"Damn—" Inaia hissed, "everybody knows the Governor is a woman except us, huh?"

Eotigan chuckled. "It would seem so, subservíena." Her hand was in his, small as a coral leaf. It nestled in his palm. In the posh interior of the [shuttle wagon], they enjoyed the cool air and noir ambiance of the perpetual fall weather. Inaia had reacted to the fact that even their conservative driver knew of the power tousle among the elite of Colony.

Yet, ’mum’ was the word on this ominous island of midnight icicles—they called buildings. As its meteorology, so were its people apparently. Hush hush. You’d never guess to find a vampire this far out into the Cold Sea. Nor a homosexual one. But since Emberfall, surprise could as well be welcome in the many tales and travels of the Apollyon.

The [Empyrean] did not know some other woman held a significant seat of power on an isle a thousand leagues from her castle. If she knew, ten hundred ships would be a fleet crowding the dark ports of Colony. The only rats on this island would be the ugly, hairy kind. The citizens of Colony were loyal to their lady Governor. Inaia made up her mind to keep it that way.

The chauffeur pulled up to the dazzling tower in a floating landing. His move was so smooth it’d never appeared they had actually fallen out of the grainy skies. Though this tower was not too far from the Mayflower, the chauffeur made the cruise slow and enjoyable. "Here we are, sir," he introduced the building some more to them as he pulled in behind a short line of other levitating shuttles. "This is THE BÖRG. The tallest tower on the island, but not only, the tallest on the sea."

The driver talked and studied the beautiful couple that were his passengers behind, even if they were a bit odd. Too pretty. Too darkly. Too mysterious.

Inaia had her face close to the tinted glass of the [shuttle wagon]. Theirs was as the others on the short line, a freaking pricey piece. She looked up and couldn’t see the end of the...she mused, ’what did the cool chauffeur call it? Yeah, the BÖRG.’ She looked up and couldn’t see the top of the Börg. And they had to be like 5000ft in the sky. Clouds floated under their car—literally.

Eotigan, processing his own thoughts debated that The Börg, or whatever reminded him of the home of Bolta, the daughter of Zeus. He’d even forgotten he had clapped an Olympian—until this fucking tower.

"Yeah. They say you can see the veils of Makja, from the Governor’s office." The chauffeur’s low bass came again. He added this when he saw Eotigan and Inaia try to estimate if the Börg was a space rip—a building defying gravity by breaking out of orbit, and not shattering to the pressure.

Inaia said, removing her maroon eyes from the lightened window-glass, "we know the veils of Makja is the deepest reach of the Cold Sea named after the giantess that first walked the deeps there, but," she met Eotigan’s luminous pupils, "you tellin’ me we can see that shit from here?"

"Aye, Madame." The chauffeur moved them forward as he answered. Only one [shuttle wagon] purred now between theirs and the blitzy, neon platform – the equivalent of an ultra mecha red carpet. Colony rocked its steampunk edge, especially in the Börg. "—from the Governor’s office," the chauffeur’s explained more, his stare rooted to the foremirror where his eyes could lock in with the couple.

The other shuttle in front moved on. The space cleared. The chauffeur pulled up smoothly to the glittering platform. The whole arena was a livewire, lit from within and without. Even before they had come up close the entire tower—The Börg had streamed with pulse and aura. It looked like they were pulling up for the Millennium Caster Games and not an invite-only party with a regent.

The shuttles all over were fancy, but Inaia had specifically mapped out theirs to be longer – a dark, lovable limousine.

The long car parked, and just before the chauffeur pressed the button that made the sides lift, Eotigan’s deep voice rumbled out, "and the Governor’s office is at the topmost floor, I presume?"

"Yes sir," came the reply, formal and respectful, "she owns the Börg."

Eotigan at once turned in the back to link with his [subservient]. Their eyes matched then, not in color but equal understanding. They both knew what was at stake. "But the whole fuckin’ tower, really? Damn." Inaia echoed for the second time in the car.

The side of the shuttle facing the glamorous pier raised perfectly high. Eotigan’s hand gripped Inaia firmer. That same arm slid to the small of her back as he stepped out after her, she in her outlandishly bold crimson dress and he, stout as a damn baton in his navy coat. He heard the purr of their long, cosmo-powered wagon, vanishing off to probably a lower-level garage. Every little thing here was like an ordinance in a mage’s old script—you couldn’t skip shit.

With his arm owning his woman, Eotigan and Inaia walked into the blinding lights.

They were late.

The party was already started. But they weren’t too late to be noticed—Eotigan was thankful for this part, although noticed they were. Hard for them to not be looking as they did. It wasn’t even a conscious decision in their minds to be the ’hotshit’ when Inaia and her Lord [Host] cleared through the 15ft swishing Romani curtains. Still, it happened. They were hot shit.

