Venus City 1 (2 page)

The pause on the man's name—Braya hadn't missed it—was a clear indication of how the Hera-bird viewed this Channing character. It pleased Braya a little—but not an ounce more.

There was something deeply wrong here, and Braya was itching to reveal it. Mother Ophelia
never
attended the Career Interviews—she was their head of state, their queen! Her presence alone was enough to send Braya into a private fit of hysterics. What was wrong? Was it her applications? Was she there to announce Braya was being thrown out of the city? While that hadn't ever happened—at least as far as she'd heard—Braya was willing to bet there was a first for everything.

It wasn't just Mother Ophelia, though, that bothered her. Channing—why was that
Mud
allowed to be there? For the same purpose she had rejected her brother's presence, this man had no right to be sitting on their divan with that stupid tight-lipped grin. He was dirtying the entire process!

“Now, Braya Vace, please take a seat,” Hera-bird motioned to the vacant divan. Mother Ophelia was sitting gracefully on the furniture opposite Braya, with Channing resting casually at her side. They looked so familiar, so cozy together—Braya's teeth were starting to ache from the pressure she was applying. Something was bound to escape her lips if she didn't keep them shut.

There were no other seats, so the Hera-bird took to circling the room. No matter fretting over the woman’s inconvenience; Braya saw she seemed to prefer pacing around like an animal. She had her translucent tech pad opened in her palm and from what Braya could see, the bird-woman was sorting through a stack of files.

“I have everything you submitted to us. Your first career of choice is the Fair Lady's Court. You've done the necessary schooling for it, I see. Went to Ellaber Girl’s Academy, the finest of the city. Your second choice is the Hem Line, which you have also completed the requirements for. And, your third—” the Hera-bird paused, and Braya noted the subtle change in her expression; the twist of her features, the shadows of the early afternoon sun casting lines over her beak-like nose, the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. “You left it blank. Now, tell me if this was intentional or not.” She was a bird of prey now, and Braya suddenly felt like a worm wriggling through the dirt in a hopeless attempt of escape.

She didn't have a brilliant explanation for her decision—truthfully she'd been following what her older cousin Seralie had suggested. “
Leave the third option blank and they'll be astounded by your confidence!
” She had assumed there would be nothing wrong with that—after all, she was a Crown citizen; privileged, wealthy, envied. But most importantly, her mother was Charlotte Malister, the Head of the Fair Lady's Court. Really, she should have been exempt from the Career Interview. This was merely a formality—they went through the motions of interviewing her, but there was no truth to it. Right?

By the looks on all three of their faces it was nothing of the sort. Hera-bird's odd glow of triumph, Mother Ophelia's pitying frown, the man's almost-there expression—he seemed to be carefully neutral, though Braya could sense something off about him—they struck her straight through the heart.

“Well—” she floundered for a response—anything, anything to wipe those looks from their faces. Why did the Hera-bird seem like she would swoop down and snatch her in her talons any second? Where was her mother? If she had only been there, none of this would be happening. She wouldn't be spiraling down to her own death.

Her hands were wrung together. Beads of sweat had cropped up along her hairline, across the back of her neck. They were streaming down her shoulder blades in rivulets, soaking her dress.

“Well,” she tried for lofty and steady, but her voice trickled out simpering and weak. “I had to show some—you know, confidence. Plus,” curse the pitch in her voice! “Nothing else really suits me.”

There it was—her trademark, her dignified self finally peaking through like a ray of sun cropping up from behind a sheath of gray. If she could grab it, clutch it tight, she might manage to fight her way through the interview. But it was impossible to snatch at sunlight.

The Hera-bird let out a strange hybrid of a sound—Braya imagined it to be the sound of a bird laughing, if they
could
laugh. It was overall frightening. “What a self-presuming little girl you are! You thought we'd be thunderstruck by your insolence and just give you your first pick like that?”

