"C'mon, Andrea! We're gonna be late. The line's gonna get super long!" Preethi knocks on my door, sighing. I can hear her shifting her weight between her heels. "My friends are almost there! And they pregamed. Unlike us."

"Yeah—I'm coming! I'm so, so sorry I don't drink a lot...I'm on medication!" I sigh sarcastically. "And my client ran late!" That's less sarcastic. Standardized prep test for college; the kid ran late because of some sports meet. That was fair.

I haven't spoken to Charlie since the night of the attack. He seemed to get the context; he's heard my raving on Luci's Coffee. He didn't even ask for the essay.

Maybe he thinks I'm dead.

But I still need to get paid for the session. With overtime.

I look over my closet, biting the edge of my gum. A club. Okay. Clubbing outfit. Preethi's called my wardrobe 'business dull chic'—mostly neutrals; black pants and some gray-gradient shirt. Or earth tones.

I pull out a cocktail dress that's buried in the back of the closet. It's dusty; I brush it down. A rare spot of color—but even that is duller, darker. Wine red dress, slit up the side, V-neck, long sleeves. I stuff myself into it, with black tights, a simple black jacket, and boots because I have little interest in sliding in gross, days-old city slush. How Preethi is wearing heels is beyond me.

I apply makeup—smoky eye fading out to slight red. Neutral mahogany lipstick. It's transformative, in a way—I look like a different person in color, in makeup, with fresh, day-one hair. Black and red looks good.

And then comes the rush of panic. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe—

Preethi opens the door. "Girl, y—oh! You're done."

I'm embarrassed to be looking at myself in the mirror—I just give her an awkward smile. Preethi groans, grabs my bag, then me, and tugs me out of the apartment. The elevator rattles.

"I'm paying for a cab, because I look way too good to be taking the train." She sizes me up, raising a brow. "We look too good to be on the train. You clean up well. And look at that! Color. But boots? No heels?"

"Correct. Maybe I like being under most people's line of vision...and more importantly, not catch a bacterial infection from dirty snow." I deadpan, walking ahead. Preethi's tall, slim; dancer-like. Perpetually, frustratingly, graceful. Me? None of the above.

She runs ahead, stopping at the curb. Almost immediately, a taxi screeches to a halt beside her, lights.

"After you, madame," Preethi laughs, opening the back door. I chuckle and step in.

***

The line at The Club is long. Preethi paces, complains, chats with everyone near us. The duo behind us—two men, one of whom Preethi already flirted with—bring up the attack. That it's ridiculous. Paras need to get their shit together.

I grit my teeth and wait, the nighttime cold cutting deeper into my bones. The door looms ahead, bouncers checking everyone's bags. I suck in a breath.

"You're good to go." The bouncer points in. "Enjoy."

Preethi grabs me once more and rushes forward. Immediately, sensory overload. It's too much, all at once: loud, bass-heavy music; flashing kaleidoscopic lights; shifting, dancing bodies; the smell of saccharine cosmos and sharp shots and stale beer. The light machines twist, spin; there's silver walls, twisted funhouse mirrors, giant crystal balls, reflective streamers. Dance floor center, glowing panels below; bar off to the side, different seating spaces around. Modern, minimalist couches—mostly pink, purple, and white. This place's a neon, dizzying expanse. My body's abuzz. I'm shaking. Not from the music.

I freeze for a moment and stare at the bar, one bottle of backlit blue vodka. I use that as my anchor. Like a lens coming into-focus, I swallow, let my lips thin, squeeze; I put my weight on my heels, I focus, focus, and—

Preethi spins around, groaning. "You're gonna slow us down even more. C'mon! There they are! Hey, guys!"

Her friends have already claimed a section of the seating area. They're giggling, opening drink menus; one, silken amber hair and freckled more than a rural starry night sky, is already looking around for a bartender. She notices Preethi first and squeals, running up to hug her. "Hey!"

The other women cheer and go between hugging each other, kissing on their cheeks, waving. I stand back. Preethi introduces herself, and so do some of the others. The freckled woman is Shannon. The others—Jade, Sunny, Mavis, Bree; I lose some of their names beneath the noise. They keep talking. And I stand, waiting for an opening.

Only, it doesn't come.

I clear my throat, deciding to interject. "Hey! I'm Andrea. Preethi's—"

"Oh yeah, Andrea Gelman, right?" Shannon asks. She says my name the American way.

"Andrea Gelman," I softly correct. It's the the Spanish way—Ahn-n-dray-ah Hel-mahn. Not Ann-dre-uh Gel-man. But I get why people would mistake it; I give her a soft smile.