—and every darn body noticed. First off, they were tall as fuck. The average [Hellion] female was 5"10. AVERAGE! Lilith herself was 6"2 on her calm days. So Inaia dwarfed every other female in the robust halls, and there were elfs present. She dwarfed some men too. It wasn’t her fault. It was genes: demon brides and [bonds] were generally giant chicks.

"The eyes of the women lick you up, m’lord." Inaia chuckled under a small breath. She teased at Eotigan’s core. For a man as fine and rich as him, he sure had a bashful side, ninety times more active when it came to unwanted attention from females.

Eotigan replied her giggles with a commanding grip of the top slip of her panties. His large hand dipped from the small of her back into the curve of her low-waist dress, and he plucked the tiny thong in quiet warning. Inaia’s smile tremored away, mostly because his fingers that private on her in public excited her more than she would’ve guessed. "You’d better stop, m’lord, or you will have my underwear in your hands." She told him.

"Then my hands shall be jealous no more." He growled low in her ear. And he plucked the black string again.

Inaia bit on her lip, grateful the party music was on, else everybody would’ve known her high her moans hit.

Once they were through the ostentatious glitz, settling easy into possibly the most un-luminous portion of the room—Eotigan’s choice—Inaia viewed the arena roundabout. Her vermillion eyes ate up the gray themes. "Wow, ain’t this something?" she thought out loud, "whaddya know, this folk are actually posh. This isn’t phony shit. None of that fake life.

—Colony is all about that money."

Eotigan smiled down at Inaia when she said that. Her ending rhyme was good; few women in his life could keep him company, much more make him laugh. Inaia could.

She was tempted to cuss for the third time when she saw a slender woman pat the large albino python around her neck. She had many questions—not excluding how such a stickly thin female could weigh up an 8ft boar—but the best she could do at the moment was ogle the serpent. The price tag on an albino python was beyond buying a wyvern.

All the while Inaia was looking everywhere at the splashers, Eotigan was looking everywhere on her. Her bum and cleavage in the red dress was killing him. He wished to pull the cobalt coat.

"Nòn, my prince. You must wear it till the Governor shows. Stare at my titties and ass if it’ll make it better. But, please keep on the jacket."

Eotigan sighed. She’d read his mind—she was literally in his thoughts right now. He still said his piece, even if she could already read it, "I mean, your ass does help a lot."

"Good," said Inaia, "it’s yours."

She continued appreciating the quality of rich culture, and he, the quantity of her generous, opal flesh.

People looking their way admitted that the couple fresh to their social scene were absurdly, if not manically beautiful. The man looked like he had walked the earth when gods fucked mortal women—and he was one of them; this conclusion was made particularly by the python lady. She had her deeply lipsticked mouth to the circle she conversed with, but her slithering eyes all over Eotigan. Inaia simply wished her well. Her Lord [Host] rarely appreciated thin women.

’My Lord only fucks with thick dames. They may not always have the tits, but the ass..? They’ve got to have the ass. So go for it, bitch. You have no motherfuckin’ chance, serpent bitch.’ Inaia thought this all in her head. She was glued to Eotigan’s side.

They must’ve stood for about four minutes when a man built like a medieval Rasputin took the center stage of the swell hall and put an ivory clarion to his lips.

He blew out a strange melody. Eotigan was not surprised. Just as he was not surprised the man was wearing a long billowing cloak—though no earthly wind blew in the hall. This Rasputin held the clarion for shorter than two seconds but the effect was more than if it was a wolf howling up there. The whole party quietened.

Raspútin—this was what Eotigan named the man—bowed:

"Your Governor!"

The man’s head went so far down when he dipped at the waist, that his temple brushed his dark skirts. But Eotigan had forgotten about Raspútin because in walked a far more interesting figure.

—figure being the keyword.

It was a woman. . .the Governor. The way Rasputin had so ominously presented her, one would think a giant tarantula was about to crawl out from the shadows. But no. It was a woman. A real pretty woman.

"That’s really not necessary, Crowley." her voice came down upon the hushed crowd.

It was then Inaia realized that it was all the swooning luxury that made the party seem large; it was really only a handful of people present—the superbly dressed one-percenters. Their custom fashion sense and slightly off demonstrations of it gave the façade of a Winter Ball. Meanwhile, it was actually a small company. It was also the first time since stepping out the [shuttle wagon] that she pulled away from her Lord’s arm.

"Ahh...so his name’s Crowley, not Rasputin." Eotigan murmured.

The woman who walked past Crowley was in equal black. Her hair was short and spiky. Hold up, Inaia narrowed her eyes, the Governor of Colony, Merriam Torres was a goth girl.

She finally let out the cussing. "Goddamn! Ain’t nothing like a Governor’s party!"