Compete (60 page)

“And now, the makeup.” And Kem begins working on my face.

First he uses a special foundation matte powder that is applied so lightly that it appears invisible, but adds a hint of both color and porcelain pallor to the skin of my face, neck, and upper chest. In a moment of quantum paradox, suddenly my skin appears ethereal. . . . Next, he uses a variety of color sticks to blend amazing dramatic shadows over my eyes, with the subtlety of a true artist. Then he applies gentle blush that finds and emphasizes my high cheekbones. Finally comes the razor-intense kohl eyeliner and mascara that transform my eyes into deep stunning things.

“My eyebrows are kind of thick—do you need to pluck anything?” I ask in trepidation.

“No,” he replies. “Plucking eyebrows is actually a common misconception—most women and men already have the natural brow shape that perfectly defines and emphasizes their eye socket. When they pluck, to make the ridiculous up-sweeping arches, they in fact detract from the true expressiveness of their face. Unless the brows are already naturally thin, plucked eyebrows take away the potential
force
and
fierceness
hidden in you, and change your face—not in a good way.”

“Wow,” I mutter. “Sounds like a whole philosophy there.”

“Yes, it is. It is also an art, and you study it,” he says with some pride. “It’s true, in some cases, some adjustment is necessary to the features. But in your case, Gwen, you make it easy. Your eyebrows are neither too thick nor too thin, but perfectly shaped. They frame your eyes with power and distinction. And—no need for false eyelashes. Your natural eyelashes are precisely enough. I simply darkened the colors all around to emphasize the beauty of your wonderful blue irises.”

The very last is the lip color. He outlines my lips, then fills them with a rich blood-red cosmetic that has the juicy gloss of crushed cherries and black ink.

“Your lips have a truly fine harmonious shape. A full lower lip such as yours makes it easy to sculpt colors. Open your mouth. . . .”

I do as I’m told, and he continues fine-tuning the gradation of lip color at the corners with a fine-tipped brush.

When he is done, I look
amazing
.

Seriously, I can’t even begin to describe how good he made me look.

This is not me
. . . .

I am someone else—a beautiful, shadowy, mysterious female.

I look fierce. Seductive. Dangerous.

I look like her, the one who will sing the
Habanera
tonight, with the intention to
devastate
.

Carmen.

I
try to stand up, but Kem tells me firmly he is not done yet. “And now, the finishing touches,” he says with a little pleased smile.

He reaches into his magic bag and opens another small box. Inside is a beautiful jewel pendant—a great blood-red ruby, fixed in a delicate black metal filigree setting. The ruby is not faceted, but a smooth rounded cabochon. It is surrounded by tiny, sharply faceted black crystals that dance with black fire. Next to it in the box are two matching earrings, consisting of similar smaller ruby studs with sparkling garlands of black jewels, shaped like eyes of a peacock.

“This is on loan from Consul Denu’s personal collection,” Kem says, putting the chain around my neck and attaching the clasp from the back. “Wear it tonight with Consul Denu’s compliments and his thanks.”

The chain slips with a cool pressure around my neck and the pendant dips down to rest provocatively in my cleavage, where it sparkles with an infernal light. I am so unused to this kind of thing that its placement actually makes me blush.

“Oh wow, this is gorgeous and looks expensive!” I say with worry.

“It is both,” Kem replies with a smile. “But Consul Denu wants to thank you on my behalf—again, for helping me.”

“I should be thanking both of you so much!”

“Your ears are pierced?”

“Yes.”

Kem nods. “Good. These are for pierced ears, though I have an alternate set of clip-ons, which are a part of the collection. Some Atlantean high-ranking families do not pierce or in any way mar their flesh, so there must always be alternatives.”

Kem puts the earrings on me, and they are surprisingly light and comfortable, with the deep red studs adding almost no weight, and the exquisite peacock fringes dangling almost down to my shoulders. . . . They brush feather-softly against my cheeks and throat like ghostly kisses. . . .

“One more thing,” Kem says. He opens the bag again, and takes out two long evening gloves that match my dress in deep red-black color.

“Oh, wow . . .” I say. “Where did you get this made? How?”

“3D printer,” he says with a little smile.

But then I notice they are not actually gloves—they’re a strange cross between fingerless gloves and just sleeves that go up just past the elbows. I pull the sleeves on and see there is a ring on each that attaches to the middle finger, connecting the sleeve fabric to the hand, forming an elegant “V.” I slide the rings on.

“
Now
we’re done,” Kem says, looking at me with satisfaction. “But wait—no, one more last thing. . . .”

He reaches into his bag one more time, and this time takes out a single large flower, fresh from the Hydroponics deck, its closely cropped stem enclosed in a small special hydrating tip. It’s a deep crimson carnation. “This is from me,” he says. “For your hair, to complete your themed costume.”

“My God, you are amazing!” I exclaim, while Kem carefully pins the gorgeous hothouse blossom to the side of my head.

“There,” he says. “It is specially coated so the freshness should last the entire evening.”

I stand up, slip on my high-heeled shoes. . . . Take a few steps and glimpse myself sideways in the small mirror.

A creature from another dimension—a dimension of shadows and black ruddy flames—passes by me in the mirror.

“Go on,” Kem says. “The Dance has started. I will see you there.”

I
t’s just after 7:00 PM when I move through the large people-packed corridor in the central hub near the CCO, toward the entrance to the Resonance Chamber.

Red light fills the hallway, and stains all of us with passionate crimson highlights.

Inside, the music comes like thunder, a heavy dance beat.

I walk carefully, unused to my high-heeled shoes, not to mention the entire rest of me, alien, exotic, dramatic. Right now I’m feeling like a combination of Cinderella and a military commando on a mission. After all, I
am
wearing all that war paint—oops, I mean, face paint.

