Across town, in the dim bowels of a nightclub, the last meeting of the Shadow Council Election Subcommittee was coming to an end.

For more than a year, the Regency Two had served as either the least or most appropriate seat of government New Orleans had ever had, depending on one's point of view. Now that the election was over, the building would be demolished and remodeled, because its owner complained of its having been "infected" by politics.

The Cambion in the corner was once again making herself unuseful, this time by bursting the red-white-and-blue balloons with flying darts but not picking up the rubber carcasses. Remy rolled her eyes and sighed, then went for the broom and dustpan.

The solid, gentle clicks of familiar footsteps broke the silence that buffeted Remy's private musings. "Hey, Remy, you can't be sweeping in here," Nero told her. He was still dressed in the sharp suit he'd worn earlier for his afternoon media interviews. "You're a councilwoman now."

"Which is why I sweep. I'll never forget where I came from," Remy returned.

"Let me rephrase," Nero said, easing the broom and dustpan out of her grip. "You're a councilwoman in my City Council now. So, no sweeping."

Raniero Demedici was in the midst of stepping into the role of mayor of New Orleans, and Remy Melancon was one of seven individuals elected to replace the Shadow Council. Everyone who had been included on the Eccentrics' ballot had won the election, an outcome which surprised almost no one.

Remy glared at Nero. She liked him most of the time, but there were a few points on which they differed. One of those points was on the management of money and image. But Remy was sure the rest of the Council would keep Nero from indulging himself and the city too much.

"I'm part of the City Council," she said, her voice calm and her words even. "I am not your vassal. I'm your check and your balance, and if I find that I prefer to sweep my own floors, I will do so. Get used to it. Or get stuffed. Makes no difference to me."

Nero smiled, hiding the offense he'd taken behind a wall of charm. That seemed to be a reflexive response for him, a fallback when things became too uncertain. She'd seen him use it plenty of times, and each time she became more convinced that he was no longer aware of himself doing it. "Of course. Excuse my rudeness."

He had the bearing of someone who had gotten what he wanted all his life, and that irritated Remy somewhat. Remy, on the other hand, had grown up in a small Native band both fighting for recognition and avoiding it. She might have envied Nero, but she had long since figured out that his upbringing, however charmed it may have been, had lacked in some crucial respects.

Remy had nothing to say in return, and the moment was broken anyway by the swing of a door and the entrance of the nightclub's proprietor. Christian arced his path out to pass them in the middle of what was meant to be a dance floor. "Good evening, Remy, Nero. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all," Nero replied in that consoling tone that had won him so many honest yet worthless votes. "Good evening, Mr. Moynahan."

"Hi, Christian," Remy said. "We're fine. I'm just sweeping up these balloon pieces."

"Eveny again?" Christian winced and glanced back where the Cambion had been sitting. She was gone. "Thanks for doing that, Remy."

Remy gave Nero a pointed look. The mayor-elect laughed. "Point taken, Councilwoman."

Christian smiled. It was a thin smile, like wax paper stretched to cover a widening rift. "I thought I'd walked into something."

At the far end of the room, Melisma Ramijozana entered via one door and left through another.

"Not much. Just a debate about politics and image," Nero answered. "I think politicians should project power and control, but Miss Melancon wants to be more down-to-earth."

"Power and control work in some places," Christian remarked. "But in this town, it's being relatable and accessible that make the difference."

"See? We can both be right," Remy said.

"On this issue, maybe. Others won't be quite so easy," Christian said. "But you knew that when you signed up for the job."

"Of course," Remy and Nero said.

"I've shut everything down for the night," Christian said. "Remy, I'll walk you to your bus."

"There's no need, Christian," Remy said. "We haven't had an attack in weeks."

"All the same," Christian said. "Have a good one, Nero."

Already on his way out, Nero waved back before disappearing into the night.

"You've never liked him very much," Christian observed as Remy collected her purse and pulled on her coat. New Orleans was not often cold, but the mid-December winds often carried a surprise chill.

"No, but it's never been about what I think," Remy replied. "It's been about him using his influence to get BeNOLAvent the funding and coverage that it needs. And now it's about making sure he doesn't run New Orleans into the ground."

"Fair enough," Christian replied. "You know you could always borrow a car from Moynacorp, right?"

"I know," Remy replied. They stepped out of the building. The ground parking lot was empty, and there was no sign of Nero anywhere. "But let's talk about you. You've seemed kinda out of it the past few days. What's bugging you?"

"Nothing," Christian said. His face was raised toward the sky. A few stars struggled against the nearer lights of the city's skyscrapers; the artificial glow lent his bluegreen eyes and fair skin a quiet luminescence. It reminded Remy with a startling alacrity that Christian was not fully of this world. As usual, he was oblivious to it. "But I think this is a good night for an ending."

