Wycke found a spot on the edge of the dance floor, spinning to face his somewhat reluctant partner.
Piers stood and stared for a moment, a stubborn glint in his eyes. What could Wycke do? Ah! He sent a suggestion to whoever controlled the music. One moment music pounded. The next? Silence.
“Sorry, folks,” came a disembodied voice. “Technical difficulties. Seems that track just melted our equipment. How about this one?” A heavy bass beat filled the room.
A flicker of recognition momentarily eased the scowl on Piers’ face. He’d probably no idea his body started moving before he fully registered the tune.
He spun. No! He couldn’t leave. Piers spun again, gliding effortlessly into Wycke’s personal space. He bumped, he ground, putting his mouth near Wycke’s ear. “This is my favorite song in the whole wide world.”
Wycke learned public dancing from a young age: ballroom, promenades, moves meant to impress heads of state, and bondable young women or men.
Piers’ wild abandon wasn’t so much dancing as having sex with many strangers with his clothes—mostly—on. Anyone wandering too close found themselves caught up in the movement, enraptured by the dancing bartender.
And people called Wycke wicked.
All scowling left Piers’ face, making him look so much younger, while he threw himself wholeheartedly into the beat.
Wycke stood frozen as dancers worked their way into Piers’ space, dancing for a few beats before moving on, like courtiers bowing to their king.
Once more, the strange electricity crackled in the air.Wycke took advantage of a lull, moving in, full body-to-body with Piers.
Piers placed his hands on Wycke’s hips, guiding the rhythm as they swayed together. The heat of Piers’ body rose between them, along with the scent of magic.
Wait! What? No, it couldn’t be magic. No mortal in this realm wielded magic. Cologne. Must be cologne.
Potent cologne, reeling Wycke in better than any spell. What sorcery was this? He wanted, needed, to kiss that grin. Taste the sweetness of those smiling lips. Closer he came, bringing their noses together. When Wycke lunged to seal their lips, Piers danced away, spinning a laughing woman around with a hand on her waist and disappearing into the crowd.
Wycke waded into the thrashing bodies. The moment he got close enough to touch, the wall of dancers closed again. He flicked a spell, creating an opening. People jumped back, fanning their noses. “Who farted?” a woman exclaimed.
Not the desired spell, but the results worked. Wycke held his breath, darting through the opening in the crowd.
The music slowed and stopped.
Piers’ demeanor fell. “Thanks for the dance. I have to get back to work now.”
“Can I see you later?” Wycke had never sounded desperate before. Never approached another so blatantly—he merely extended an arm and captured prospective lovers when they flung themselves his way.
Piers took both of Wycke’s hands in his. “Look, you’re a good-looking guy.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “What am I saying? You’re hot as all fuck. But hot as fuck guys never offer anything I want to keep.” Piers swept a hand out toward the crowd. “Go. I imagine at least half of the people here would happily show you a good time.”
“But not you.”
Piers shook his head. Genuine sadness pulled his mouth into a frown. “No. Not me.”Something in his downturned eyes gave Wycke pause. Something seemed off.
“Surely you hook up sometimes.”
The blue highlights glimmered in his hair when Piers threw back his head and laughed, but his face remained tense. “Yes. But I find life much less complicated if I don’t take home men I meet in clubs.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
Sudden pressure gripped Wycke’s chest. He’d never felt such an ache before. At least not recently.
Only when the bartender returned to work did Wycke recognize the feeling:
Disappointment.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wycke faded back, out of sight of Piers. Such a disappointment, but he’d not been here for a conquest anyway.
He mingled, sniffed out elusive magic, and chatted up the occasional magical being. The subject proved tricky. How could he ask,“Have you seen a magical child?”without asking directly? Most of those he talked to escaped during the war, so had known Lady Nyanda, told stories of her evil, hated her for personal reasons.