I’m supposed to meet Xelio somewhere near the music tech sound station, not far from the inside entrance.

Surrounded by a crowd of other gorgeously overdressed teens, I take a deep breath and enter the Resonance Chamber.

Oh, wow.
 . . .

It’s as if I’ve entered the heart of a deep red jewel—a blood drop—or possibly the innards of a great red giant star. . . .

The grand spherical expanse is lit up in strange sinuous red light. It’s all furious pale crimson radiance up near the ceiling . . . and then it starts fading in a smooth gradation to a deep, almost-black crimson at the level of the currently flat, upraised floor. The floor itself looks like a bed of simmering coals, or maybe a lava flow that’s ready to break through a thin black crust. . . .

The walls of the chamber, I notice, are decorated at regular intervals with long slim objects that appear to be blazing columns of white light. I try to make out what they are, and suddenly I get it—they are
swords
—translucent swords, with blades made of an unknown glass-like material and filled on the inside with hard white radiance.

Absolutely stunning
. . . .

Thousands of teens fill the center of the dance floor, moving to the hard beat. I see girls wearing every shade of red, and Cadets in white uniforms trimmed with gold. Soon I realize, as I look around, that my own dress is possibly the deepest darkest shade of red that I can see. . . . In this universe of red, I am darkness personified, a dramatic dark goddess silhouetted against hell flames. . . .

All around the perimeter, where the donut walkway runs around the width of the sphere, the usual stations are set up. I start scanning the room for familiar faces, while I gradually make my way through the crowd to the nearest station where they’re giving out couple locator pins.

An Atlantean girl hands me a pair of red pins, and I take them, clutch them in my slightly trembling fingers. I recall suddenly the last time I had to deal with these pins—except they were blue and Logan tore his off angrily and left me standing. . . .

Stop, just stop, do not think
. . . .

Where is Xelio?

Just as I start to wonder, I see him, only a few steps away, near the sound tech station, talking to several Atlantean crew members. I think I see Anu among them.

My lord, but Xelio is
hot
. . . . He is wearing the white Fleet uniform, trimmed with gold around the collar and sleeves, and his long black hair is brushed back neatly and gathered behind him in a segmented tail, each segment held by a slim angry-red silk band. His uniform sits on him with sleek precision, emphasizing his beautiful wide shoulders and the elegant line of his back. My gaze trails lower—yes, I’m brazen tonight!—and he is tight and muscular in all the right places.

I see his half-turned profile, and the cocky grin as he laughs with his officers and crew. Damn, the guy is charming and a little scary, all at the same time.

I am almost afraid of approaching him. A pang of doubt plagues me suddenly.
Seriously, what am I doing here?
I think.
I am Gwen the Awkward Dork. And he is sleek, confident, hotshot, stunning
. . . .

In that moment, Xelio turns around and sees me.

And as he does, he grows absolutely still. The smile leaves his face. And he just stares.

There is a long scary moment, a deadly pause.

And then Pilot Xelio Vekahat walks toward me, and stops just an arm’s length away.

“Hi, Xelio,” I say in a slightly breathless voice.

His black eyes are infinitely focused on me.

“Gwen . . .” he says, after a smallest pause. “I—I had no idea. . . .”

A stab of nerves hits me. “What?” I say, and my voice is so quiet now, that I suspect he can barely hear me over the din of the crowds and the music.

“You are—” he pauses again, and in that one moment the expression of his face is so serious it is almost vulnerable, startled—as though he’s
lost
in me.

“Is something wrong?” I whisper.

But then he shakes his head, and his normal confident expression returns. “Nothing is wrong. . . . To the contrary—you are
stunning
, Gwen Lark. You made me forget my thoughts and took my breath away. I had no idea you could be like this.”

I gulp. “Is that a good thing?”

In answer he takes a step, closing the distance between us, and his arm wraps around mine, pressing it to his side almost possessively. Then his hand slips down, his warm large fingers sensuously clasping my own.

“Come,” he says, looking intently at me from up-close, devouring every inch of my face, then allowing his gaze to wander downward, along the skin of my neck, and lower, where a blood ruby reposes in the cleft between my breasts. “You are a goddess. And tonight, you are
mine
.”

And in that moment all my doubts, all my nagging fears recede.

Because, really, from the very first moment, I
could
see it in his eyes tonight, an appraisal of me, and I could
see
that he was genuinely overwhelmed. But I simply did not believe myself, as usual.

But—not any more.

A surge of confident power fills me and I smile up at him as we begin to walk through the crowd.

Just for a moment, Xel pauses. He opens his other hand and brings it up so that I might observe two glowing red pins sitting on his palm. Wordlessly he attaches one to the side of my dress, then changes his mind, and puts it on my unattached right sleeve, where it winks on my upper arm below my elbow. “Forgive me, I don’t want to mar the perfection that is you . . .” he whispers, as he sticks the other pin carelessly on the front of his own uniform.

“Thank you,” I whisper back. And then I open my hand and show him my own pair of pins. “What shall I do with these?”

“Obviously you may not part with them either, and no one else may have it.” He smiles, then takes one from me and pins it right next to the first pin on his uniform. And he takes the remaining one in my palm and pins it on my other sleeve, in perfect symmetry, so that now I have one on each arm.

“Two eyes, to watch you with,” he says, pointing to the two pins on his uniform. “Both mated to yours.”

I laugh. “Very silly, Xelio. But at least now we can be
twice
as certain we will not lose each other in this crazy crowd.”

As I am talking, I notice he is watching me relentlessly, consuming me with his eyes. He observes me from head to toe, and then begins again.