed his ears, which twitched in anticipation.
«You want this,» Drifter continued, his mouth descending to Mirage's throat. «You've wanted this since the first time I touched you. I saw it in your eyes then, and I see it now.» His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of Mirage's neck, not quite biting. «You've been playin' the innocent and impeccable boy for so long, I was startin' to think you wouldn't have it in you.»
Mirage's hands found Drifter's shoulders, fisting in the expensive fabric of his stolen suit. «Worry not Drifter, I-ah, know my impulses.»
«And you're finally indulging in them.» Drifter's mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses along his collarbone. «With me.»
He felt the vampire's large hands working the buttons of his jacket, pushing it from his shoulders. He felt the cool air against his skin as his shirt was untucked. He felt Drifter's claws parting the fabric to reveal the black silk beneath.
Drifter pulled back just enough to look at him, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dark. The basque was exquisite against Mirage's tanned skin, the lace edges framing his chest, the garter clips visible just above the waistband of his trousers. Drifter's gaze raked over him with undisguised hunger.
«Scandalous,» he whispered. «I could get used to see you like this.»
Mirage's cheeks burned, but he couldn't look away. Something in Drifter's expression, something raw, made his heart stutter in his chest.
Drifter dropped to his knees.
Mirage's breath caught as the vampire's fingers found his belt, working it open. His trousers were pushed down, pooling around his ankles, and Drifter made a low sound of approval at the sight of the garter belt hugging his thighs. The stockings, held in place by silver clips, caught the lamplight with a soft gleam.
«Look at you,» Drifter murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of Mirage's thigh. «What if I told your dear Lady about your negligence in "not letting me touch you"?»
Mirage's head fell back against the wall, his eyes sliding shut. «Fuck you,» he hissed, but his body betrayed him. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more contact, and Drifter chuckled darkly.
«Now we're swearing too? Bad boy...» Drifter's mouth found the edge of the thong, pressing a kiss to the lace.
Mirage's fingers clenched against the wall behind him. He was trembling, his body screaming for release, his mind a fog of desire and desperation.
«Please-» escaped from his parted lips, the word breaking on a gasp as Drifter's tongue traced the outline of his length through the delicate fabric.
The vampire looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. «Mhm?»
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the thong and pulled it down, letting it fall at Mirage's feet. The cool air hit his erection, making him shiver violently.
«Much better,» Drifter murmured, his voice husky with want. And a second later his mouth was on him, hot and wet.
Mirage cried out, the sound barely muffled by his palm pressed against his lips. Drifter's tongue worked him with a skill that made his vision blur, drawing desperate sounds from his throat that he couldn't contain. He was supposed to be quiet and discreet, but every stroke of his mouth sent sparks shooting up his spine.
Drifter's hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as he took him deeper, his throat working around him. Mirage's fingers tangled in the vampire's dark curls, tugging at the strands as he fought to stay upright.
«I'm going to-» he gasped, his hips beginning to stutter.
But Drifter pulled away just before he could find release, leaving him aching.
«Not yet,» Drifter said, rising to his feet. His suit was rumpled now, his carefully maintained composure fraying at the edges. «I'm not done with you.»
Mirage pretended to get frustrated, emitting a weak groan. He was actually eager for anything the vampire was going to do to him, knowing the orgasm afterwards was going to be much more intense.
Drifter turned him around, pressing him face-first against the wall. Mirage's palms flattened against the cool surface, his forehead resting against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath.
The vampire pressed against him from behind, his body cold against Mirage's back. Drifter's hands found the basque, fingers trailing along the edges of the lace before reaching the garter clips at his thighs.
«These,» he murmured, hooking a thumb under one of the silver clasps, «are going to be the death of me. I've been thinking about them all night.»
Mirage made a sound that was half-laugh, half-whine. «I am pleased you like my taste.»
«"Like"? Cher,» Drifter's mouth found the junction of his neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to make Mirage gasp. «The only reason I haven't ripped them off you yet is because I want you to wear them again.»
His hands worked the garter clips free, peeling the stockings down inch by excruciating inch.
Then Drifter was on his knees again, and Mirage's eyes flew wide.
«What are you-»
But before he could receive an answer, Drifter's fingers parted his cheeks. His tongue lapped between, pressing against the tight rim of muscle, and Mirage's world dissolved into sensation.
He cried out, his voice raw and broken, his forehead thudding against the wall as the other worked him open relentlessly. The vampire's tongue traced circles around his entrance, pressed inside, coaxed sounds from him that Mirage hadn't known he could make. His hands were shaking, his legs trembling, his entire body full of desperate need. «You are revolting, ah-»
Drifter rose, pressing against him again, and Mirage felt the hard line of his erection through the fabric of his trousers. The vampire's mouth found his ear again. «I'm already all worked up for you cher, no need to sweet talk to me.»
His long fingers gripped Mirage's chin. He felt the red claws retract and the index finger press insistently against his lips. «Moisten it well. Unless you want it to hurt.»
Meanwhile, Drifter's free hand grabbed Mirage's wrists and forcefully pinned them against the wall above his head.
Mirage parted his lips slightly, and the finger entered his mouth forcefully. He twirled his tongue around it rhythmically, tasting champagne and blood. As much as he knew he should have found it disgusting and should have stopped, he found himself within seconds eager for more, his taste buds adapting to the metallic taste. «Mhm...»
«Mirage, you don't say. Blood, of all things? Who is "revoltin'" now?» Drifter mocked, but forcing the entire length of his finger down his throat from excitement.
The other's body betrayed whatever kind of moderation he was trying to keep up, seeking any possible friction with Drifter's presence.
«Oh, cher, we should stop. I might finish just from this and I don't want that.» Drifter, reluctantly, took his digit out of his mouth with a weak 'pop'. It was covered in saliva, some of which was slipping down his knuckles.
