#killed it

Nahi killed it…

She needed this night, needed the win that the two shows she had managed to pull off represented. She had not performed since New Year’s, and sometimes, after you do something for so long, you forget the true joy that goes into doing it.

In a little snarky moment that only she would understand, her set for the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe show was based entirely on her family. She sang a song her mother used as a warm-up, so it was always around her, and it meant that if her mother was singing it, she would have a level of safety and time to go off and do what she wanted.

The second was that little song she wrote about her father being the non-committal type, the same as she was. Sleeping with the same friend-with-benefits more than once was really as close to a relationship as she had come. It had mostly been out of fear when she was younger, and that carried through many, many years until she began building this new normal around herself.

Last was something she had written to perform a few years back. It explored the effect of dementia on a person and those who loved them, but it seemed apropos after her mother’s death and the tie-in with other family connections through the songs. They were all very well received, and she even had a few people linger to talk to her, which was always nice.

It meant she had a little less time to get to the Red Moon. She was as quick as she could manage, especially with having to style her hair. Nahi could have used a wig, but it just felt right to do it herself. Used to quick changes for the stage, she was ready to go to get her there just in time. 

She actually arrived just before opening and slipped through the back entrance, stealing a canapé from the kitchen with a conspiratorial wink to the sous chef she met earlier. Beyond the kitchen doors, the club hummed with pre-opening energy, staff making little adjustments: candles being lit, silk drapery being straightened and tied back perfectly. This was not yet her moment, so she retreated to a quiet place to watch the opening.

Nahi let her eyes wander, picking out people she knew in the crowd. As when he went to the gallery opening with her, seeing Xylaes in a suit made her pulse quicken. He looked just as good as he had that night, and the memory made her smile. After spending time with him in the dangerous shadows of the hookah lounges of Murder Row and seeing him here, he never seemed out of place. He was in control. He owned his space.

Dori, radiant in emerald, worked the room with effortless command. Emceeing was often mishandled; she made it look easy and smooth. Her wit walked a line just above flirtation, her warmth genuine and perfect for the setting. Watching someone in their element was its own pleasure, and Dori seemed perfect for this.

Fio looked stunning in tailored pants and a sheer blouse, giving off just the right hint of I am in charge. She moved through the room extinguishing small crises, the natural state of any event organizer,  and with so many moving pieces on a night like this, she was in constant demand. Nahi had already spent time with her earlier that day while walking the stage and choreographing her songs, so there was no need to compete for her attention now. Staff slipped in and out of rooms, cubbies, and kitchens, emerging only to murmur updates or fresh complications at Fio’s shoulder.

When Stellan took the stage, Nahi could not help but admire him. She had always been attracted to him, but this side was something else entirely. The scout who had always made her feel safer in camp, knowing he was watching over them, had morphed into a charismatic, seductive flirt, and it surprised her enough that she stared at him for a while, which equated to his entire set.

She had eaten some of the passed canapés and had asked Serazhen to keep hot water with lemon and honey ready for her instead of alcohol. After her operatic choice to start the night, she didn’t want to falter on the stage that mattered most to her.

When it was her turn, she moved into place with deliberate calm, stepping into the circle of light as though it had been waiting for her and technically it had. The spotlight poured over her cream-and-silver cocktail dress, catching on the subtle sheen of the fabric and igniting the delicate fringe at the hem. Each measured step sent it brushing against her thighs, a soft shimmer of movement that promised the playfulness she would open her set with.

The neckline framed her collarbones cleanly, leaving room for the amethyst necklace she had chosen. The stones caught the light in flashes of violet that rivaled her eyes, it was a bold contrast against the pale elegance of the dress. Matching earrings brushed her jaw when she turned her head, scattering color into the darkened room.

For a suspended moment before the music began, she stood still and let herself breathe. The hum of the room softened in her ears. The nervous energy that had lived in her chest all evening settled into something steadier, something controlled. She knew how she looked, she was polished and commanded attention. Entirely at home beneath the light.

The set went amazingly, and she was buzzed from the adrenaline high. Moving through the room, she talked with people and was about to find her corner again when someone caught her eye.

It couldn’t be him. He was dead, wasn’t he? Why now? It had been more than thirty years since she had last seen him. Why here, of all places?

Fortunately, her role at the opening did not require sustained engagement, only brief, charming exchanges to promote the Moon, something she had mastered in her career. So when fear struck and her thoughts stalled, her silence passed easily as attentiveness. She simply inclined her head, as though listening with care.

The pause gave her cover. Through the shifting bodies at the table, past candlelight and crimson silk, she searched for him, for the shape of a face that had haunted her youth. A nightmare she had tried to bury, and yet here it was, unearthed in her present.

He did not look at her, yet she felt the direction of his attention like heat against her skin, palpable enough to seize her lungs in a clenched fist and make her fight for air. Then one of the men at the table said something to her, and Nahi turned a dazzling smile toward the compliment. Was it too much? Possibly, but no one would really notice, not with the affection she had for those who praised her music.

When she looked up again, he hadn’t moved. Her violet eyes studied his profile and posture. The light was low, and crimson silk half-obscured his table. Memory and shadow were known to create dangerous concoctions. Was it truly him, or was the emotional turbulence of the past seven weeks casting familiar shapes in unfamiliar darkness?

She excused herself and moved to get a better view. By the time she found it, the man was already heading toward the private rooms with one of the club’s hostesses. His back revealed nothing.

At the bar, she made herself approachable, posture open, expression welcoming, though she was content simply to cradle her cup and slow her breath. Hot water, lemon, honey, simple things that allowed her to ground herself.

Was his nose the right shape? His eyes the correct shade? Or was her mind, startled by resemblance and memory, manufacturing a ghost?

She just couldn’t convince herself either way. Maybe it would be wise to find someone to add magical protections to her home. And it was definitely time to make an appointment to see Xanelan again. If her mind was structuring threats from her past, it was more than time to stop avoiding therapy.

@daily-writing-challenge