Read Online Storm in a Teacup by Emmie Mears - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emmie Mears
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the color it is without a gallon of my blood changing it, thank you very much.
The Summit is housed in a rounded building across from the Parthenon. It used to be up by the Grande Ole Opry, but I think they decided they weren't sending the right vibe. Plus, the hotsprings up by the Opry smell like rotten eggs and farts. It's not as bad as the Mississippi countryside – the whole state is one big sulfuric mess – but it's gross anyway. Country singers and sulfur or Greek temple – one says prestige, the other says leather fringe and slide guitar. And flatulence.
The entrance to the building is a gilded door that looks more like it belongs in the Opry, but I never tell them that. While the outside looks like it's trying to make a statement, the inside is full of rounded corners and clean lines, and I like it in spite of its tragic lack of velvet and proper cream.
A massive inlaid yin yang makes up the floor of the foyer, which to me just says the bureaucracy has taken the place over. It's a trademark that should mean something more. It's the balance, the ebb and flow of light into dark, dark into light. It reminds us that the dark is only absence of light. All it takes is one guttering match, one dancing candle flame, one smoking wick, one spark. We are what brings the light back to the world.
I don't let myself get overly worshipful about my job very often. If the norms knew how snarky and tongue-in-cheek we Mediators are about our work, they'd probably be a bit scandalized.
Snark is a coping mechanism. They don't see what we see. They weren't given life only to use it to kill every night.
Even so, every time I walk over the yin yang symbol, I stand up a little straighter.
The front desk houses a receptionist pulled – dragged kicking and screaming – from the pool of Mediators-in-Training. And he looks it. His amber skin makes the violet of his eyes stand out, though that could be the light of his phone's screen reflecting in them as his thumbs hammer out a miraculous amount of letters on the phone's touchpad.
I tap the talisman against the marble desktop, and he jumps and drops the phone.
"If I were Gregor or Alamea, you'd be on splat duty, Mittens." That's the pet name for the newbies when they haven't been cleared for duty yet.
He shoves his phone under a stack of papers, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. I didn't see you come up."
"I realize that. Don't get caught not noticing again. They'll turn you into chum." I clink the talisman on the stone again. "Who's the witch on duty right now?"
"There isn't one. Only Wednesday through Saturday."
Gods be damned. I forgot. "I need someone who can deal with this."
"What is it?"
"Think of it as a demon magnet."
The kid cracks four of his knuckles, digging through a log of available Mediators with his spare hand. The sound makes me think of how The Righteous Dark must have gotten crunched, and I wince. He sees the expression and flattens his hand against the desk.
"Sorry. Demon magnet? I don't have anyone on here who specializes in that."
I want to bang my head — or maybe his — on the marble.
The click of heels on the stone floor pulls my attention away from this kid's ineptitude. The woman walking toward me is over six feet tall even without her three-inch heels with salt-and-pepper hair to her waist in twisted ringlets. Her violet eyes mesh with the deep cocoa color of her skin like blueberries in chocolate. Alamea Virgili is built like a fighter. If anyone was born to be a Mediator, it's her.
She smiles at me when she approaches. "Ayala, good to see you. What brings you down to the Summit?"
I show her the talisman, and the smile drops off her face.
"Where did you get that?" She shoots a belated look at the MIT behind the desk and beckons at me to follow her.
With her in heels, I barely come up to her shoulder as I walk behind her to her office. She closes the door behind me and gestures to a blue-upholstered chair. I sit down and set the
The Summit is housed in a rounded building across from the Parthenon. It used to be up by the Grande Ole Opry, but I think they decided they weren't sending the right vibe. Plus, the hotsprings up by the Opry smell like rotten eggs and farts. It's not as bad as the Mississippi countryside – the whole state is one big sulfuric mess – but it's gross anyway. Country singers and sulfur or Greek temple – one says prestige, the other says leather fringe and slide guitar. And flatulence.
The entrance to the building is a gilded door that looks more like it belongs in the Opry, but I never tell them that. While the outside looks like it's trying to make a statement, the inside is full of rounded corners and clean lines, and I like it in spite of its tragic lack of velvet and proper cream.
A massive inlaid yin yang makes up the floor of the foyer, which to me just says the bureaucracy has taken the place over. It's a trademark that should mean something more. It's the balance, the ebb and flow of light into dark, dark into light. It reminds us that the dark is only absence of light. All it takes is one guttering match, one dancing candle flame, one smoking wick, one spark. We are what brings the light back to the world.
I don't let myself get overly worshipful about my job very often. If the norms knew how snarky and tongue-in-cheek we Mediators are about our work, they'd probably be a bit scandalized.
Snark is a coping mechanism. They don't see what we see. They weren't given life only to use it to kill every night.
Even so, every time I walk over the yin yang symbol, I stand up a little straighter.
The front desk houses a receptionist pulled – dragged kicking and screaming – from the pool of Mediators-in-Training. And he looks it. His amber skin makes the violet of his eyes stand out, though that could be the light of his phone's screen reflecting in them as his thumbs hammer out a miraculous amount of letters on the phone's touchpad.
I tap the talisman against the marble desktop, and he jumps and drops the phone.
"If I were Gregor or Alamea, you'd be on splat duty, Mittens." That's the pet name for the newbies when they haven't been cleared for duty yet.
He shoves his phone under a stack of papers, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. I didn't see you come up."
"I realize that. Don't get caught not noticing again. They'll turn you into chum." I clink the talisman on the stone again. "Who's the witch on duty right now?"
"There isn't one. Only Wednesday through Saturday."
Gods be damned. I forgot. "I need someone who can deal with this."
"What is it?"
"Think of it as a demon magnet."
The kid cracks four of his knuckles, digging through a log of available Mediators with his spare hand. The sound makes me think of how The Righteous Dark must have gotten crunched, and I wince. He sees the expression and flattens his hand against the desk.
"Sorry. Demon magnet? I don't have anyone on here who specializes in that."
I want to bang my head — or maybe his — on the marble.
The click of heels on the stone floor pulls my attention away from this kid's ineptitude. The woman walking toward me is over six feet tall even without her three-inch heels with salt-and-pepper hair to her waist in twisted ringlets. Her violet eyes mesh with the deep cocoa color of her skin like blueberries in chocolate. Alamea Virgili is built like a fighter. If anyone was born to be a Mediator, it's her.
She smiles at me when she approaches. "Ayala, good to see you. What brings you down to the Summit?"
I show her the talisman, and the smile drops off her face.
"Where did you get that?" She shoots a belated look at the MIT behind the desk and beckons at me to follow her.
With her in heels, I barely come up to her shoulder as I walk behind her to her office. She closes the door behind me and gestures to a blue-upholstered chair. I sit down and set the
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