«Good boy. Let's get to work.»
The first press of Drifter's fingers was a shock, slick and cool working him open. Mirage's breath hitched, his body tensing around the intrusion.
«Relax.» Drifter murmured, weakly biting his shoulder. Mirage tried, forcing his body to yield as Drifter added a second finger, stretching him with patient precision. The sensation was overwhelming: the fullness, the drag of those fingers inside him, the way Drifter's thumb pressed against his entrance with every stroke.
«Ooh, Drifter...» he breathed. A gasp escaped him and his heart hammered as Drifter's lips brushed the shell of his ear teasingly.
«Oui?» He purred, thick with amusement and a dark, possessive hunger that made Mirage's knees weak.
«Don't play dumb.» The words were meant to be a snap, but instead came out as a plea.
«I have no idea what'cha talking about. Try to use your beautiful voice.» Drifter's voice was a low rumble in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. «Tell me what you want.»
«I want-» He started, the words catching in his throat.
«Want what?» Drifter pressed, a wicked grin on his face. His thumb traced the corner of Mirage’s mouth, a gesture both tender and possessive. «Say it Mirage, say it.»
He couldn't look away from the hypnotic pull of those eyes. He thought of the night's endless surveillance, the desperate glances, the ache in his bones. It was all for this. It had all led to this.
«I want you, vampire,» he confessed, his voice rough with a need that had been building for longer than he cared to admit. «I need you inside me.»
Drifter's response was a low, possessive growl as a triumphant, predatory smile spread across his face. The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room, followed by the rustle of fabric as he freed himself. Mirage felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against his entrance.
«Look at me,» Drifter commanded. «I want to see your face when I take you.»
Mirage turned his head above his raised upper arm, meeting those crimson eyes in the dim light. And then Drifter pushed inside him.
The sensation was electric, a full-body jolt that made Mirage's vision go white at the edges. He cried out, his hands scraping against the wall as Drifter filled him inch by inch, stretching him open, claiming him completely.
«Oh- oh God-» Mirage's voice broke as Drifter bottomed out, his hips flush against Mirage's ass. The vampire's breath was hot against his neck, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
«Shit,» Drifter breathed, almost in a whisper. «You feel- fuck, you feel incredible.»
Then he began to move.
The rhythm started slow, deep strokes that pushed Mirage's hips toward the wall with every thrust. Drifter's free hand gripped his hip, claws biting into the fabric of the basque, holding him steady as he fucked him.
But the slowness didn't last. The tension that had been building all night, the hours of longing and frustration, was too much. Drifter's rhythm quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more desperate.
Mirage was lost in it, the world reduced to the feeling of Drifter inside him, the drag of his cock against his prostate with every thrust, the slap of their bodies echoing in the quiet room, the impossibility of touching himself. He was making sounds he couldn't control, desperate little noises that spilled from his lips and reached higher octaves with every impact.
«All this time, hiding behind that perfect composure,» Drifter growled, his voice ragged. «and look at you now. Look at what you let me do to you.»
Noticing the leather tie holding Mirage's hair in a neat bun, his lips curled into a smirk. He sank his fangs into the fabric to snap it, allowing long and dark strands to cascade messily around his face.
«Bastard,» Mirage exhaled beneath him, but too unfocused to form other words. His mind was a haze of pleasure, his body full of different and opposing sensations. Drifter's hand found his aching erection, pumping it in time with his erratic thrusts, and the dual stimulation made his knees buckle.
The pressure building in Mirage's gut became too much, the pleasure too intense. With a broken cry, he came, spilling over Drifter's fist as his body clenched around him.
The sensation of the other's orgasm and the tight convulsions around his cock were enough to push Drifter over the edge. Biting the back of Mirage's neck to hold him still as he rode through his orgasm, he buried himself deep, his hips stuttering as he came as well with an animalistic growl.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They stood there, breathing ragged in the aftermath, Drifter's forehead pressed against the back of Mirage's bleeding neck.
Then, slowly, he pulled out. «Oh, that felt good.»
Mirage shivered at the loss, feeling the evidence of their encounter beginning to trickle down his thigh. His eyes fluttered shut, his body still trembling. His legs were weak, his mind sluggish with satisfaction.
«I- ahem. Need to return to the gala.» Mirage's voice was still rough, catching on the edges of his climax. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, trying to steady his breathing and to remember how to be the composed bodyguard he'd been less than an hour ago.
The vampire's hand was still resting on his hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the bare skin beneath the basque. «If you're still thinkin' about that party of spoiled brats, I didn't do a good job.»
«Idiot. Help me.»
And Drifter complied. His claws lingered on every button, every cuff, every hidden piece of silk. But eventually, his eyes traced the garter as Mirage pulled his trousers over it, and everything was covered again.
«Well. Until next time, pretty boy,» he murmured, pressing a kiss to his hand.
Mirage sighed, his cheeks already getting warmer again. «There won't be a next time, vampire.»
Drifter scoffed, «Of course. You said it last time as well.»
And he was gone before the other could reply, swallowed by the shadows. Mirage stood in the dim corridor, his skin still tingling with the ghost of Drifter's touch.
He straightened his cuffs, smoothed his lapels and combed his hair. He checked his reflection in a mirror and saw the same man who'd entered the gala hours ago: poised, composed, perfect.
With hair loose on his shoulders, silk pressing every inch of his skin, and phantom fangs deep into his neck, luckily completely covered by the collar of his clothes.
Mirage walked back into the ballroom.
The gala was ending: the music was softer now, the crowd was thinner. Nashala waved at him from across the room, and he promptly walked toward her.
«There you are, finally. I must retire to the vessel. Did something happen? Your hair-»
«Nothing happened, Lady Nashala.»
Liar.