"Right! Andrea, sorry!" Shannon waves a hand, grinning. She says my name right, and I immediately like her. Even attempting it, if incorrectly, means a person respects you enough to try and get your name right.

"I'm cousins with Liam. You tutor him, right?

"Yeah! He's a good, smart kid. Always tries hard. I think he likes me, right? You can tell me! I promise I won't hold it against him." I laugh. Nervously. Charlie's comments still ring in my head.

"For sure! He says you're really studious—he wants to be like you." Shannon waves a hand. "Also, I love the dress. Red's a great color. Not that I'm biased."

She points to her hair, and I chuckle with her. Shannon collapses on the couch and grins. I take one of the individual seats.

Shannon gestures to everyone. "Look at us! Just a bunch of single ladies. I'm so glad you broke up with Zach, Bree. He was an asshole, and now you can be here without feeling bad! Y—"

"Um, Shannon, I broke up with him a week ago. Too soon? C'mon—"

"What are you going to have? That cotton candy Cosmo sounds amazing! I think—"

"Shots! You guys can handle a little liquor, right?"

"Gross! Just give me a glass of beer—"

"You're calling me gross when you want the piss water? You're gross!"

They're all laughing. Whoever made the beer comment huffs and walks off. I'm lost on who's saying what; I just focus on my hands, the floor, the stool. Preethi's hand is on my back, then shoulder; she squeezes me gently, leaning in.

"You alright? Remind you of...uh..." she trails off, probably realizing it wasn't good to mention that. Because now I'm reminded of the attack.

I take a minute. Focus on my breathing. In, out, again. Okay. I bite my lip until I can taste blood. It grounds me. No wolves, no violence. I nod to her and smile.

"Yeah. Just...overwhelmed. Sorry. I don't do clubs for this reason." Well, among others. "Better senses, remember?"

Everyone orders drinks. I tell Preethi to get me something good, and weaker; I go to the restroom. It's strange, like an art exhibit—neon graffiti and handwritten names, text, drawings, all layered over each other. I stare at one of the larger drawings, which is of a naked woman draped over a crescent moon. Then at the text. Ha—someone jokingly wrote help me. Others have added to it; a lot of hearts and initials. Some angry women.

The noise is muffled here. I don't splash my face with water; I just curl over the sink and shut my eyes for a few moments. Something distant makes me shudder, but I figure it's just the fear that curls in my gut, serpentine, squeezing the air from my lungs. Large crowds, one space. What if it happens again? Not the wolves, no—something further back. Something I've tried to forget, ignore, but it's there, the memory lives on, and—

No.

"Focus, Andrea. It won't happen again." I whisper to myself.

"You okay, darling?" I suddenly realize that there's someone standing at the sink beside me. She's gorgeous, tall, face shimmery, pencil-thin brows furrowed. She looks straight out of the '90's; velvet spaghetti strap dress with a bedazzled bottom that sparkles unnaturally. Magically. They change color.

Subtle magic, then.

"Is that enchanted?" I ask her, despite my better judgment.

The woman laughs, reaches into her bag, and pulls out some pink-tinted sunglasses, slipping them over her eyes. She surveys me before pulling them away. The hair on the back of my neck tingles, stands on-end.

"You're safe to talk to. Good—always need to make sure."

"Did you jus—"

"The dress is enchanted, and so are the glasses. They can tell me if someone's a Para or not. And luckily for you, you pass the test."

"Oh." I blink a few times.

"I enchant them myself! I actually have a boutique. You won't find it online, of course—can't do illegal magic and show it to the world, now can I?" she giggles, reaching into a bag that seems much too small to hold anything other than a matchbox, and pulls out a business card. Even the paper seems to shimmer. I don't have time to read the text on it before the woman holds out her purse in front of my face.

"And yes, this is enchanted too. It's so tiring to drag everything around, right? This is as light as it looks! Try it!"

"Sure..." I mutter, a little dazed. She's talking a mile a minute, and even for me it's too fast. I pinch the purse's handle with my fingers. It's the size of my palm, and it feels like nothing. I huff, then hand it back.

"Magic!" She waves her fingers around, laughing, grinning brightly. "See? Now you forget what you were stressed about."

I realize that she's right, and nod, brows raised. "Yeah, wow..."

"Magic!" she repeats. "Or just...anti-anxiety tips. Which are a kind of magic in themselves!"

