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I offer you this:
A sneak preview at a new paranormal I'm playing with. I like Vanessa. She's got...
Well, you'll understand when you read this.
I was tired.
The restaurant I was seated in was one of those dark, candle-lit, romantic hole-in-the-wall bistros that seemed to have exploded across America in the last ten years. The food was expensive, but worth it; rumor had it that their chef had trained over in Europe for years before coming back to his home town and opening this place. It was paneled in dark maple, a theme echoed in the rustic yet elegant wood furniture, the snowy white tablecloths, the single blood-red rose in the Waterford crystal vase and the creamy taper alight in the glass hurricane lamp that cast a pale glow over me and the wine glass in front of me. The ruby shiraz glittered in the dancing light.
The wine cellar alone was worth coming for.
I saw him before he saw me; the advantage of being a regular is that you gain access to things like the sheltered, shadowy alcove I currently sat in. It faced the door, but was hidden from view until you were nearly in it: the wonders of magical architecture. Whoever had built the little restaurant was either a master mage, or a genius. Or both.
He had paused on the foyer, his light eyes scanning the room, trying to pierce through the shadows and the mood. Every fiber of his slim, muscular body screamed “hunter,” and I was more than certain what prey he was hunting. Another poor sucker. This was getting boring.
With a single thought and a slight flick of my left hand, I deepened the shadows around me; I wasn’t interested in dealing with any of David’s hunters tonight. As I was tired, and out-of-sorts, the only way the hunter would leave was dead. And the management at Trotsky’s frowned on violence within their walls.
As soon as the magic whispered from my fingers, however, the hunter’s head whipped around and stared at the recessed niche my table nestled in. Our eyes met briefly, gold-tipped hazel to gold-swirled black, before the magical shadows whirled between us, cutting the contact. An electric current danced on that glance and tiptoed up my spine, chasing the irritation from my blood in a rush of unexpected desire. Well, well, well. David must be getting more desperate than I realized, to send this caliber of hunter after me. I only hoped this one would be more reasonable than any of his predecessors.
My upper lip curled sardonically at that thought, and for a moment, one pointed canine gleamed in the light of my candle. As the hunter began to make his way towards my table, I picked up my wine glass and took a sip, letting the warm, dark liquid roll on my tongue as I considered the circumstances that had brought us both here, to this point.
Six months ago, David Forrester was living every dark magnus’ wet dream: he was the head of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, enjoyed the patronage of a major demon lord, had more sycophants than he knew what to do with, and shared his bed with a beautiful full-blood demon wife. With me, to be exact.
And then his world shattered, because I’d found out one of his dirty little secrets. It was the only one I knew of, but I was sure he had more – after all, what dark sorcerer doesn’t?
Finding him in bed with his accountant wasn’t the horrible part. David was a lusty man; if he enjoyed men as well as women, what did I care? Sometimes, we even shared them. The horrible part was who the accountant worked for. David paid him, but the little weasel had sold his soul to Bal. The same arch-demon that my father had sworn to destroy centuries ago. And the same arch-demon that wanted my blood decorating his sacrificial altar, because of what I’d done to help my father achieve that end. And David, damn his greedy little soul, had agreed to turn me over to them, because Bal offered him more than my father had, just to get his hands on me. I was furious.
I am, after all, nothing if not a dutiful daughter.
Louis, the maitre d’, had stopped the hunter before he’d reached me. Trotsky’s catered to a very exclusive clientele, and they were very careful about the neutrality of the place. The hunter’s tawny head nodded as Louis spoke; informing him of the rules, no doubt. The sip of wine finally slid down my throat as Louis, apparently satisfied, stepped back, and allowed him to continue on towards me. Which was another mark in the hunter’s favor: by agreeing to the rules, at least we’d enjoy one dinner before things got messy. If they did. I had a feeling this encounter would be nothing like the others.
“May I join you?”
His voice was a dark velvet rumble, and washed over me like aged cognac. I smiled and inclined my head at the other chair. “Please.”
Watching him move was a delight. He folded his long, lean body into the chair, and when Louis appeared at his elbow, requested a brandy. Once we were alone again, he leaned back, his eyes hooded.
“You know why I’m here, Mrs. Forrester.”
I took another unhurried sip of shiraz. “Please don’t call me that. My name is Vanessa.”
