Page 14 of Light

“LA and New York?” Reece inflects it with the perfect amount of authentic interest.

“Both offices took the week off for the holidays, so Maddie and I invited the New York gang out for a few days of R and R, as well as the party.” He leans in to add, just as I’m about to give him new props for being a bizarre but benevolent soul, “Besides, having them all here means there’s a better chance of the bigger faces coming out for the night.”

Luckily, Mel’s too dense to notice the tension beneath Reece’s “confused” smile. “Bigger…names? What do you m—”

“Oh, come on.” Mel smacks Reece on the back with the force of a grizzly giving CPR. “The big ‘R’ in RRO, man. Reece Richards himself! And as we all know by now, that little spitfire of his wife is sure to add some ‘sunshine’ to this chilly night. Am I right? Sunshine! Haaaaa!”

I struggle to catch Reece’s eye as Mel gives new meaning to the concept of sunshine itself for ten minutes, including a hey-I-used-to-sing-in-high-school version of “You are My Sunshine” that has me seriously but silently exhorting my husband, over and over again, Please don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.

“And hey, hey, hey.” Fresh out of sunshine references, Mel seems to mellow out—or at least what his version of the stuff is. “At the very least, you know this charity shit is great for press optics.”

Somehow, Reece rustles together a fake smile of commiseration and replies, “Oh, sure. And what does the press love more than their ‘optics’?”

“Not a hell of a lot, I can tell you that.” Mel’s crack, while beyond irritating, is also beyond right. Even Bean jumps into my act, his pissed-off kicks matching the ire I fight to hide away—though likely for unnecessary reasons. Though it might chafe me that the RRO staffers are being used for better press coverage, I’m sure all of them knew exactly what they were doing when coming to the party—and exactly what the end result would be, as well. More exposure for our cause. More money with which to accomplish it.

There’s a superhero life lesson in there somewhere—worthy cause versus stupid attention for the day’s meditation subject, anyone?—but I’m yanked out of that mental mire by everyone’s favorite attention magnet for the evening. All right, maybe everyone except Cal, who’s bypassed vexated blushes in favor of full-on scorn for his date—which might have a little to do with the Bolt-ini she just downed in a gulp to rival Reece’s fastest finger zap for speed.

We’re all still watching in stunned silence as the first hit of the new alcohol hits her, and she swings her head aloft while letting her whole arm plummet. Fortunately, the martini glass that slips from her fingers is deftly caught by Clark, not that the girl notices enough to thank him. “Woohoooo!” she shouts as if she’s dangling out of a limousine sunroof, waving to the tourists down Sunset Boulevard. “All the kisses for the optics! All of themmmm!”

There’s a round of softly amused laughs from the women, at least—who among us hasn’t been that girl at a party at one time or another?—but I feel awful for poor Cal, who tries to drag Juliet from her stool with calm but firm reprimands.

“Heeeeyyy!” she whines it into the guy’s face, making Cal grimace. Her breath is probably a hundred proof by now. “I don’t wanna go. It’s finally getting funnnnn.”

Calvin’s jaw resembles a bronze box with its fresh tension. “I said you’ve had enough, Juliet, and I mean it.”

“Fuck off!”

Our collective, uncomfortable silence is probably the last thing Cal wants, though the first thing instinct dictates to us. Reece, feeling for the guy, moves forward and murmurs, “Allow me to hel—”

“I said fuck off!”

Nothing’s so silent anymore. At least not to me. After the round of stunned gasps have died out on the air, logical reactions to the Exorcist-style growl that’s taken over Juliet’s larynx, my head is filled with terrified thunder, and my chest is a solid beat of comprehension.

Juliet doesn’t sound like herself—because she isn’t herself.

Not even the next moment, as she visibly “collects” herself to “appear” more like the charming thing who arrived here on Calvin’s arm, I can still feel the additional force in the room—the extra presence who’s unmistakably swept into this atmosphere.

Holy. Shit.

Faline?

I’m so certain about it, I slam both hands across my stomach—not just in a mode of protection but in detection. My boy, already so advanced beyond his embryonic state, must have something to tell me about all this. But damn it, he’s fallen just as silent and still as everyone else in the room.

Too damn still.

“This…this isn’t good.” My rasp is heard only by my husband, but that’s exactly my intention. The second Reece sweeps his stunned stare to mine, I know he’s seen and felt the change too—and is just as tormented about what to about it as I am. There’s a chance, however slim, that we’ve both just let our paranoia run away with our imaginations. But even if that’s not the case, he can’t just rush up, grab the woman, and force a confrontation. No matter how Faline’s controlling the woman—whether it’s full remote control or simple “Faline’s Disciples Army” mode—there’s still a damn good chance our cover hasn’t been blown all the way open yet.

Yet.

So far, Juliet is simply regarding us as Mel and Maddie’s eccentric neighbors. She continues doing so while hopping off her barstool and downing the rest of Cal’s Bolt-ini, only to giggle at her date as if he’s just let her chop off his dick instead. “Stupid, stupid boy,” she spits. “Or am I the stupid one for letting you drag me to this ridiculously rank party?”

“Excuse me?” The objection comes from Maddie, newly arrived to the kitchen area with a stack of empty hors d’oeuvres plates. But her withering glare is given a serene smirk from Juliet—who’s probably continuing to fool everyone that she is Juliet, except for Reece and me—before she rocks back on one heel and cocks one hand to her opposite hip.

“Not sure I can do that,” she snips across the kitchen.

“Huh?” Maddie retorts.

“Excuse you,” Juliet—or whoever the hell she is—counters. “Sorry but not sorry—I am completely certain that I cannot excuse you.”