Mom had a night shift and needed to nap, so it was just Syrin and me heading out. Which was probably for the best. Mom could barely survive one Target run without declaring she’d lost her soul to fluorescent lighting, and Syrin looked like he might lose his actual soul the second I mentioned the words department store.

  He stared at the car like it was a dragon in hibernation. “It’s like the bus, but smaller,” he said finally.

  “Yeah. Like the ones we saw on the road before.”

  “But it’s asleep?”

  “Something like that,” I said, unlocking it with a chirp.

  He jumped.

  “It’s awake now,” I added helpfully.

  He gave me a look like I’d just admitted to consorting with dark spirits, then cautiously opened the passenger door. I got in the driver’s side, and Syrin loaded in the other side, his glow flickering the whole time.

  “You need to put that strap around you and connect it to your seat,” I said, demonstrating with my own seatbelt.

  “Why do you bind yourself before travel? We didn’t do that on the bus.”

  “Yeah. Buses are sort of unique. It’s so you don’t die if we crash.”

  He went still. “…That’s reassuring.”

  “Relax.” I slid in behind the wheel. “It’s basically a metal horse that does all the work for you. Just faster. And, you know, more homicidal.”

  He eyed the dashboard as I turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and he flinched back, his glow flashing a faint white.

  “Alive,” he whispered. “How do you… tame it?”

  “Gas pedal,” I said, putting it in reverse. “And the occasional swear word.”

  He frowned. “You’re teasing me.”

  I gave him a small grin. “Not entirely.”

  He leveled a serious look at me. “How does it actually work?”

  “Well, you do push the gas pedal. It’s sort of complicated, but that puts fuel into the engine, and we burn it, and it makes the wheels spin.”

  “How does fire make something spin?”

  “Ah…” I tried to remember exactly how that worked. “There’s heat and… a piston? And somehow that spins things.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “So, you don’t know how it works either, and yet you control it.” His tone was slightly accusatory.

  I stiffened, then opened my mouth to throw a barbed retort at him, but… maybe that was fair. “That’s pretty normal here,” I said finally. “I know the general idea, but… yeah. I’m not exactly a mechanic. You can watch a video about it when we get back if you want.”

  His eyes turned warm gold at that, but not all the way. I could still see hints of green threaded through. It was striking.

  I just blinked at him for a second. Was that different than the solid gold? Either way, I hadn’t expected him to be excited by the prospect of a video about engines of all things.

  “Trina?”

  I shook myself and pulled forward to leave the parking lot. The white glow flared just slightly as I pulled into the road. My eyes stayed on the road, but I could feel Syrin’s attention jump from every light to every moving car that passed. His glow pulsed softly as we hit the first stoplight.

  “Why do they stop?” he asked.

  “Red means stop. Green means go.”

  “And yellow?”

  “Panic.”

  He considered that seriously. “A structured panic.” He gave me a look that clearly indicated he recognized it was a joke. “Remarkable,” he said dryly.

  I grinned.

  We merged onto the main road. The wind pushed against the windows, and he turned to look out, watching houses, trees, and signs blur by. For a while he was quiet, expression unreadable. I turned on the radio. Music blared from the speakers. Syrin yelped, clutching the dashboard. His glow flared white for an instant, which was sort of dangerous while driving. Mom had apparently left it on full blast, probably from her last Bluetooth call.

  “Not an attack,” I said quickly, reaching to turn it down. “That’s music.”

  He blinked at the speakers. “It sings from inside the machine?”

  “Yep. Technology.”

  “But how?”

  I bit my lip.

  His expression became almost wry as I glanced at him using the rearview mirror. “Let me guess. You don’t know that one either.”

  My lips twitched into an unbidden smile. “It uses vibrations. The machine just vibrates different patterns, which is basically what sound is, but yeah… how they know which patterns to send, I don’t completely understand.”

  “Your world is so strange. You don’t understand most of it, but just trust that it will work.”