“Vanessa.” It was a caress as it slid from his lips. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“No?” His brandy arrived.
“No.” He shook his head and tasted the brandy, his eyes crinkling in pleasure. “Your husband was quite persuasive.”
“I can imagine.” And I could. “After everything that happened, he’s gone through all this trouble to get me back. I’m flattered.”
Those intriguing gold-hazel eyes looked me up and down appraisingly. “Seeing you, I can understand why.”
The Christian Church has always taught that demons, in their true form, are hideous, malformed creatures of darkness. I suppose it comforts them, far from the truth as it is. The creature he looked at was tall and slender, encased in a small black dress that appeared to made of shadows and lace, hugging every curve. My long hair was loose, falling in blue-black waves over my bare shoulders to mid-waist, and my dusky skin only accentuated my unusual eyes, the most telling feature of demon blood. Our eyes are never truly one color – and if you look deep enough into a demon’s eyes, it’s said you can see the beginning and the end of the universe. My generous lips curved in appreciation of his complement.
“Do you have a name, hunter?” Louis had appeared again, with menus. I’d only been in my seat a few moments before my guest had appeared, and hadn’t had a chance to order. I took one of the menus and shot him a mischievous look over the top of it. “Or should I just call you Sir?”
He chuckled, a warm rippling of sound that started a lovely chain reaction in my groin. “I can’t see you calling anyone Sir.” Accepting the menu, he added, “You can call me Michael.”
“Named for the archangel,” I noted. “An appropriate name.” And most likely not his real one. Most hunters knew better than to give their birth names to a demon. Even a pretty one.
“Thank you.” Michael looked over the menu, his eyebrows rising slightly at the offerings. “Do you have any suggestions? I’m afraid I’ve never discovered this place before, which is a shame.”
Polite, too. The last several hunters David had sent had been rude, and obviously unschooled in dealing with major demons. Perhaps sending them back in pieces hadn’t been quite so petty after all.
“The lamb is exquisite,” I replied, already knowing what I wanted. “However, if you’re in the mood to try something a little more…adventurous, I would suggest the venison. The sauce is excellent.”
And spicy. Demons have far more sensitive taste buds than mortals; we enjoy the kick of spices and exotic flavors. He read over the description, his eyebrows raised. Louis received two orders for the venison for entrees. I also asked him for the sampler for an appetizer; he nodded his head and vanished.
“Sampler platter?” Michael asked me. “You don’t seem to be the type for potato skins and hot wings.”
“Trust me,” I said, my smile turning dark and mysterious. “This sampler platter is not your normal sampler.”
When Louis returned with the platter and a bread basket, Michael’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed,” was his only comment, as he surveyed the platter before us.
Braised foie gras reclined on a bed of caramelized onions, with crusty bruschetta next to it. Dark breaded squares were one of the house specialities: fried portabella and lobster ravioli. A small dish of spinach, crab and artichoke dip had more bruschetta clustered around it, and the center of the plate held a small mound of pate, with a tablespoon of rich cavier surmounting it. Definitely not what he had been expecting.
I took one of the pieces of bruschetta and spread a generous amount of the pate on it. It melted on my tongue: sheer bliss. Forgetting I wasn’t alone for a moment, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the taste and feel of it: the crusty bread and silky pate, a mix of harsh and soft on my palate. It was his sharp intake of breath that reminded me of his presence.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me, the hunger naked in his eyes that the food in front of him could never satisfy. I finished swallowing the bite, and took another one, wondering if he’d lost the ability to speak.
“Now I understand,” he said finally, desire thickening his voice. “You’d stop a bus in its tracks.”
Silently gloating over his reaction, I offered him the final bite. Our fingers brushed together, and the heat of his skin burned me, intrigued me. Who was this hunter, and what fire raged within him?
Never removing his eyes from my face, Michael put the piece in his mouth and began to chew. He had amazingly sensual lips; I wondered what else those expressive lips were capable of. Then the heat of the pate hit him: his glorious gold-green eyes widened, and a sheen of sweat pearled his pale skin. The expression on his handsome face was priceless, caught halfway between pleasure and pain. I couldn’t help it; I threw my head back and laughed as he fought to maintain his composure.
“Witch,” he growled, when he could speak again. “Was that a test?”
