The door chimes had barely stopped swinging when Marcus flipped the deadbolt. He reached up and turned the neon "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED," plunging the front of the diner into the afternoon shadows.
"Staff meeting," Marcus said, his voice flat. "Now."
Eira stood by the counter, looking at her hands. She flexed her fingers, the faint, emerald residue of her power fading beneath her skin. She didn't look sorry. She looked annoyed.
"He was defective," Eira said, her tone clinical. "He lacked equilibrium. I merely applied kinetic force to remove him from my personal space. In my court, he would have been composted for such insolence."
"This isn't your court, Eira. It's Weedfield," Marcus said, dragging a hand down his face. He walked past her and went behind the counter, pouring himself a shot of the cheap bourbon Bo Miller had left behind. "And in Weedfield, ninety-pound waitresses don't toss three-hundred-pound corn-fed offensive linemen across a room like a frisbee."
Liri hopped up onto a barstool, swinging her legs. She looked amused, though her eyes darted between Marcus and Eira with calculation. "It was quite impressive, honestly. The aerodynamics were fascinating."
"It's a disaster," Marcus corrected. He downed the shot. "Do you know what happens when people in a town this size see something they can't explain? They don't just forget it. They poke it. They whisper. And eventually, they come back with pitchforks. Or worse, cell phones."
Pearl, standing on her apple crate, chimed in. "The weight factor that Eira tossed exceeded human female norms by factor of twelve. Bo Miller probability won't remember due to intoxication. 'Ty Miller' will remember."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "Ty saw it. And Ty talks.. and when did she learn to talk like that?"
Pearl pointing to Eira and Liri.. "Those two aren't the only one's that know how to extract language."
Marcus was surprised to hear that from a Glimmuck.. "I'll be damned, huh.."
"So kill him," Eira suggested, as casually as one might suggest changing the radio station.
"No killing," Marcus said sharply. "We are trying to keep a low profile. If people start disappearing, the Sheriff starts digging. If the Sheriff digs, he finds the basement. If he finds the basement, the government finds the Slipgate. And then we're all specimens in a jar."
Eira crossed her arms, huffing. "Human social structures are exhausting. Fine. What is the solution? Do I alter their memories? I could attempt a psionic scrub, but... human brains are so mushy. I might accidentally erase his ability to use a spoon.. and I don't weigh 90 pounds, I'm 6 feet tall – I'm closer to 140 lbs.
"I know, 90 pounds is just an expression and mind warping is too risky," Marcus said. "We need a story. A cover. Something that explains what happened without admitting that my waitress is a high-level entity capable of bench-pressing a pickup truck."
He leaned over the counter, looking at them.
"We need to spin this. Right now. Before they wake up from their hangovers."
"The chair hypothesis?" Pearl offered. "We claim the redneck 'Bo' attempted to stand on a chair to assert dominance, lost balance, and the fall projected him backward."
Marcus shook his head. "Bo Miller has never stood on a chair in his life. He weighs too much. The chair would snap. Besides, Ty saw him fly horizontal, not vertical."
Liri tapped her chin. "What if we say... it was a trick of the light? Or perhaps... he slipped on a wet floor? A very, very slippery floor?"
"He flew ten feet, Liri. You don't slip ten feet in the air." Marcus stared at the wood grain of the counter, his mind racing. He needed something believable. Something that fit the prejudices of a small Texas town.
He looked up at Eira. She looked delicate, beautiful, and completely harmless to the naked eye. Then he looked at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Tired eyes, scar on his jaw, broad shoulders.
"Me," Marcus said.
Eira tilted her head. "You?"
"I did it," Marcus said. "That's the story."
Eira frowned. "But you did not do it. I did it. I claim the victory."
"It's not a victory, it's a liability," Marcus snapped. "Look, nobody believes a girl like you could throw Bo. It breaks their brain. But me? The quiet new owner? The guy from the city who doesn't talk much? They can believe that."
He walked around the counter, pacing the floor. "Here's the narrative: The boys got rowdy. They threatened you. I stepped in. I know leverage, from marine training and I know some Jiu-Jitsu. Bo took a swing at me, I used his momentum against him, and he went flying. You were just... trying to catch him."
"I was not trying to catch him," Eira said, offended.
"You were trying to catch him," Marcus insisted. "You were the worried waitress trying to stop a brawl. I was the bouncer. That's the story."
"This strategy shifts the aggression onto you, Marcus," Pearl noted. "It will increase your 'Threat Rating' in the local social hierarchy. Alpha males will seek to challenge you."