  I shrugged. “Because it usually does.”

  I flipped through the radio stations until I found one in Spanish and was rewarded with a flare of gold that seemed like delight.

  He really did like understanding. It was sort of adorable how it made him so happy.

  We got through one more song before I pulled into the parking lot. It was only a quarter full, but it was a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was still in the sky, tracing toward the western horizon. My favorite kind of San Diego day, the kind that made other people jealous: not hot, just that perfect coastal temperature, but still sunny. I parked halfway down the aisle to avoid other cars. Safer with Syrin along; fewer witnesses if something glowed.

  He unbuckled the seatbelt slowly, as if afraid it might change its mind. “It released me,” he said, sounding faintly surprised.

  “Yeah,” I said, pocketing the keys. “They usually let you go if you ask nicely.”

  He gave me a suspicious look, clearly weighing whether the seatbelt could, in fact, hold grudges. He was definitely starting to catch on to the sarcasm.

  We walked towards the front barely drawing glances now with Syrin in dad’s old sweats. The automatic doors hissed open before us. Syrin froze. “They sense us,” he murmured.

  “They have motion sensors,” I said.

  He tilted his head. “So they choose who may enter?”

  “Not really. They open for everyone.”

  He frowned. “Then why not just have a handle?”

  “This is easier, especially if you are carrying things,” I said, stepping through before he could decide to fight the door.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Syrin inhaled and blinked. “The air in here is different.”

  It was cooler. Not cold, exactly, just filtered.

  “That’s air conditioning,” I said. “Our most sacred household magic.”

  He didn’t laugh. He was too busy staring. It wasn’t even at anything specific—just everything. The long rows of lights overhead. Hanging clothes, enough for two towns in Kirath. The perfectly stacked aisles visible at the back. The faint hum of the HVAC system and the quiet music leaking from ceiling speakers. His eyes darted to every flash of motion: a rolling cart, a kid racing past, the shimmer of mirrored sunglasses on a rack.

  “This is one of your gathering halls?” he asked finally.

  “Kind of. It’s where we come to buy stuff and feel like we’ve accomplished something.”

  “But there are just things. No vendors. Do people just take what they wish?”

  I held back a grin. “No. You collect all the stuff you want and then take it to the front,” I said, gesturing toward the checkout area.

  “But what if you have a question? And how do you know the price if there’s no one to negotiate with? Are all the people at the front master traders? They know all the goods?”

  “Oh, definitely not. Basically the opposite. I generally try to avoid questions. As for the price…”

  I walked over to a clothes rack and pointed to the sign on top. “The paper tells you how much it is.”

  He blinked at it. “The paper decides the worth?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But what if you disagree? What if you think it’s worth less?”

  “Then you don’t buy it.”

  “But what if you need it?”

  “Then you’ll probably pay for it.”

  Syrin scowled. “That’s not negotiation. That’s surrender.”

  “Well, you could go to a different store and see if they sell it cheaper.”

  He blinked. “Everywhere is like this?”

  “Mostly. Maybe not eBay.”

  He looked faintly horrified at that. In fact, his eyes shifted again: bronze, threaded through with the silver of tempered steel.

  Two colors. That was new. Both shades I hadn’t seen before. But he looked… indignant. Maybe it was layered emotion? Distaste and something else? I didn’t have enough clues to figure it out.

  “Regardless, clothes are a need, and this is one of the cheaper places to buy them, so let’s go.”

  Syrin frowned, but followed me. The men’s section was quiet except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of a shopping cart somewhere in the distance.

  We passed the wall of designer jeans, half of them with sections torn to shreds. Syrin stopped in his tracks, brow furrowing. He carefully touched one of the holes. “They sell damaged ones?” He glanced at the price tag, then at another. “And they are worth more? Were they used in a great battle? Pieces of history?”

  “No. Just trendy,” I said. “People like to look like they survived something.”

