House Party

[Nesrin Aziz]

The Emissary’s voice sounded rough as old nails. For a moment the words had even slurred, like he’d lost the tongue somewhere inside his own head. Nesrin stared up, transfixed by the strangeness, but more so by the thrill of her own pulse. She had no problem cutting a loss and running. Names could be shed. Lives could be reinvented. But she’d take those games up to the wire sometimes – for everyone dreamed, and she’d never met anyone yet who could evade the power which exerted her will when she needed it. The flutter of it was there at the edges of her senses, heady with every breath in her chest, as he held out his hand for what she had stolen.

His keys were discrete on the underside of her palm, and for now remained there, whatever his accusation. No ordinary mark would have felt the difference in weight, and she was too good for him to have felt the lift. She looked from that waiting hand to his neon eyes, her expression hidden under the black oval of her own mask. All but the sensual eyes, clearly contemplating the demand.

Seduction was a useless tool for exoneration in this situation, though the one she considered and discarded first. He’d fled from the roaming hands of unravelling lust, else had been more interested in something else at the time, yet she’d found him completely senseless against the wall. Perhaps he had an implant of some kind – it’d explain some things. Either way Nesrin decided to push a little more.

She couldn’t exactly protest her innocence without removing the muta mask, of course, and while she was not invested in concealing her face, she wasn’t going to reveal it unless he did first. Which clearly wasn’t going to happen. The hand he’d struck like a viper, only to release the moment she resisted, turned to beckon. She thought he’d follow willingly. After all, she still had those keys.