The silence in the diner was absolute, a heavy, gray blanket that smothered the hum of the cooling fryers and the distant drone of the highway. But beneath the silence, in the hollow spaces between the drywall and the plumbing, there was life.
They had disappeared the moment the Pig Men broke down the door, vanishing into ducts and vents with the fluid ease of smoke. That was their nature. When the heavy boots came, Glimmucks became shadows and dust. They waited in the dark, hearts beating like hummingbird wings, until the danger passed.
Then, they went hunting.
For food. For shine. For heat.
Tonight, the hunt began in the kitchen.
A loose grate under the dry storage rack shifted with a barely audible scritch. Two figures slipped out, shaking dust from their clothes.
If Marcus had been awake to see them, he wouldn't have seen monsters. He wouldn't have seen vermin. He would have seen perfection in miniature.
Evolution was a cruel and clever mistress in the Weald. To survive as a scavenger, you either had to be invisible, or you had to be so devastatingly beautiful that the larger predators hesitated to crush you. The Glimmucks had chosen the latter path.
Nix came first. He stood perhaps two and a half feet tall, a pocket-sized leading man with tousled, sun-streaked hair and a jawline that could cut glass. He wore a vest stitched together from scraps of high-quality leather that showed off a lean, wiry torso defined by hard muscle. His eyes were a piercing, electric blue, currently darting side to side with a rogue's nervous energy.
Pearl followed him, moving with a languid, sinuous grace that made the linoleum floor look like a red carpet. She was a bombshell shrunk down to the size of a large doll. Her skin was the color of pale, brushed gold, glowing faintly in the dim light. Platinum blonde curls tumbled over one shoulder, framing a face of symmetrical, heart-stopping beauty—full, rose-colored lips, high cheekbones, and eyes of molten amber that seemed to hold a permanent, sultry invitation. She wore a scrap of stolen red silk tied like a toga, barely containing the exaggerated, perfect curves of her body.
They were pests. They were thieves. And they were gorgeous.
On the prep counter, a glass salt shaker turned slowly, pushed by an invisible hand.
Nix hopped up, his movements silent. He shoved the shaker aside and pounced on a prize: a single, overlooked strip of crispy bacon near the grill.
He lifted it to his nose, inhaling the scent of pork fat and salt like it was the finest perfume.
"Yesss," he hissed, his voice a melodic tenor. "Breakfast."
He nibbled the edge, his sharp white teeth tearing the meat, then stuffed the rest into his cheek. He dropped back to the floor with a neat, athletic hop, landing without a sound. He sniffed the air, his large, pointed ears twitching.
Soap. Old coffee. Dry wood.
And something else. A warm, heavy scent drifting from the back hallway. Human. Male. Deep in the slow, vulnerable rhythm of REM sleep.
Nix grinned, wiping grease from his chin. "She found him already," he murmured to Pearl. "Of course she did. The big heat source."
Pearl ignored him, focused on her own prize. They retreated to one of the smaller tables in the dining room, huddled in the shadows where the moonlight couldn't reach them.
With a conspiratorial whisper, Pearl unknotted the small leather satchel at her hip. She upended it carefully onto the tabletop.
Clink. Clink. Shhh.
Little treasures spilled out in a soft pile: a pinch of glittering gold dust scavenged from the cracks in the floor, a half-melted earring back, a slender ring with a chipped sapphire, a handful of old copper pennies, and the strange, dull glimmer of a gold-capped molar.
Nix did the same, his haul smaller but just as lovingly collected—broken chains, a bent key, a glimmering scrap of foil.
Their fingers were clever and nimble, long-nailed and pale, sorting the spoils with the dexterity of card sharks. They separated the loot into glass jelly jars swiped from the kitchen—one for dust, one for coins, one for "shapes."
Pearl licked a finger and pressed it to a flake of gold dust, lifting it to catch the faint light from the exit sign. Her amber eyes narrowed.