  He raised a brow. “But is it not better to have complete clothes? That shows you overpowered your enemies. If they are destroyed, you were likely injured. That does not seem like victory.”

  I snorted. “I don’t think most people put that much thought into it. No worries, though. No ripped jeans for you.”

  Syrin still looked confused, but followed me back to a wall shelf of folded denim in twenty shades of blue. I grabbed a few pairs of jeans off the rack and handed them to Syrin.

  “Try these. They should fit—ish.”

  He frowned at the stack like I’d handed him a cursed puzzle box. “They’re… light armor?”

  “Clothing,” I said. “Jeans. Humans wear them. It’s not a battle, promise.”

  He still looked skeptical. “They’re very stiff. That seems more like armor.”

  “Maybe a little like armor, but less stab-resistant and more socially acceptable.”

  He tilted his head, considering that. “You wear armor to socialize?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “Just metaphorically. Go on. Dressing room’s right there.”

  He obeyed, stepping carefully into one of the stalls. The door clicked shut, and for a few seconds there was silence.

  Then: “Trina?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do the small metal teeth do?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “The teeth. At the top.”

  I smothered a laugh. “That’s a zipper. You pull it down to put them on, then up.”

  A pause. “Oh.”

  A flicker of gold light spilled under the stall door. I glanced around, concerned someone might see, but the men’s section was mostly deserted at the moment. I bit my lip, holding back a grin. Zippers delighted him. It was so… wholesome.

  Fabric rustled, then a short metallic sound followed, then a muttered, “It bit me.”

  I lost it. “You’ll live!”

  There was an unhappy hum, and then more rustling. Trying a different size, maybe?

  He emerged a minute later—no shoes, just his black boot liners—and I forgot how to breathe for a second.

  The jeans fit perfectly. Apparently my “ish” had been optimistic in the right direction. He’d swapped Dad’s old T-shirt for a gray one that actually fit. The simplicity left nowhere to hide the fact that he looked, suddenly, alarmingly not Kirathi. It wasn’t bad exactly. Just different.

  He shifted under my stare. His eyes caught the light, silver for just a breath instead of hazel.

  “Is it wrong?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The fit. You’re staring.”

  I coughed. “No, it’s—uh—good. Fits fine.”

  He frowned, running his hand down the fabric like he was checking for enchantments. “They’re soft but… restrictive, and they sit too low on my waist.”

  I hid my grin behind my hand. They were pretty different than his usual trousers.

  “And they’re designed wrong," Syrin added. "There’s nothing to hold them properly.”

  Oh right. “That’s what the belt loops are for.”

  I skipped over to the belt rack along the wall and handed him one.

  “You… tie the garment to yourself after you put it on?”

  “Welcome to modern fashion.”

  That earned me a faint, reluctant smile. Then he crouched to adjust the cuffs, tucking the jeans neatly into his boots before pulling them on. The motion was so practiced it was obvious he’d done it a thousand times before.

  “You’re tucking them in?” I asked.

  He looked up, puzzled. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, most men wear jeans over the boots.”

  “That seems impractical,” he said flatly, eyes flashing bronze. “The fabric would ride up.”

  I grinned. “You sound like my dad.”

  He straightened and looked at his reflection again, apparently satisfied. The tall boots and fitted jeans somehow worked—too well, really. He was going to call attention to himself again, but so be it. I wasn’t forcing him to wear new shoes, not when I knew how he’d be dealing with blisters for days.

  Still, one outfit wasn’t going to cut it. “You need at least one other pair of pants,” I said. “Probably two, but they don’t have to be jeans.” I pointed a finger at him. “Stay.”

  I jogged over to the next aisle and grabbed a few pairs of joggers that looked close to his size. When I came back, I shoved the pile into his arms.

  “There are different kinds of pants?”

  I nodded. “These are more casual, but that’s sort of the San Diego vibe anyway.”

  He brushed his fingers over the fabric, expression softening. “These are freer,” he said, gold flickering at his irises.

