“I need you to style me like one of those women.” I pointed. “So, I can get behind the scenes. Maybe sneak into the berserker’s changing room, or something.”
Cecil turned his head, looked, and shuddered with his whole body. “You want me to dress you like that? Like an… an official?”
“Exactly.”
“The roomy brown pants that highlight the fat upper pussy area? The shapeless custard-yellow polo shirt? The—” Cecil paused and gagged dramatically. “The sensible wide loafers?”
“Yes. Come on, Cecil. It’s for a good cause.”
“Yeah, if the cause is a crime against fashion!”
“It is a good idea.” Donovan nodded and took my arm to help me up. “I will come too.”
“You’re not going to pass for anything other than security, Donovan, and there’s already too many of them.” An idea hit me. “Do you still have that concealment cloak?”
He shook his head. “The magic that weaves the cloak together falls apart very quickly. The cloak has already disintegrated, and we are too magically depleted to make another.” He didn’t let go of my arm. For a second, his dark green eyes bored into mine; I saw a hint of desperation there. “I cannot let you into the berserker’s lair by yourself, Chosen. They are too dangerous.”
“Well, it’s not a lair,” I replied mildly. “There’s no need to be dramatic; it’s just the changing rooms. I have a feeling they’ve got a warm-up space back there. If I can get in, scope it out, find a berserker mid-warm-up, I’ll come up with some excuse to lead him away so the rest of you can ambush him in a quiet corridor. Then, you can do your thing.” I squirmed for a second. The thing was going to be torture; there was just no getting around that. “And we can find out where they’re keeping Audrina.”
Donovan shook his head grimly. “I do not like this at all.”
“Connor’s not here,” I said gently. “You said so yourself. The berserkers are the only threat to us here. If I can separate one, you can work him over, and we can get the answers we need.”
He stared at me. The muscle in his jaw clenched, just once.
“I’m going to take that as acquiescence.” I smiled. “Come on, Cecil! Let’s go change.”
He trotted dutifully at my side, heading towards the accessible bathroom, fake gagging the whole way. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he groaned.
“This is why you’re here, Cecil,” I reminded him. “You are the company stylist. It can’t be all couture and prêt-à-porter.” I locked the bathroom door and turned to face him. “I’ve never seen a Labrador look so salty before. You really can work miracles.”
He growled. “Bitch, just close your eyes and stay still.”
I dutifully squeezed my eyes shut. A flurry of air surrounded me, like I was caught in a mini tornado. “This goes against everything I stand for, you know,” he said moodily.
I opened one eye. “Are you done?” I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grinned. “Perfect.”
The custard-yellow polo was baggy in all the wrong places, clumping around my middle and hanging off my shoulders. The tan trousers were cinched in with a skinny plastic belt just above my belly button, creating a bulge around my lower tummy. A lanyard hung around my neck with a security pass and a timer.
“Clipboard,” Cecil said, nudging it towards me with his furry nose.
“You’re a genius, Cecil.” I parted my hair in the middle, tucked it behind my ears, and tied it at the nape of my neck.
He let out a moan. “You are physically hurting my eyeballs right now.”
“You’ll get over it.” We hurried out of the bathroom, back to Donovan. The crowd in the atrium had thinned, everyone beginning to take their seats for the pre-competition entertainment. I glanced at my stopwatch for the time. “I think we’ve got about an hour before the competition starts. You three stay here. I’ll take Cecil and scope out the change rooms and the practice area, find a berserker and bring them out here, and we’ll ambush them in that bathroom.”
Donovan glared at me. “How will you bring one out here?”
“I’m a judge. I’ll just tell them they’ve been randomly selected for a drug test.” I grinned. “They’ll be forced to come with me.”
He scowled for a moment longer. “Lady Bronwyn suggests voicing my thoughts more often.” He shook his head grimly. “I do not like this, but it is an excellent plan, Chosen. I am deeply uncomfortable. You are cunning and wise. I admire and curse you at the same time for the position you have put me in.”
“Thanks.” A blush warmed my cheeks. “You’re beginning to let go of control, Donovan. You’ll have to tell Bronwyn; she’ll be proud.” There was no more time to waste. “Come on, Cecil.”
I power-walked past security and down the corridor in the direction of the competitor area, putting a swing in my hips as I passed checkpoint after checkpoint without anybody stopping me. “Oh, this is nice. It feels good to have some sort of momentum, don’t you think, Cecil?”
“Sorry, Chosen. I’m trying not to vomit. I can barely look at you.”
“Stop being such a drama queen.”
“Stop being such a bitch,” he muttered back.
“And you should quit talking. You’re a dog.” The winding corridor led to a catering area. I kept walking with purpose, my head held high, passing event managers, coaches, competitors, security guards and caterers and, as predicted, nobody stopped me.
Nobody even looked at me. A clipboard and a lanyard were like a skeleton key; you could get in anywhere if you acted confidently enough.
The hallway branched off up ahead—stadium entry on one side, performer area and greenrooms on the other. Without hesitation, I took a left towards the performer area.
The traffic in the hallway grew thicker with competitors. I watched them all carefully for signs of purple skin or flashes of fuzzy magic, but there was nothing so far. I checked each sign as I passed and spotted the one I was looking for. “There. Changing rooms.”
I ducked in the door to the left and quickly ran my eyes over the space. It was practically empty. Only a handful of coaches milled around, half-heartedly folding sweatpants and rummaging through gym bags, not a trace of purple magic to be found.
I backtracked, striding down the corridor. “Aha!” A flimsy printed sign taped on the wall said warm-up rooms. An arrow pointed down another hallway. There, each door had a team name stuck on the front with tape. It looked like some individual teams had been assigned their own spaces.
I poked my head into the first room and looked. A dozen people milled around inside, stretching, twisting, jumping lightly on the balls of their feet. Apart from being jacked to high heaven, they looked completely normal—not a trace of magic.
I backed out and glanced into the next one. It was empty.