"I can handle a few rednecks trying to arm-wrestle," Marcus said grimly. "I can't handle the FBI investigating why my waitress has super-strength. We sell this hard. Eira, from now on, you are fragile. If a jar of pickles is too tight, you ask me to open it. If a box is heavy, you drag it. You do not throw people."
Eira looked at him, her green eyes swirling with a mixture of resentment and respect. She understood the tactic. It was camouflage. A predator hiding in the grass.
"Very well," she said, smoothing her skirt. "I shall play the part of the... damsel. But if anyone touches me again, Marcus, I cannot promise the walls will remain standing."
"Fair enough," Marcus said. "Pearl, unlock the door. Lunch isn't over yet."
Nix jumped in, "just give them a free dinner.. this is Weedfield that will probably do it"
Marcus shook his head, "that will likely fix it.. I'll talk to them."
Pearl shouted, "I'll come with you."
Marcus looked at her and then over at Nix, "Seriously..?"
Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a breath that was heavy with the stale scent of yesterday's coffee and the lingering ozone of Eira's magic. He looked at Pearl, who stood barely chest-high to him, her skin possessing the flawless, milky pallor of high-quality porcelain, though the pulse beating visibly in the hollow of her throat proved she was very much alive.
"Seriously," Marcus repeated, dropping his hand. "We need to set some ground rules before we go out there. Eira tossing a three-hundred-pound linebacker like a ragdoll is a problem, but if you go out there and start... I don't even know, disassembling people? That's worse."
He walked over to the cleared space between the booths, the linoleum scuffed from decades of cowboy boots. He gestured for Pearl to join him.
"This is a teaching moment," Marcus announced, his voice taking on the clipped, authoritative cadence of a squad leader. "The goal is 'Crowd Control.' Not 'Crowd Elimination.' We need to disable threats without turning them into a forensic puzzle."
He looked down at Pearl. She tilted her head, her sea-blue eyes.. ringed with a halo of striking gold.. blinking slowly. It was a movement of curiosity, not calculation. She was a Glimmuck, a species known for deceptive fragility and startling density of muscle fiber, but to the drunks in Weedfield, she just looked like a petite woman who belonged on a cake topper.
"Pearl, hypothetical scenario," Marcus said, planting his feet shoulder-width apart. "I'm a drunk ranch hand. I'm twice your weight, and I'm aggressive. I grab you. What is your primary instinct?"
Pearl smoothed the front of her apron. "My instinct is to sever the jugular vein. It is efficient. Bleed-out time is approximately forty seconds."
"No," Marcus said quickly. "God, no. No blood. No dying. We need pain compliance. Something that stops them cold but leaves them alive to pay their tab."
He sighed. "Okay, show me what you'd do if you couldn't use lethal force. I'm the attacker. Come at me."
Marcus crossed his arms, playing the role of the immovable object. He expected a shin kick. Maybe a throat punch.
Pearl didn't strike. Instead, she stepped into his personal space with a fluidity that was unnerving. She didn't move like a fighter; she moved like water flowing downhill. She closed the distance until the heat radiating from her small body washed over him—a scent of vanilla and clean linen.
"The subject is male?" Pearl asked, her voice soft.
"Yes. Male. Aggressive. Drunk."
"Then the weakness is structural and psychological," she stated.
She reached out. Her hands, small and deceptively strong, didn't form fists. They landed softly on his thighs, high up near the hip pockets. The touch was shocking in its gentleness. Marcus flinched, his muscles seizing instinctively, but she didn't grab. She caressed.
Her palms slid inward, tracing the inseam of his jeans with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt of confusing electricity straight up Marcus's spine. It was not an attack. It was a seduction. Her thumbs circled the denim, pressing firmly against the sensitive nerves of his inner thigh, moving dangerously close to the center of his gravity.
"Whoa, Pearl, what the.." Marcus stammered, his brain misfiring. The sudden shift from 'combat drill' to 'erotic assault' left him completely flat-footed. His heart rate spiked, not from fear, but from the sudden, visceral rush of blood to the wrong part of his body. "This isn't.."
"Target is confused," Pearl observed calmly, her blue-and-gold eyes locked on his. "Aggression is replaced by arousal and confusion. Guard is lowered."
Then, the biology of the High Vale revealed itself.
In a blur of motion too fast for a human eye to track, Pearl dropped her weight. She didn't let go of his legs; she used them as anchors. She squatted deep and surged forward, burying her face into his crotch.
Snap.