  “Yeah.” I grinned and gave him a light shove toward the dressing rooms. “Go try them on.”

  He disappeared back into the dressing room, arms full of soft fabric. I leaned against a rack of T-shirts, half-listening to the tinny pop music playing overhead.

  A minute passed. Then two.

  “…Trina?”

  I stifled a laugh. “Yeah?”

  “There are strings in these.”

  I smirked. “Drawstrings. You pull them to make the waist tighter.”

  A pause. “Like… a corset for pants?”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s one way to think about it.”

  Another beat. “They’re very… compliant.” His voice was vaguely approving.

  Wait… “You mean comfortable?”

  “Yes. That. They do as I wish, not restrictive like the jeans.”

  The door swung open, and Syrin stepped out, this time in dark gray joggers and the same T-shirt. The difference was immediate. Jeans had made him look tense. The joggers made him look—well, relaxed. But they were a million times better than Dad’s baggy old sweats.

  He glanced down, testing a step, then another. “These are superior,” he said simply.

  I nodded. “Told you. That’s the local uniform. Half the city’s in sweats and flip-flops by noon.”

  He brushed a hand down the side of the joggers again, as if still a little mystified by the softness. “They feel… unguarded.”

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “That’s kind of the point.”

  His irises went completely gold, holding there. Then he looked in the mirror and frowned.

  “What? You don’t like the look?” I asked.

  The gold shifted immediately to silver. “No. I just…”

  I tilted my head. “You just what?”

  “My eyes,” he muttered softly.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah, you just went from happy to… I’m not sure. Is silver embarrassment?”

  His cheeks flushed, and he stared at the floor before finally muttering, “That among other things.”

  “But I don’t understand what’s wrong.”

  “You’re not angry? What if someone sees?”

  Oh. I should have guessed that one. “I don’t think most people will pay enough attention to notice. It’s different than the glow. It’s fine, Syrin.”

  He let out a breath, relief softening his shoulders as his irises flicked back to gold.

  I leaned back against the shelf again. “I am curious though. Can you tell when they change?”

  He looked down again, nudging a rack with his foot. “Only if I concentrate. Like you can tell when your breathing changes if you pay attention.” He glanced up at me. “You figured it out quite quickly. The colors.”

  “I haven’t figured them all out yet. Just some of them.”

  The gold shifted to a more earthy bronze, and silver crept in around the outside.

  “What’s that one?”

  He pursed his lips.

  “Oh, come on.”

  He let out a long breath. “Annoyance. With myself.”

  I blinked. “But I said it’s okay?”

  He chuckled softly. “Annoyance that my eyes tell everyone exactly what I’m feeling.”

  Ah. Maybe that was fair. It was probably annoying sometimes. “Only if people figure out the colors though, right?”

  His lips twitched. “Perhaps that’s the one good thing about being here. Everyone at home knows.” He paused, then amended, “Except the petitioners.”

  I blinked. “Everyone knows you that well?”

  He snorted. “No, but my father’s eyes are the same, and every Keeper’s before. There are entire volumes in the Tower library on the subject. Some of the Lords use it to their advantage.”

  “Ouch.”

  He grimaced. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets, and I suddenly had to laugh at how much he looked like some college student.

  His eyes flashed a very dull silver as his shoulders hunched.

  I blinked at the change. Crap. He thought I was laughing at him.

  “I wasn’t—That seems awful. Really. I wasn’t laughing at that, just the way you were—”

  I didn’t have to finish my sentence before the air between us shimmered gold.

  “Syrin?”

  “Not me,” he said, voice suddenly sharp as he shifted to my side.

  The gold light twisted, threading through with black. Like shadows come to life. Syrin swore, his eyes bleeding to a dark copper. The light pulsed once, then collapsed inward as the darkness swallowed it whole.

  Syrin pushed me behind him as a dark creature rose from where the light had vanished.