I nod, feeling like I can't get a word in without this woman saying something else. Just as I open my mouth, she waves, says "Toodeloo!" and is out of the bathroom.

"Weird." I mutter to myself, looking down at the card.

Faye's Fantastical Fascinating Fabulous Fashion!

Holy alliteration.

I can't help but smile—she has ways to contact her. Through snail mail? Is that a...fairy thing? I don't know enough about magic and paranormals, really; everything came late—too late. No guidance.

I slip the card into my bag and exit the bathroom, returning to my group. Who have mostly already drank everything, save for my drink—a pink cosmo—and are running to the dance floor. Preethi catches me and holds my shoulders for a moment, pointing to the dance floor.

"Ohmygod, Andrea! Where were you? We're about to dance—c'mon!"

"I'll just watch." I offer a thin smile. "It's—"

"Great! Make sure our drinks don't get spiked, okay?" Preethi winks at me. "When you're ready to dance, I'll be here! Waiting! Sad!" She pouts. Bree groans, mutters something about me being a buzzkill—I suck in a breath but say nothing, scowling. They run off, and I remain, and take a seat, on the couch.

It's not like anyone will spill an empty drink glass. I take a sip of my own drink. It's cloyingly sweet, and a bit perfumey, but the color's fantastic.

The song changes to something very popular, very danceable—and they scream. Most of the clubgoers cheer. The dance floor's refreshed, full; a few stragglers remain on the periphery with me. I lean back, humming to the beat, and wait.

The DJ asks who's having a good time—of course everyone screams. I grit my teeth, briefly clap my palms beside my head. Too much noise. But as soon as it comes, it goes; I drop my hands, ears ringing.

The image of the past replays in my mind—people dancing, jumping, cheering; the ground and roof and space collapsing, smoke and dust and—

No. I look at the business card again. Think of the adorable purse. Then I watch the women on the dance floor. Preethi's laughing, swinging her silky ponytail around. Her friends are dancing with each other, and one, the tallest of the bunch, already grinding against a man who's a half-foot shorter than her. They both look like they're having a fantastic time; her hands are gliding down his chest; he's reaching across the slope of her neck. Shannon's flirting with a woman with cropped, blue-dyed hair and a blazer that sparkles. They're both laughing, chatting.

Something aches inside me, but I only twist my gaze away and take a sip of my drink, glancing across the table. It's fine. I'll stand guard. It's important; people are creeps. I'm important in some way, at least—

"Hey, pretty girl."

Speaking of creeps...

"Excuse me?" I squint, staring up. The man who's eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat is wiry, uneven; his smirk doesn't meet his eyes. He looks both much too old, and much too young, for me—must be some strange magic or enchantment. He's looking at my chest, because of course he is.

"You come here often? I'd remember a beautiful thing like you."

I sigh, sourness rising in my throat. I give him a flat look. "I'll just cut to the chase. I'm not interested."

His expression drops. "C'mon, a gorgeous girl's gotta have a smart mind too. Playing hard to get? Y—"

I look at the dance floor, but everyone I know is distracted. Great. My heartbeat's radiating into my ribs; I wipe my hands down my pants again, realizing that they're clammy. The music's changed to something faster-paced, more energetic, tight drums rattling in the background.

"I'm a lesbian." I lie. I'm bi; anyone's free game—not just women or men. But saying that tends to get men off my trail.

"What if I call myself a woman?" the guy asks. "Then you'll be int—"

"Drop the transphobic BS and get out of my view. I'm not interested, and I never will be. I'm not a girl. I'm a woman, got it? How would you feel if I called you a boy?"

My hands are shaking. I look down and realize that they're changing; the nails are sharp, more like claws. Fuck. I flex them, watching him, trying to twist my expression into pure venom.

"Bitch. You're a fuckin' bitch who's single because she can't get the stick out of her fuckin' ass, you bitch—"

I snatch my phone. No need to escalate things. If the security won't lift a finger, maybe the police will, in theory. I won't call them, not actually—no need to complicate things. And they're all too trigger-happy.

"I'm dialing 911, s—"

"C'mon, man—she clearly wants to be left alone."

I look up, half-expecting security, but nope—a random guy has joined the fray. He keeps his distance, hands out, extended. He's angled away from me, but I can see that he's wearing a gray jacket, black pants, and dark sneakers. His brown hair hair's long, tucked behind his ears, but doesn't go past his shoulders. 

The creep just laughs and points at me. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is she yours?"

What?

I don't even have a chance to respond before the new guy smoothly answers.

"Yes."