Braya's throat was painfully dry, and she wished she could do something to clear it, but she feared she'd resemble a cat coughing up a hairball. Instead, she swallowed hard. She had to hold back a cringe at the way her voice sounded—much like a leaf being tossed through a windstorm—when she responded. “I certainly didn't mean to give any negative impressions, but—”

“
But
,” the Hera-bird interjected, clucking her tongue, “you presumed your mother would be standing in as Witness, did you not? Which, may I ask, where is your charming mother? I thought for sure she would not miss her own daughter's Career Interview.” Her tone hinted that she thought her mother anything but charming, and Braya was filled with a brimming rage at that dumb bird's nerve.

“Since she's lamentably absent, shall I fill in the blanks?” Hera-bird fluttered her eyelashes mockingly—they were short, uneven,
ugly
—and then turned her back to Braya as she continued her pacing. “Your mother had something more important to do, it seems. So, Braya Vace, who doesn't even have the honor of carrying her family's proper last name yet, is left alone to maneuver this Interview with nothing but an aristocratic attitude and bad temper. Am I correct?”

“Shut up!” Braya lashed out. “You don't know anything about our family so stop acting like you're an effing expert!” She was shocked by her own outburst, and quickly sunk back into the divan. When had she gotten to her feet? When had her body been consumed with trembles, her hair in her
 
face? Part of her wished the cushions would swallow her whole while another part of her, a dark and vengeful part, imagined shoving the dumb bird-woman out the window and watching her try to flap her way out of a messy death. Braya always knew living on a hill would serve its purpose.

Mother Ophelia's brows were knit together, but Braya couldn't quite tell if it was because she was worried or uncomfortable, and Channing was still tactfully neutral.

Her attention was drawn back to Hera-bird, who apparently chose not to address Braya's loud comment. Her back looked straighter, though, and Braya felt a prick of pride—she
had
been affected by what she'd said, even if the dumb beak-nose wanted to pretend she hadn't been. She was talking again.

“You live in this luxurious home in a luxurious part of the city. I'm sure you've lived the luxurious lifestyle as well. Your mother unquestioningly spoiled you with your every desire and you were even granted the best education offered in Venus City. You're part of a family whose importance in this city is almost more than Mother Ophelia herself! And yet you entered this Interview thinking you could be handed whatever you wanted, without earning it?”

Braya stared at her, scowling. What was she, trying to unravel her whole life? Like any of those things had been anything of a mystery—Braya would have gladly told her all of it if the stupid feather-brain wonder had went through this like an
actual
interview.

Braya mustered the strength it took to shrug. She was still a little ruffled from Hera-bird's earlier comment about her mother. “I was born into this family. That's the only kind of “earning” I need.”

The grotesque sort of jubilation that swept over Hera-bird's beaky features made Braya want to recoil like a turtle ducking into its shell. It was as if she had wanted Braya to say something like that.

The pacing resumed. “At any rate, you, as a Crown citizen, were also privileged with Interview training. You went through a six-month course on all the mannerisms of this very interaction and I must say you're doing worse off so far than any normal citizen. You knew all the dips and turns, all the strategies—you knew exactly what to expect coming in here, and yet you're not employing anything you learned. Miss Vace, why is that?”

By Camille! If this bird of a woman was trying to corner her like this, how was Braya supposed to answer? It was like kicking a baby bird out of the nest and expecting it to fly back up—there was just no way. Braya knew this well. This was
her
way of speaking to others, and now this ugly, sniveling woman was trying to use it on her.

It was time to give this woman what she was asking for—to hell with the interview. It was already hopeless. Braya had skipped most of the “training” sessions that Hera-bird had mentioned, and the classes she
had
attended she hadn't paid attention to. Why should it matter? This was a mess—all she had to do was get her mother to file a complaint afterward.

“Is this really about me?” Braya asked. She was empowered now. Lightning could have crackled through her fingertips she felt so energized. She would not let that bird get the best of her. Braya was a Malister after all, even if her name didn't reflect it yet, and Malisters always got their way.