"Not bad for a single night, Nix," she whispered, her voice like warm honey. "But there's no more out there. The burrows are cold. The Pig Men are watching the old tunnels. We can't go back to the Weald."
Nix huffed, his anxiety spiking. He wrapped his arms around himself. "If Marcus doesn't let us stay, we're done. Him and his big stick, and the elf girls... maybe they're worse than the Pig Men, Pearl. Maybe they squash us."
Pearl just smiled. It was a slow, wicked expression that dimpled her golden cheeks. She looked toward the dark hallway where Marcus was sleeping.
"He's softer than he looks, our Marcus," she purred. "He has a hard shell, yes. But inside? Mush. He just needs... a reason. A tether."
"A reason not to step on us?" Nix asked skeptically.
"A reason to keep us," she corrected. "A little dream he can't shake. A taste of something he didn't know he was starving for."
Nix eyed her warily, then shrugged, focusing on prying a tiny golden clasp from a tangle of red thread. "If you say so, Pearl. Just don't get us caught. The tall elf watches like a hawk."
Pearl stood up on the bench seat. She smoothed the red silk over her hips, checking her silhouette.
"Leave it to me," she said, her tongue flicking over her lower lip. "Glimmuck girls always find a way. It is the Silken Hour."
She hopped down and moved toward the hallway. She didn't walk; she prowled.
The Dreamer
The back room was cool and dark, smelling of lemon detergent and man.
Marcus Hale lay sprawled on the couch narrow twin bed, trapped in the heavy gravity of exhaustion. The day had been a blur of violence and adrenaline, and his body had shut down the moment he hit the mattress. He was deep in a dreamless void, his breathing slow and rhythmic, one arm thrown over his eyes.
He didn't hear the door creak open. He didn't hear the soft pad-pad of bare feet on the carpet.
Pearl stood by the bedside, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She watched him for a long moment, admiring the rise and fall of his chest, the heavy lines of muscle in his arms. He was a mountain of a man, dangerous and warm.
She grinned, her skin beginning to emit a faint, bioluminescent glow—soft and golden, like candlelight.
Quietly, with the skill of a master thief, she eased the edge of the gray sheet aside. She slipped into the bed.
The mattress dipped slightly under her weight, but Marcus didn't stir. Pearl crawled up the length of his body, moving on hands and knees, straddling his leg. Her skin was cool at first, smooth as polished marble, but as she settled against him, she began to draw on his body heat, warming instantly.
She curled her small body close to his side, aligning her curves against his ribs. She was small—half his size in height—but she was dense with magic and intent.
She reached out, her fingers trailing feather-light across his chest, tracing the line of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his boxer briefs.
"Shh," she whispered, her voice a vibration that bypassed his ears and went straight to his subconscious. "It's just a dream, Marcus. A good dream. Keep sleeping, dreamer."
In his sleep, Marcus sighed. The void of his exhaustion shifted. Colors began to bleed into the darkness—gold and warm amber. The scent of vanilla and ozone filled his nose.
He felt a touch. It wasn't the violent grab of a Pig Man or the clinical touch of a medic. It was soft. Slippery. Electric.
Pearl watched his face relax. She moved her hand lower, sliding over the cotton of his underwear. She found him hard—morning wood fueled by a full bladder and the lingering testosterone of the fight.
She smiled.
"Hello there," she breathed.
She worked the waistband down, inch by inch, her touch agonizingly slow. When he sprang free, she wrapped her small hand around him. Her skin was impossibly soft, lacking the friction of human fingerprints.
Marcus murmured, half-stirring, a frown creasing his brow.
Pearl leaned forward, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin just below his ear. She hummed a low, vibrating note against his neck.
"Sleep," she commanded softly. "Float."
The frown vanished. He exhaled, surrendering to the sensation. He was hovering on the edge of waking, in that lucid, hazy twilight where reality bends. He knew, on some level, that this was happening, but his brain categorized it as a fantasy. A gift.