by Lucy Blue
“Kelsey?” Jason said. “I take it you know this dog?”
“Oh yeah,” Sylvia said. “I think she does.” She reached down and touched Kelsey’s shoulder. “Look.”
Asher was creating a much bigger stir than the dog. He was in his human guise, of course, no wings, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with no tie, perfectly appropriate to the occasion. But if he’d meant to blend in with the crowd, he’d failed miserably. Every eye in the room was fixed on him in fascination, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at one of the paintings: “The Tree.”
“Oh yeah,” Jason said. “I’ll go get him.”
“No,” Kelsey said, standing up. “Let me.”
Asher felt dizzy looking at the painting, a perfect rendering of the moment he had almost fallen for good. Kelsey was locked in his passionate embrace; the two of them were entangled in the clutches of the demon. “It references Dante, of course,” a man beside him said. “But so fresh…” He smiled at Asher, his warm brown eyes twinkling with interest. “Who knew little Kelsey had it in her?”
Then Kelsey was beside them. “Thanks, Byron,” she said. She put a hand on Asher’s arm. “Your support is overwhelming.”
“You know I think you’re brilliant,” Byron said, whoever he was, utterly unembarrassed. “I’m just glad to see you finally showing it.” He was still smiling at Asher, looking him up and down. “So, who is this?”
“This is my friend, Asher.” She slipped her arm through Asher’s, and he could feel her trembling. “He was very sweet to pose for me.”
Asher put a hand over hers. “It was my pleasure.” She looked very fragile and very beautiful dressed in a pale yellow dress. She hadn’t tried to hide the scar, a pinkish purple web at her temple, and he was reminded painfully of the broken doll she had been on the outskirts of Hell.
“Are you a professional model?” Byron asked, obviously determined to have the whole scoop.
“No,” Kelsey and Asher said in unison.
“I’m in personal security,” Asher went on, giving Kelsey’s hand a squeeze. “I met Kelsey after her husband’s death. There had been some trouble in her neighborhood, and I hooked her up with a security system.”
“My neighbor, Sylvia, was attacked less than a block from our building,” Kelsey agreed, squeezing back.
“Were you with her when she tried to blow her brains out?” Byron said. His tone was still matter-of-fact, but his eyes glittered with the hungry malice of the born gossip. Asher felt Kelsey’s heart rate double.
“Byron, I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“Yes, I was,” Asher said. “And I was furious.” He looked down at her, smiling as her eyes met his. “But I think she’s better now.”
“I am,” she promised. “Much better.” From a distance, Asher had looked just the same. But up close, she could see faint lines around his eyes and at the corners of his perfect mouth, see how the blue light of his eyes had slightly dimmed. His hand over hers was still warmer than a human’s but not quite as warm as before. But he was still beautiful, maybe more so, and the look in his eyes made her heart skip a beat. “I’m a little tired, though,” she said. “I think I could use a little air. Asher, would you come with me?” Let the vultures nibble on that one, she thought.
“Have Jason call me,” Byron said, handing her a card. “We need to talk. I might have a commission for you.”
“Thanks, Byron.” Before Jake had gotten sick, back when she had still been an illustrator who managed to finish a fine art painting maybe twice a year, she would have fainted in happy shock at the idea of a commission from a collector like Byron. Now she really couldn’t have cared less. “We’ll have to talk.”
She led Asher through the gallery, her hand held lightly in his. She smiled and nodded at the people they passed but refused to let anyone stop them. “Ten minutes,” she mouthed to Jason when they reached the back door, and he nodded.
She took him outside and up the rusted fire escape to the roof. She and Jake had spent the greater part of most of his openings here, her teasing and comforting him as he paced and smoked and bitched about being packaged as a product. The asphalt roof near the railing was still littered with cigarette butts. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, turning to Asher.
His answer was to kiss her, sweeping her up in his arms and taking her breath away. She melted against him, twining her arms around his neck and opening her mouth to his, not caring who might see.
