I stifle a laugh, ignore the fact he’s so good at getting my mind buzzing on something else. Maltese is a ritzy members’ club I’ve never been able to get membership to; first the committee used my age as an excuse, and then another one told Teddy they thought I would draw attention—like that’s a bad thing, like the right kind of attention at the right time isn’t the freaking lifeblood of our fast-paced garbage-town world. “Like a setup?”

“Whatever you want,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “Let’s go, shall we?”

I tear my eyes off him to look into the reflective metal sink behind me and wipe the eyeliner drifting below my lash line. Call me a narcissist, but nothing steadies me like the sight of my own made-up face. NARS armor.

“Let’s go,” I say, leading the way, knowing full well he’ll linger behind me a minute or two so we don’t draw more attention on our way back inside.

I reenter the hall, dodging ushers who are helping people into the theater, and crane my neck to look for Manon or Teddy. I spin around just as Manon reaches from behind, her hand closing around my upper arm, and I collide with a man holding a small glass of disgusting green foam. I dodge the toothpick-impaled fish that flies onto the floor, groaning at the splash of rotten-seaweed green, and I look up.

The blood runs out of my face, my fingers, my toes. I find myself face-to-face with the worst Hero Pharm monster of them all: Nítuchí.

Oh.

NONI

Nítuchí looks the same as always: a bloodless face, with flat eyes, concealed by rimless, round glasses. They always—always—judge, as if they can see through a thin membrane of skin, past muscle-wrapped bone, and into what he must think are two basic bubble-gum-pink souls. It might be simple curiosity on his part: I don’t think he has a soul himself.

“Misses Hammick,” he says now, in English, face pinched with constipated distaste. I can’t decide if it’s his resting bitch face or if it’s carefully crafted for our benefit.

I crush Tai’s hand in mine while trying to gauge how tipsy she is. I couldn’t intercept her before she ran straight into him.

“Mr. Nítuchí,” I reply in pointed Vilosh, trying not to feel nauseated to the point of vomiting on his shiny tuxedo. A waiter hands Tai something iced that smells like sweet wine, and she takes it before I can stop her.

Nítuchí gives the same waiter his used cup-o’-fish and stands there in silence, examining us. Waiting for us to squirm.

I wonder if I should congratulate him for betraying our family so successfully.

“It’s been a long time,” I say instead, in Vilosh, to cut the silence.