by Sky Winters
Does this girl not understand the nature of the predicament she’s in? She must think we’re some collection of rich dilettantes bidding on a companion for the weekend. She’ll learn.
Kieran then cast his gaze toward the Italians, who chatted in quiet but lively tones among each other, probably deciding who had bidding rights on the young Mediterranean beauty on stage.
Bored, Kieran threw back the last dregs of his drink, letting the bitter tang of blood mixed with rich, caramel-toned whiskey loll over his palate. As he scanned the room, he caught the gaze of Drugi, one of the vampires from the Polish society, and one of Kieran’s only friends outside of his own society of Irish. Drugi raised a slim, small glass of vodka; a crimson streak of blood looked like a small vein in the otherwise clear liquid. Kieran raised his own empty glass, which Drugi noted with a wry grin. Drugi tossed back his shot, and then gestured with sharp points to one of the serving staff, then to Kieran. Within seconds, another drink was in front of him.
Kieran gave a nod of thanks to Drugi, and took a sip. The time seemed to drag; none of these women appealed to him. They were the same collection of dull-eyed Midwestern cast-offs and prissy rich girls living on their father’s American Express cards as every other year.
“Eh? You gonna pick one or not?” Ian slapped Kieran on the side of his thigh with the back of his hand.
Ian was Kieran’s closest friend in the Irish society. They were turned at around the same time, and having someone just as new to the world of the undead as you could be all it took to create a bond like this.
“When I see one I want, I’ll bid,” said Kieran, his voice laced with traces of an Irish brogue.
“Yeah, the same thing you say every year, then you go home with nothing. Such a picky one, you are.” Ian waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
The previous girl had been won and led off the stage; the nods and shoulder-slapping in the Italian group indicated that one of them was her new owner.
“Our next girl, well, she’s really something special.”
Kieran suppressed a yawn and checked his watch, not even bothering to register the time.
“Bring her out!”
The glass of whiskey was in front of Kieran’s face, blocking his vision, when the girl came on stage. When he lowered it, he was struck in his seat. His honey-colored eyes narrowed, and his slim, but full, lips curled up in one corner.
Something special, indeed. Kieran reached for the polished ivory handle of his bidding sign. There’s a first time for everything…
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About The Author
Sky Winters is drawn to writing paranormal fairy tales with bad-ass shapeshifters. She likes her heroes and heroines to be the unexpected ones, and their passion to be steamy! She writes these sizzl'n and surreal tales for you, late at night, when the wolves are howling from her Northwestern home.
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[LR1]This does not make sense.
[LR2]A growl is a sound. It would not appear on its face. This does not make sense.
[LR3]The blue was already a different color she had said.
[LR4]Fixed this to fit with the next paragraph.