A sneak preview at a new paranormal I'm playing with. I like Vanessa. She's got...
Well, you'll understand when you read this.
I was tired.
The restaurant I was seated in was one of those dark, candle-lit, romantic hole-in-the-wall bistros that seemed to have exploded across America in the last ten years. The food was expensive, but worth it; rumor had it that their chef had trained over in Europe for years before coming back to his home town and opening this place. It was paneled in dark maple, a theme echoed in the rustic yet elegant wood furniture, the snowy white tablecloths, the single blood-red rose in the Waterford crystal vase and the creamy taper alight in the glass hurricane lamp that cast a pale glow over me and the wine glass in front of me. The ruby shiraz glittered in the dancing light.
The wine cellar alone was worth coming for.
I saw him before he saw me; the advantage of being a regular is that you gain access to things like the sheltered, shadowy alcove I currently sat in. It faced the door, but was hidden from view until you were nearly in it: the wonders of magical architecture. Whoever had built the little restaurant was either a master mage, or a genius. Or both.
He had paused on the foyer, his light eyes scanning the room, trying to pierce through the shadows and the mood. Every fiber of his slim, muscular body screamed “hunter,” and I was more than certain what prey he was hunting. Another poor sucker. This was getting boring.
With a single thought and a slight flick of my left hand, I deepened the shadows around me; I wasn’t interested in dealing with any of David’s hunters tonight. As I was tired, and out-of-sorts, the only way the hunter would leave was dead. And the management at Trotsky’s frowned on violence within their walls.
As soon as the magic whispered from my fingers, however, the hunter’s head whipped around and stared at the recessed niche my table nestled in. Our eyes met briefly, gold-tipped hazel to gold-swirled black, before the magical shadows whirled between us, cutting the contact. An electric current danced on that glance and tiptoed up my spine, chasing the irritation from my blood in a rush of unexpected desire. Well, well, well. David must be getting more desperate than I realized, to send this caliber of hunter after me. I only hoped this one would be more reasonable than any of his predecessors.
My upper lip curled sardonically at that thought, and for a moment, one pointed canine gleamed in the light of my candle. As the hunter began to make his way towards my table, I picked up my wine glass and took a sip, letting the warm, dark liquid roll on my tongue as I considered the circumstances that had brought us both here, to this point.
Six months ago, David Forrester was living every dark magnus’ wet dream: he was the head of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, enjoyed the patronage of a major demon lord, had more sycophants than he knew what to do with, and shared his bed with a beautiful full-blood demon wife. With me, to be exact.
And then his world shattered, because I’d found out one of his dirty little secrets. It was the only one I knew of, but I was sure he had more – after all, what dark sorcerer doesn’t?
Finding him in bed with his accountant wasn’t the horrible part. David was a lusty man; if he enjoyed men as well as women, what did I care? Sometimes, we even shared them. The horrible part was who the accountant worked for. David paid him, but the little weasel had sold his soul to Bal. The same arch-demon that my father had sworn to destroy centuries ago. And the same arch-demon that wanted my blood decorating his sacrificial altar, because of what I’d done to help my father achieve that end. And David, damn his greedy little soul, had agreed to turn me over to them, because Bal offered him more than my father had, just to get his hands on me. I was furious.
I am, after all, nothing if not a dutiful daughter.
Louis, the maitre d’, had stopped the hunter before he’d reached me. Trotsky’s catered to a very exclusive clientele, and they were very careful about the neutrality of the place. The hunter’s tawny head nodded as Louis spoke; informing him of the rules, no doubt. The sip of wine finally slid down my throat as Louis, apparently satisfied, stepped back, and allowed him to continue on towards me. Which was another mark in the hunter’s favor: by agreeing to the rules, at least we’d enjoy one dinner before things got messy. If they did. I had a feeling this encounter would be nothing like the others.
“May I join you?”
His voice was a dark velvet rumble, and washed over me like aged cognac. I smiled and inclined my head at the other chair. “Please.”
Watching him move was a delight. He folded his long, lean body into the chair, and when Louis appeared at his elbow, requested a brandy. Once we were alone again, he leaned back, his eyes hooded.
“You know why I’m here, Mrs. Forrester.”
I took another unhurried sip of shiraz. “Please don’t call me that. My name is Vanessa.”
