Page 2 of The Fake Divination Offense
“No.” Marlow beams, all sharp white teeth. “It’s a screwing-with-you thing. Put a bell on me. I dare you.”
Darian shoves her.
“Where is Phei?” I ask, cutting my gaze around. Though, from what I’ve learned of the Hellhounds’ dryad healer, they don’texactly hold to things like schedules. Or time. Or humanoid forms. But they’ve surprisingly never missed a practice, so.
The bar’s filling, evening swelling the crowd, chatter rising with the temperature as sweat slicks my navy Henley to my back.
“No clue,” Marlow says. “They said they’d try to come, though.”
At which point, conversation flatlines, and it’s painfully obvious that only Darian, who was assigned toshow me the ropeswhen I got traded, and as such got stuck being my friend, and Marlow, my training partner and the other newest team member, came out. Despite my invite to the whole team that drinks were on me at the Silver Hound.
“I’m sure they just had other plans.” Darian adjusts his guitar’s strap with a shrug. “There’re only a few weeks ’til the first game. Everyone’s busy before the season starts.”
Marlow’s crystalline eyes flash with her smile. “We’ll still party.”
That buzzing energy I’ve been riding high on threatens to morph into something other than cheerfulness, but nope. It doesn’t get to do that tonight.
I’m staying in this moment. Living in this victory. It was a hard-earned win, no matter what other people might think, and enjoying the release of this stress is a necessary part of the healing process.
So says my therapist at the more frequent appointments we’ve had the past few months in preparation for not only the lawsuit ending but me starting a new rawball season. Lots of beginnings, lots of healing, lots ofgood things.
I power back the rest of my beer and flag the bartender. “What are you guys drinking? Sky’s the limit.”
Seb whirls on me. “I’ll get their drinks. You need to go up for your first song, right?”
The stage is at the rear of the bar, but they haven’t kicked off karaoke yet and I’m not the first slot. That was already claimed in the app by someone who put their name down as Alexo the Magnificent. Sounds more like a kid’s magician than a karaoke name, but whatever, I don’t judge.
Lies.
I totally judge.
If you’re gonna go to all the trouble of coming up with a karaoke nom de plume, then my gods,commit.
Seb nudges me toward the stage, but I brace myself on the barstool. There’s a weird look on his face, like he’s trying to cover something. Or distract me from something?
He lists to the right and sits up taller—trying to block me from seeing over his shoulder. The TV screens.
Which is hilarious. He’s a little guy—significantly shorter than me, as pale as I am but all unruly blond hair, glasses, and sass against my half-giant height and bulk—and him trying to block anything from me is like a chihuahua hurling itself in front of Cerberus.
All I have to do is flick my eyes up and to the left, and the screens are in full view.
The closest one shows a news report about—I squint, then roll my eyes. Looks like another group of Galaxrien Vossen cultists tried to resurrect him. Summon him? They can’t seem to decide whether their demon lord is alive or dead in the hell-pit my patron god—Urzoth Shieldsworn—locked him in centuries ago.
This time, their ceremony involved a tuft of hair—ew—they swear was from Galaxrien’s mortal descendant. Whoever they are. Most of the people who worship Galaxrien through the official religion have demonic ancestry, by nature of Galaxrien being a demon, so they probably grabbed hair from one of their own worshippers and called it good.
Regardless, before the ceremony could be completed, members of Urzoth’s church charged in and the proceeding tussle set fire to a pizza parlor, since the resurrection ceremony had been set up in an abandoned Best Buy in a strip mall.
Because, as everyone knows, demon lords trapped in hell-pits will only deign to come to earth if they’re resurrected at an electronics store.
The fuck is wrong with these cultists.
I almost reach for my phone, certain it’ll be lit up with texts from my mother talking about this latest drama, complaining aboutthe Galaxrien cultists and how idiotic it is to think they can undo Urzoth’s work, and so on and so forth. I could throw a little wrench into her rant by pointing out that the Urzoth worshippers used unnecessary force, but I know exactly what she’d say to that:Forceisstrength, Orok! When was the last time you challenged anyone to a fight? When was the last time you displayed your strength outside the rawball field?
My phone stays safely in my pocket.
I frown at Seb. However shit-stirring that news report will be with my mother, that can’t be what he didn’t want me to see.
He’s got this aggressively hopeful look on his face, wide smile and forced levity.