"Maybe," Remy said, pulling her winter hat over her long ponytail and her ears. She decided not to fish for context, but could not help adding, "Or maybe it's a great night for a beginning."

Another thin smile appeared on Christian's lips, but this one was chased by a hint of humor. "Maybe."

"And there's the bus," Remy said. "They really seem to have such perfect timing now and then."

"Yeah," Christian said. "Good night, Remy."

"Good night, Christian," Remy said as the bus pulled to a stop before them. "And good luck."

"I'll need it," Christian said, but his murmured words were lost in the sliding and shutting of the bus doors.

---

They sat across from each other, watching each other in the soft light of the hotel room lamps.

One would be forgiven for imagining that something untoward was afoot. The setting could be explained away: The Regency Hotel and Casino, just like the neighboring Regency Two nightclub, belonged to Christian Moynahan, and the hotel, which had just completed construction and would soon hold its official grand opening, had provided the visiting diplomats of the Shadow Council with room and board. Melisma was one of those diplomats. Therefore their presence together in the hotel room was reasonable, and provided a defensible cover for the untoward happenings that were in fact afoot.

Indeed, this was the most time Christian and Melisma had spent alone together while fully clothed. The time that had passed in this manner, sitting and thinking and watching each other, was eleven minutes. Each had something to say, and neither knew quite how to say it. But it needed to be said, because their time was running out.

Melisma's full lips parted, but only for a breath. Still, it was enough to break Christian's reverie, drawing him back into the present and out of an imagined future that could never exist. The fact that he was entertaining the idea of any future between them was appalling in itself. He blamed the sleeplessness over the election madness and the neverending federal court case. The stress was driving him mad. He needed to remember himself.

"What time are you leaving?" he asked her, not quite meeting her gaze.

"I thought I would remain another week or two," Melisma replied. The faintness of her usual speaking voice surprised him every time, as if he managed to forget with alarming regularity who both of them were outside of this room. "To help the new Council with their transition."

There was something trending toward the absurd within that suggestion. Melisma suffered from selective mutism, and over more than a year of Shadow Council sessions she had uttered a total of sixteen words. She had other ways of communicating, and she fared much better in private discussions with trusted contacts, but even to the newly elected councillors she was something of an enigma.

More to the point, though, Melisma Ramijozana was the empress of Almajoya, a small Pacific island nation that nonetheless served as one of the two centers of the world's Gifted population, the other center being New Orleans.

Of the seven Shadow Councillors now relinquishing their roles, three were local to the city. Melisma was not filling a need by remaining behind.

"Let Blair do that," Christian said. "You're needed back home."

Melisma tilted her head and smiled. "Are you refusing me, Christian?" The way she pronounced his name, adding an extra syllable among the consonants, always felt something like a tickle to him.

"Never," Christian said before he thought about it. This tended to happen to him around her, and nowhere else.

"I've been home often enough," Melisma pointed out. "You have been there yourself. I can come and go as I will, just as I have this whole time."

Among Melisma's myriad abilities were teleportation and time travel.

"Besides, I'm not the only one capable of ruling Almajoya," Melisma added. "Ciarán can do perfectly fine without me for a fortnight. We have already talked about this, and he agrees."

Ciarán was Melisma's husband.

"Still, why stay?" Christian asked. He knew why: For him. But one of them had to say it aloud.

Melisma gave a quiet chuckle and reached forward, taking both of his hands in hers. But she said nothing. Christian decided he should have known better. She seldom allowed him the easy way out.
This was a leap of faith, a trust fall, everything Christian feared, the untried, the untested, the unknown. In truth, he had no idea what telling her would do for either of them; there was nothing resembling a future for either of them, aside maybe from stolen moments together like the ones they had shared for the past year, but was that what he wanted?

Yes, it was. He wanted nothing and no one else.

The first of the three words formed on his lips--and Melisma cut him off, maddeningly, by sliding out of her chair, making him wonder for the billionth time in their extended acquaintance just what the hell she was doing. Then she settled in his lap, straddling him, and brushed her fingers through his long black hair. Her lips hovered over his.

"I love you," he told her, and it was the easiest thing he had ever said.

Her fingers drifted across to trace the angles of his face, mapping the lines of his cheekbones and his nose and where his laugh lines should have been. "And I love you, Christian."

She barely had time to finish the phrase before his mouth was on hers, and she wrapped her arms around him and he pulled her flush against him, and they melded together, entering another night-long cycle that would prove as fresh and mutually satisfying as the first as well as the last time.