Page 48 of Mane Rival in Store

“The petal attachment is hand-stitched.” He was studying the headdress with the focused, involuntary respect she’d only seen from him behind glass cases. “Individual petals. Layered for depth variation. That’s not hobbyist work.”

“That’s Ozara. She’s been coming to Midnight Villain since the beginning. Wins the walk-off about every third event.” Lark raised her hand. “Ozara!”

The Poison Ivy turned. Broke into a grin. “Lark! You made it!” She crossed to them with the vine train trailing behind her like a botanical red carpet. Her gaze landed on Rune. Traveled up. Kept traveling. “And you brought a plus one.”

“Ozara, Rune. Rune, Ozara. She’s a textile artist by day. The petal work is hers.”

“The layering technique is exceptional.” Rune’s voice had shifted—not the boardroom register, not the stiff formality. The vault voice. Genuine and precise. “You’ve varied the opacity to create depth gradation.”

Ozara stared at him. Then at Lark. Then back at him. “I like him. He noticed the opacity trick. Nobody notices the opacity trick.” She squeezed Lark’s arm. “Keep this one.”

Lark steered Rune deeper into the event before the blush could reach her ears. The DJ transitioned into a heavy, bass-driven track that vibrated through the concrete floor. She stopped at the Hydra bar, ordered two villain-themed cocktails—The Nemesis for her (bourbon, black cherry, smoke), The Mastermind for him (gin, elderflower, activated charcoal, served black)—and handed him the glass.

He held it at arm’s length. “It’s black.”

“It’s themed.”

“It looks like an oil spill in crystal.”

“It tastes like a very good gin and tonic that went to art school. Drink it.”

He drank it. His eyebrows rose a millimeter. He took a second sip.

“Adequate?”

“It’s competent.”

She pulled him through the installations. The Magneto garden, where magnetized sculptures shifted on motorized tracks. The Gotham alley, where projection mapping turned the wall into a living comic panel. A vendor row of cosplay artisans—prop makers, wig artists, leather workers—whose craft rivaled anything in Rune’s world of restoration and preservation. She introduced him to people she’d known for years: event organizers, cosplay builders, indie comic artists who sold their work through Villainette stores. She watched him listen to them with the same focused attention he gave his work and felt the pull behind her ribs tighten.

He was enjoying himself. He would never say it. His face was still set in the regal default—the expression that Sybil had once described as “Viking audit in progress.” But his eyes were alive, tracking the room with hunger, and when a prop maker showed him a hand-cast resin Loki helmet with custom LED inlays, his hand reached for it before his brain could intervene.

You brought the lion to the carnival and he’s touching the prizes.

The walk-off started at midnight.

The runway lit up—purple spots, crossing beams, fog rolling across the stage. The MC, a drag queen in a sequined Maleficent gown, commanded the crowd with a voice that bounced off the warehouse ceiling. Contestants paraded. Builds ranged from amateur-enthusiastic (a bedsheet Magneto with genuine heart) to professional-jaw-dropping (a mechanical Doctor Octopus with articulated arms that moved via hidden servos).

Lark judged. She’d been on the Midnight Villain panel for two years—one of three rotating judges who evaluated craft, character embodiment, and stage presence. She sat at the judges’ table with Marcus (a prop builder) and Dinah (a cosplay photographer), and Rune stood behind her, arms crossed, watching the parade with an intensity that drew the MC’s attention.

“We have a mystery judge in the audience! Sir, would you like to offer a score?”

Rune’s expression did not change. “I’m observing.”

The MC adjusted her Maleficent horns. “Honey, you’re not observing. You’re presiding. Somebody get this man a throne.”

The crowd laughed. Rune did not laugh. But a fractional shift at the corner of his mouth—the microexpression that Lark had been tracking for weeks—and she grinned so hard, her face ached.

The walk-off ended. Ozara won, as predicted. Lark signed a Villainette gift certificate for the prize package and posed for photos with the top three finishers. When she turned back to find Rune, he was at the vendor row, deep in conversation with the prop maker about resin-casting techniques. His suit jacket was unbuttoned. He’d rolled his sleeves to the forearm.

Rolled his sleeves. In public. At a costume party.

She made a mental note to inform Breezy that the incident log needed updating.

Rune

The cape was purple.

Not a tasteful purple. Not a muted, dignified aubergine. PURPLE. Vivid, theatrical, floor-length purple satin lined with black silk, with a high collar that fanned behind the head like the spread wings of an exceedingly dramatic bird.