Her jaw clamped onto the zipper of his jeans. She didn't bite through—not yet—but the pressure was terrifying. Marcus froze, paralyzed by the sudden, lethal proximity of her teeth to his most vulnerable anatomy. He could feel the sharpness of her canines through the thick denim, a promise of absolute ruin.
She held him there, her hands gripping his thighs to prevent him from pulling away, her mouth locked onto his crotch with the tenacity of a pit bull. It was a move of absolute dominance. If he moved, he lost everything.
Pearl released him and hopped back, looking up with a bright, innocent smile.
"The 'Nut-Cracker' maneuver," she explained cheerfully. "High Vale infantry tactic for dealing with Ogres. The psychological terror of the bite usually induces immediate surrender. Also, it is very difficult to defend against because my center of gravity is below the target's visual horizon."
Marcus exhaled a shaky breath, instinctively cupping himself with both hands. His face was burning—a mixture of adrenaline, embarrassment, and a lingering, confusing heat.
"Okay," he wheezed, his voice straining to find its lower register. "That... that works. It's terrifying. It's a little erotic until it becomes a horror movie, but... okay."
He straightened up, clearing his throat and trying to regain the room. "But let's keep the teeth to a minimum, Pearl. We don't want to explain that injury to the Sheriff."
From the counter, a low, throaty laugh rippled through the air. Liri pushed herself off the barstool, her movements languid and predatory. As a being with ancestry that humans would label 'succubus'—though in the High Vale, her kind were simply energy vampires of a specific caste—she found the display delightful.
"Crude," Liri purred, sauntering toward them. "Effective, but crude. You rely on shock, Pearl. But what if you want them to want to lose?"
Liri stopped in front of Marcus. She didn't ask for permission. She simply flowed into his space, her body temperature running naturally higher than a human's. She felt like a fever pressed against him.
"If I want to stop a fight," Liri whispered, her Emerald eyes dilating until they were almost entirely black, "I don't bite. I melt."
She reached up, her fingers trailing lightly over the scars on Marcus's forearms, ghosting over the hair, triggering gooseflesh. She moved behind him, her chest pressing against his back, her chin hooking over his shoulder.
"I whisper," she breathed into his ear, the sound vibrating through his skull. "I tell them exactly what they want to hear. And while they're listening..."
She slipped her leg between his, hooking her ankle around his calf. At the same time, her hand slid from his shoulder to his throat, resting lightly over his windpipe. It looked like a lover's embrace, but Marcus, with his Marine training, recognized the trap. One shift of her weight, one squeeze of her hand, and he would be on the floor choking.
"I own them," Liri finished, her lips brushing his earlobe.
Marcus swallowed hard. The diner felt suddenly very small and very hot. He gently reached up, gripping Liri's wrist and peeling her hand away from his throat.
"Better," Marcus managed, stepping out of her trap. "Psychological manipulation. Use their lust against them. It's safer than biting."
He looked over at Eira. The sorceress was watching the entire display with an expression of imperious boredom, though her eyes—glittering like chipped emeralds—betrayed a flicker of annoyance.
"And you, Your Highness?" Marcus asked. "How does the High Court handle a drunk in a bar fight without vaporizing him?"
Eira sniffed, stepping forward. "We do not 'grapple' like animals in the mud. If a cur barks, one does not bark back. One simply asserts superiority."
She didn't touch him. She just walked toward him.
Marcus held his ground, but it was difficult. Eira projected an aura of absolute command. It wasn't magic, exactly.. it was biological. Her species, the High Elves of the Vale, evolved as apex predators of the magical ecosystem. Her presence triggered a primal 'flight' response in his hindbrain.
She stopped inches from him, invading his space not with seduction, but with authority. She reached out and placed a single, slender hand flat on the center of his chest.
She didn't push. She just... existed. Her palm was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the diner. She stared up at him, her gaze boring into his pupils.
"I look at them," Eira said softly. "And I let them see what I am."
For a second, the glamour slipped. Marcus saw the ancient, terrible power coiling beneath her skin like a loaded spring. He saw the predator that viewed humans as calorie-dense snacks. It was terrifying. It was awe-inspiring.
"And if they touch me," Eira whispered, her fingers curling slightly into his shirt, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer, "I break the finger. One by one. Until they learn."
The tension in the room had shifted from instructional to something thick, heavy, and undeniably charged.
They were all gathered around him now. Pearl was back at his side, her hand resting innocently—or perhaps not—on his hip. Liri had drifted back to his other side, her shoulder brushing his arm, her scent wrapping around him like smoke. Eira stood front and center, her hand claiming his chest.
Marcus looked between them. He stopped listening to their words and started reading the Eye Conversation.
