Page 49 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Guardian Solutions is at your service.” Taking his hand, I let my professional mask show just a hint of real feeling. “Though we’ll need to discuss rates.”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
Sloane threads her fingers through mine. “Ready to go write up some security contracts?”
“At three in the morning?”
“No time like the present.” Her eyes sparkle with that dangerous mix of journalist’s curiosity and personal interest that first drew me in. “Unless the scary enforcer needs his beauty sleep?”
“Watch it, Whitaker.” But my snakes are already reaching for her hopefully. “Some of us have a water ballet to rehearse tomorrow.”
“Poor baby.” She starts toward her car, then pauses. “Coming?”
“At your service,” I say, and every snake on my head bobs in emphatic agreement.
Sometimes a crisis isn’t really a crisis at all.
Sometimes it’s just the push you need to become exactly who you’re meant to be.
Even if it means doing paperwork at sunrise while your snakes try to help type.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thad
“I am not doing that to them.”
The offending items dangle from Iris’s arthritic but surprisingly strong fingers: a collection of miniature sequined bow ties, each smaller than a matchbox, designed specifically for snake-sized necks.
“It’s for visibility,” Iris insists, while Mabel and Dorothy nod enthusiastically from the edge of the pool. "These new ones even have tiny LED lights embedded in the sequins—we tested them extensively to make sure they won’t shock your snakes. The underwater lights will catch both the sequins and the LED effects beautifully.”
“My snakes,” I inform her with as much dignity as one can muster while standing in YMCA-issued swim trunks, “are not accessories.”
Sterling betrays me by stretching toward the tiny bow ties with obvious interest, his iridescent scales catching the pool lights.
“See?” Iris brandishes the accessories triumphantly. “He understands the artistic vision.”
The “artistic vision” in question is the Silver Swimmers’ contribution to the Revelation Day celebration: a water ballet titled “Harmony in the Deep,” featuring yours truly as the centerpiece. Somehow, in the chaos of Guardian Solutions’ sudden prominence and the Harrington protest scandal, I’d forced this particular commitment to the back of my mind.
Until today.
“The accessories are non-negotiable,” Mabel says, her voice carrying the authority of someone who taught third grade for forty years. “The audience needs to see your snakes clearly from the underwater viewing area.”
At the deep end of the Y’s pool, there’s a small viewing window—primarily used for filming swim technique—that’s being repurposed as a “theatrical element” for this aquatic disaster.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, but my snakes look far too interested, especially Sterling, who’s now attempting poses in the reflection of the pool water. “I agreed to help, not to be the star attraction.”
“Oh, but you’remeantfor the role,” Dorothy says, adjusting her floral swim cap. “The Protector of the Deep, who guides the lost swimmers home.”
“With interpretive underwater movements,” Iris adds, her gesture as fluid as her joints allow—which is to say, not very.
“And the dramatic finale where you emerge from the water to symbolize monsters revealing themselves!” Mabel concludes with so much enthusiasm that it should be illegal at eight in the morning.
A laugh from the doorway saves me from having to respond. Sloane stands there in a professional-looking suit, clearly on her way to some important meeting, yet she’s paused to witness my humiliation.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she says, eyes dancing with amusement. “I just wanted to drop off the press release nearby about Guardian Solutions’ new contracts. But this is clearly more important.”
“Help me,” I mouth, but her grin simply widens.