“Vanessa.” It was a caress as it slid from his lips. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“No?” His brandy arrived.
“No.” He shook his head and tasted the brandy, his eyes crinkling in pleasure. “Your husband was quite persuasive.”
“I can imagine.” And I could. “After everything that happened, he’s gone through all this trouble to get me back. I’m flattered.”
Those intriguing gold-hazel eyes looked me up and down appraisingly. “Seeing you, I can understand why.”
The Christian Church has always taught that demons, in their true form, are hideous, malformed creatures of darkness. I suppose it comforts them, far from the truth as it is. The creature he looked at was tall and slender, encased in a small black dress that appeared to made of shadows and lace, hugging every curve. My long hair was loose, falling in blue-black waves over my bare shoulders to mid-waist, and my dusky skin only accentuated my unusual eyes, the most telling feature of demon blood. Our eyes are never truly one color – and if you look deep enough into a demon’s eyes, it’s said you can see the beginning and the end of the universe. My generous lips curved in appreciation of his complement.
“Do you have a name, hunter?” Louis had appeared again, with menus. I’d only been in my seat a few moments before my guest had appeared, and hadn’t had a chance to order. I took one of the menus and shot him a mischievous look over the top of it. “Or should I just call you Sir?”
He chuckled, a warm rippling of sound that started a lovely chain reaction in my groin. “I can’t see you calling anyone Sir.” Accepting the menu, he added, “You can call me Michael.”
“Named for the archangel,” I noted. “An appropriate name.” And most likely not his real one. Most hunters knew better than to give their birth names to a demon. Even a pretty one.
“Thank you.” Michael looked over the menu, his eyebrows rising slightly at the offerings. “Do you have any suggestions? I’m afraid I’ve never discovered this place before, which is a shame.”
Polite, too. The last several hunters David had sent had been rude, and obviously unschooled in dealing with major demons. Perhaps sending them back in pieces hadn’t been quite so petty after all.
“The lamb is exquisite,” I replied, already knowing what I wanted. “However, if you’re in the mood to try something a little more…adventurous, I would suggest the venison. The sauce is excellent.”
And spicy. Demons have far more sensitive taste buds than mortals; we enjoy the kick of spices and exotic flavors. He read over the description, his eyebrows raised. Louis received two orders for the venison for entrees. I also asked him for the sampler for an appetizer; he nodded his head and vanished.
“Sampler platter?” Michael asked me. “You don’t seem to be the type for potato skins and hot wings.”
“Trust me,” I said, my smile turning dark and mysterious. “This sampler platter is not your normal sampler.”
When Louis returned with the platter and a bread basket, Michael’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed,” was his only comment, as he surveyed the platter before us.
Braised foie gras reclined on a bed of caramelized onions, with crusty bruschetta next to it. Dark breaded squares were one of the house specialities: fried portabella and lobster ravioli. A small dish of spinach, crab and artichoke dip had more bruschetta clustered around it, and the center of the plate held a small mound of pate, with a tablespoon of rich cavier surmounting it. Definitely not what he had been expecting.
I took one of the pieces of bruschetta and spread a generous amount of the pate on it. It melted on my tongue: sheer bliss. Forgetting I wasn’t alone for a moment, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the taste and feel of it: the crusty bread and silky pate, a mix of harsh and soft on my palate. It was his sharp intake of breath that reminded me of his presence.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me, the hunger naked in his eyes that the food in front of him could never satisfy. I finished swallowing the bite, and took another one, wondering if he’d lost the ability to speak.
“Now I understand,” he said finally, desire thickening his voice. “You’d stop a bus in its tracks.”
Silently gloating over his reaction, I offered him the final bite. Our fingers brushed together, and the heat of his skin burned me, intrigued me. Who was this hunter, and what fire raged within him?
Never removing his eyes from my face, Michael put the piece in his mouth and began to chew. He had amazingly sensual lips; I wondered what else those expressive lips were capable of. Then the heat of the pate hit him: his glorious gold-green eyes widened, and a sheen of sweat pearled his pale skin. The expression on his handsome face was priceless, caught halfway between pleasure and pain. I couldn’t help it; I threw my head back and laughed as he fought to maintain his composure.
“Witch,” he growled, when he could speak again. “Was that a test?”
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This sounds like it could be fun. I want to know what happens next.
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Meg
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