Pearl's eyes were wide, sea-blue pools of analysis, the golden rings contracting as she calculated vectors.
(Processing: Hierarchy dispute detected. Eira asserts dominance via central positioning. Liri attempts flank via pheromone assault. My position on the hip offers optimal leverage for defensive takedown or... intimate access. Waiting for Marcus to signal preference.)
Liri's eyes were half-lidded, heavy with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. She glared at Eira's hand on Marcus's shirt.
(Get your cold claws off him, Witch. He doesn't want to be frozen; he wants to burn. Look at his pulse. I can hear it. He likes the danger. He likes that I could kill him or kiss him and he wouldn't know the difference until it was over.)
Eira's eyes were sharp, narrowing slightly as she felt the heat of the other two encroach on her perimeter. She locked gaze with Marcus, ignoring the others as beneath her notice.
(You are the Anchor. You belong to the Gate, and the Gate is mine to guard. These... lesser creatures... they paw at you like stray cats. Do not be swayed by the soft flesh of the succubus or the tricks of the Glimmuck. Stand firm. Stand with me.)
And Marcus's eyes? They were darting back and forth, reflecting a frantic mixture of survival instinct and male panic.
"If I move, I die. If I stay still, I might die happier, but I'll still be dead. Why is Liri purring? Why is Eira looking at my neck like she's deciding where to bite? Why is Pearl's hand moving lower again?"
"Alright! Break it up!"
Nix's voice cut through the pheromone fog like a band-saw. He hovered between Marcus and Eira, hands pointing at the girls.
"You guys are gross," Nix declared. "This is a safety briefing, not the cover of a romance novel! You're all over him like ants on a picnic roast! Look at him! He's sweating! And not the good kind!"
Marcus took the opportunity to step back, effectively breaking the physical circuit. He cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt, trying to ignore the fact that his skin felt electric where they had touched him.
"Nix is right," Marcus said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Too much... contact. We need discipline."
He shook his arms out, getting back into 'Marine Mode.'
"Okay. You've shown me your instincts. Now I'm going to show you how humans do it. We don't have magic, and we don't have teeth strong enough to bite through denim. We have physics."
He grabbed Liri's arm.. strictly professional this time.
"High Vale biology is strong, but joints are joints," Marcus said. "If it bends, it breaks. If it doesn't bend, you make it bend."
He demonstrated a standard wrist-lock, twisting Liri's arm behind her back. "This is a compliance hold. It hurts, but it doesn't damage unless you force it. See how I'm using my hips to lock her against me?"
Liri let out a sound that was definitely a moan. "Mmm. Very authoritative, Marcus. Do you have handcuffs to go with this lesson?"
Marcus ignored her, though his ears turned red. He released her and turned to Eira.
"And for you," Marcus said, keeping a respectful distance. "Pressure points. You don't need to break fingers. There's a cluster of nerves right here," he pointed to the base of his own neck, "and here," he pointed to the inside of the elbow.
"If a guy grabs you," Marcus said, "you don't need to throw him through a wall. You just press your thumb here."
He demonstrated on himself, wincing slightly. "It sends a shockwave up the arm. Numbs the limb. Makes them drop whatever they're holding. It's fast, it's clean, and it doesn't alert the FBI."
Eira looked at the spot on his arm, fascinated. She reached out, her cool fingers dancing over the nerve cluster. She pressed, just a fraction of an inch.
Marcus's arm went instantly numb, pins and needles exploding down to his fingertips. He gasped, shaking his hand out.
"Precisely," Eira said, a small, terrifying smile touching her lips. "A biological override switch. How... quaint. I like it."
"Good," Marcus said, rubbing his arm. "Use that. No throwing. No biting. No mind-wiping."
He looked at his crew. They were a disaster waiting to happen. A super model succubus, a super model sorceress, and a super model Glimmuck, all pretending to be waitresses in a Texas diner, armed with enough lethal power to level the county, and now trained in Marine Corps martial arts.
"We're ready," Marcus lied. "Let's go spin this story."
He walked to the door, unlocking the deadbolt. As he flipped the sign to OPEN, he caught the reflection of the three women in the glass. They stood in a formation behind him.. Eira tall and regal, Liri slouching with dangerous intent, Pearl standing rigid and ready to strike.
They looked like a kill squad.
"Smile," Marcus whispered. "We're serving burgers, not death warrants."
"Why not both?" Liri whispered back.
Marcus opened the door. The heat of the Texas afternoon rolled in, carrying the scent of dust and diesel.
"Showtime."