The Saltport ATM

9. Lunch With a Side of Mer-Mayhem

Classical music waltzes through my ears long before we reach the end of the hall on the thirty-fifth floor. My heels and the guys' dress shoes form a steady, if asynchronous, click-click-click against the shiny, beige floor. By the time three people dressed in suits appear like pillars in front of white double doors, my breaths come in short bursts.

"Name please," the one on the left says. Her white-gloved hands clutch a tablet.

"Prince Tewen of Aqualan," I say.

She swipes at the screen and scrolls through a glowing list of names. After a moment, she looks up and smiles at Two. "Of course. Please enjoy your time."

The two male attendants open the doors for us, and we step into a room bursting with light. Cream-colored walls add to the warmth, as does the crystal-fringe chandelier twinkling overhead. Small tables, seating no more than five chairs, fill one half of the room, covered in pale tablecloths and topped with bouquets of pastel carnations. Further left, buffet tables line the walls.

People freckle the right side of the room at the moment, either standing or reclining on velvet couches that match the table cloths. In keeping with the theme, the guests' attire can only be described as expensive.

"What a pleasant surprise!" I whirl around as a dark-skinned man in a blue-checkered suit approaches. "I'm honored to finally meet you, Prince Tewen."

"Nice to meet you as well." Prince Two beams, shaking the man's hand a bit too hard. The man doesn't even flinch. His friendly smile nearly reaches his high cheekbones.

"A-are you Victor Hector?"

The man's smile drops. "Hector Victored."

My cheeks ignite with an intensity I'm unused to. "Of course. So sorry."

"That's alright." He folds his hands in front of him, a slight upturn returning to his lips. "Please make yourselves at home. There are hors d'oeuvres and drinks to your left. We will be dining in half an hour, and then Taylor Fife and members of the SOWAFC will be giving a short presentation on fish clubbing. I'm sure you have many opinions on the topic, Prince Tewen."

"Call me Two," Two chirps.

Hector's brow furrows. "Like the number?"

"Yup."

"Oh." Hector clears his throat. "Well, enjoy your time, Prince Two." Hector slips away to greet another guest before anyone can respond.

Two faces me. "What are oar derves?"

"They're like miniature appetizers," I say. "Small bites to eat."

"Food?" Two's eyes light up. "Where?" His head bobs up and down as he scans the room, trying to see over the various people, or perhaps more accurately, politicians. I can tell the moment his eyes lock with the tables on the left side, pupils dilating and his tongue running over his lips. He darts away, nearly plowing into a woman in a silky cocktail dress. Pink liquid splashes on the silver fabric. She lets out a cry that the string music muffles.

"I am so sorry," I say. I rush to her side, grabbing a stack of napkins off the nearest table.

The woman bats my hands away. "Is he part of your organization?" she demands.

"We're... not exactly affiliated."

"Humph." The woman stalks away. The pink has seeped into the front of her dress, transforming it into modern art. We stand there for several minutes, watching her leave. She ends up on the other side of the room and chats with several men and women in formal business attire.