“This is about you, isn't it? All of your insecurities, laid to waste in what was supposed to be
my
Career Interview. Maybe you have a grudge against Mother that you're secretly nursing. By acting nasty and unfair to her undeserving daughter, you plan to exact your revenge. It may be the only opportunity for you. Everyone knows you were supposed to come in here, play nice, ask some pointless questions and then give me my first choice after being “thunderstruck” by no third option and dramatically considering the second option. But no, you saw that Mother wasn't here and let all of your hideous insecurities out on me, and in Mother Ophelia's presence, no doubt.”

Hera-bird's only reaction was a tightening jaw and one raised brow. “Tell me, Miss Vace. What's the real reason you want to be on the Fair Lady's Court? To copy Mummy? To follow her around like a little puppy dog?”

Braya crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. “I thought that would be obvious. We're the Malisters—my family has high expectations—”

That strangled half-caw, half-laugh forced its way out of the ugly crow—yes, if most like any bird, she had to be a member of the crow family, Braya decided. Her tech pad was alight in her palm again.

After a moment of thumbing through files, she held the pad up in the direction of the windows so that an image of a bucket of apples bloomed brightly against the sheer white curtains. Braya, Mother Ophelia, and Channing all stared at the apples expectantly. A shiver of unease crept up Braya's back, but she chose to ignore it.

One after another, the apples were plucked out of the bucket and discarded.

“You see the deep red color of these apples? They're the delicious ones. The ones that were grown properly. They all come from the same tree, too. Now it's time for them to go to the market to be sold and consumed. Oh, but look at this—”

The apple she had just withdrawn from the picture bucket looked discolored and bruised.

“This rotten one, would you eat it?”

Slowly, Braya shook her head. Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.

“Exactly. Why would it be fair to sell that one bad apple when there are millions of other trees to pick from? Why should we sell that rotten one just because it comes from the same tree as all the other delicious apples? Because it can't let its family's expectations down? Because it grew up right next to the best of the best? I'm
sorry
young lady, but this world doesn't work like that.”

What was
wrong
with this stupid crow? Didn't she know that's how
her
world worked? How could the wingless twat even compare Braya to a bruised and disgusting apple? Braya hated apples.

Mother Ophelia and
Sir
Channing were watching on solemnly now, resembling two people spectating a Moon Tamer match whose team was not faring too well. Braya's mounting frustration toward the bird-woman swelled at the sight of them. She had forgotten they were there for a moment, and the general strangeness of her interview hit her again with full force. Mother Ophelia. An unknown man. An evil bird-woman hellbent on fulfilling a personal vendetta. Was this all because Mother hadn't attended as a Witness? There had to be something more to it, but Braya didn't get the chance to consider it further before crow-face breached the silence.

“I think you fit a Maiden's Job. We've received your frighteningly average results for the placement tests and the two virtual questionnaires you submitted. Aside from your royal attitude, you have no qualifications for either of the careers you requested. Really, Braya Vace, you don't deserve to be special, so I'm not going to make you special,” Hera-bird announced, appearing pleased with herself.

If Braya's rage were compared to a couple of blood hounds chained to a fence—snap, the chains were broken—she'd be pummeling that bird into the ground and tearing her apart feather by feather. A Maiden's Job? How utterly revolting. With no filter, no danger of disgracing her guests—she had just been offered the lowest of the low jobs, there was nothing more to hold back—Braya lunged out of her seat and slapped the tech pad out of birdie's hands, glowering.

“Fine, do what you want! But I will certainly raise hell later,” Braya huffed, her voice growing louder with each word. “This is NOT a proper interview! I don't even have a Witness, you're a bat out of hell with your messed up questions, Mother Ophelia is here for God knows why, and not only that, but a
man
is sitting here as an official Witness. What IS this? Certainly not an interview, so give me whatever you want, it's all void!”