was sweaty? If it was, Aiden could slip out of her grip and tumble to the ground. What if it wasn’t sweaty but weirdly callus-y and he was so grossed out he let go and fell to the sidewalk?
Oh my gods, I’m turning into Mini.
Aiden grabbed her hand.
“Sorry if I’m sweaty and callus-y?” blurted out Aru.
Aiden looked deeply confused. “Good to know?”
With her other hand, Aru grabbed Mini, who was linked to Rudy. Aru noticed that Mini was smiling, but Rudy looked downright terrified. Rudy was linked to Brynne.
“On the count of three,” Brynne said. “One, two—”
Brynne leaped out, and as they tumbled through the dark, Mini hollered, “WHAT ABOUT THREEEEE?”
Begone, Discount Artichokes!
In theory, getting to work by going down a giant slide sounded great to Aru. In practice, though, it was downright terrifying. Wind howled against her face as she zoomed down what felt like the dark throat of a giant monster. Their hand link had totally broken in the fall, and Aru started flailing. She summoned Vajra in ball form, but it was as if the slide were enchanted against any light. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if she could’ve heard her friends, but an intercom system started blasting through the tunnel, and a voice that she could only assume belonged to the great Vishwakarma—or Mr. V, as Brynne called him—thundered:
“TODAY’S CREATIVE THEME IS MINDFULNESS! WHICH IS TO SAY…I’VE GOT A MIND THAT’S FULL. DO NOT APPROACH MY OFFICE WITH WORTHLESS DESIGN IDEAS LIKE TRANSLUCENT STAPLERS. YES, THAT IS A DIRECT REFERENCE TO YOUR BUFFOONERY, CASEY LIEU. WE NEED TO DO BETTER. DAZZLE ME, PEONS! I’M OUT!”
The voice paused, and then said ominously:
“AND REMEMBER…EVERYTHING IS BY DESIGN.”
At last Aru tumbled out of the chute, landing facedown on shiny blue tiles. Her first thought was Poor Casey. Her second thought was Where the heck am I? She stuffed Vajra in her pocket, pushed herself up on her elbows, and turned her head to look around.
They were beneath a giant stained-glass dome designed to represent a magnified butterfly’s wing, each segment of color outlined in white. The walls loomed sleek and pale, with one of them covered in a display of polished mirrors that bore reflections of different settings: seashores and desert dunes, cloud-wrapped cliff tops and steaming green jungles.
Aru got to her feet and read a little glass plaque on the wall:
THIS BUILDING IS CELESTIAL LEED CERTIFIED. ALL MATERIALS USED HERE ARE 100 PERCENT RECYCLED! THE RECLAIMED WOOD IS FROM THE LOST CIVILIZATION OF KUMARI KANDAM; THE STAINED-GLASS PANES WERE PRESSED FROM THE FORAGED TEARS OF DESPAIRING PRINCESSES; AND ALL THE BORDERS WERE MADE FROM THE DISCARDED BABY TEETH OF LEVIATHANS FROM OFF THE INDIAN COAST. REDUCE YOUR CARBON FOOTPRINT/HOOFPRINT/PAWPRINT BY INQUIRING HOW OUR ARCHITECTS CAN ASSIST WITH YOUR BUILDING NEEDS.
Along one of the pale walls was a glass bubble with a receptionist standing inside. He was dark-skinned and handsome. He wore an oversize white tee full of holes, a ginormous pair of bright-red framed glasses, and jeans with so many rips it looked like he’d somehow wrested them from the jaws of a shark.
“Namaste,” he greeted the group, pressing his palms together. “How can we redirect the energy of the universe to”—he hesitated, looking them up and down—“better serve your needs?” His voice tipped up a bit at needs.
Aru looked down at her outfit. Okay…so, it wasn’t exactly couture or anything, but it wasn’t that awful. Or maybe it was, judging from the receptionist’s curling lip. Mini ducked behind Aiden, who defiantly shoved his hands in his pockets. Rudy, who was the only one who didn’t earn a sneer from the receptionist, adjusted his collar. Brynne took the lead and approached the desk.
“We’re here to see Mr. V,” she said.
The receptionist peered over his glasses at her. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, no, but you see, we’re…”
Brynne paused. She couldn’t say Pandavas.
“You’re…what?” repeated the receptionist. “Lost, perhaps?”
A cold draft swept through the lobby, indicating that Brynne was not pleased.
Rudy stepped toward the desk and cleared his throat. “Sorry about my assistant,” he said smoothly. “She must’ve hit her head on the fall down the slide. We don’t have an appointment, but Mr. V is expecting me. I’m Prince Rudra of Naga-Loka, and I’ve come to solicit his services. These are my”—he gestured at the others—“entourage. Photographer, cook, assistant, healer. Traveling with a skeleton staff today.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened a bit, and he rose to his feet, quickly bowing. “Oh!” he said. “Excuse me, Your Highness!”
“Please, call