After a long moment, he broke the kiss and held her close, cradling her head against his throat. “Why didn’t you call for me?”
“I wasn’t sure I could. I thought I shouldn’t.” His arms around her felt perfect, but she was crying. “I had already hurt you so much.”
“Stop it.” He turned her face up to his. “Just stop.” He kissed her softly before he let her go.
“Are you even still an angel?”
“No,” he said, his face utterly serious. “I’m an elephant now. This is my brilliant disguise.”
“You’re a smartass now.” She smiled, feeling better. “That’s new.”
“It is, and I have to say, I have enjoyed it.” He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I am still an angel.” The air around him shimmered and his human clothes melted away. His angel form was naked to the waist over the leather kilt of his armor, and his wings were still jet black. A black-handled sword was sheathed on his hip. “I just have a different mission now.” She could see scars all over his torso; the worst was a deep purple gash across his chest. She moved closer to press a kiss to his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.
“What kind of mission?” she said, laying her head on his shoulder.
“Never mind.” He chuckled, a rumble in his chest she felt all through her. “Just know that there’s always a plan.”
“But it’s not what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want anything before.” He turned her face up to his again. “Now I do.”
“Asher…” She took a step back from him. “I almost got you damned forever.”
“I’ll risk it.” He touched her cheek. “Just don’t be scared of me,” he said. “That’s all I want for now.”
“Is it?” She smiled. “I’m not scared.”
Jason checked his watch and sighed. “Come on, Kelsey.”
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” A dark-haired, bearded man was standing behind him. “I wanted to ask about one of the paintings.” He was tall and thin, wearing a black suit that probably had cost more than Jason’s car. He would have been handsome if he hadn’t had a lurid, purple scar that slashed across his face.
“Certainly,” Jason said, smiling and looking him straight in the eye. “Which one?”
“The Tree.” He handed over a card with an obscene monetary figure scribbled on the back. “I must have it.” His accent was impossible to place, vaguely European. But the name on the card seemed perfectly ordinary—Lucas Black. “I can have the money wired to your account tonight. When can I expect delivery?”
“We’re holding all the paintings until the show closes next month,” Jason said, trying not to sound like he was about to break out into a dance of joy. If news of this sale leaked out—and he would make sure it did—Kelsey’s career would be made. He heard a strange sound behind him and looked back. The dog that had come in with Kelsey’s mysterious model was backed up against the back door, his teeth bared and his hackles up.
“That will be satisfactory,” Black said. “Call my office in the morning with the account information, and they will give you the delivery address.” He nodded, a polite, courtly gesture that didn’t quite hide the glitter of triumph in his eyes.
“The artist will be back any minute now,” Jason said. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
“Oh, we’ve met.” He smiled. “Tell her I’ll be in touch.” Nodding again first to Jason then, strangely, to the dog, he turned and disappeared i
nto the crowd.
THE END
Read on for an excerpt from Guinevere’s Revenge by Lucy Blue, available now from Falstaff Crush!
Guinevere’s Revenge
Chapter 1
Stella had never intended to attend her mother’s ridiculous shooting party. No pheasant had ever done her harm. Live and let live was her motto. But she was on the run from Hollywood, and New York had let her down. So she’d come all the way to England.
She glided down the stairs of her stepfather’s grand country estate, practicing her smile. From the drawing room, she could hear her mother’s braying laugh and the politely condescending chuckles of her guests. “That horrid American woman,” they would all be thinking, exchanging pointed glances over their teacups. Mom would pretend she didn’t notice, and lovely Henry, her husband and Stella’s latest stepfather, would shield her as best he could. But the spectacle of it all made Stella feel sick.
She was just girding her loins when she heard the sound she’d learned to dread—the ringing of the telephone. “Oh no,” she muttered to herself as her heart raced with panic. “It can’t be him.” She hadn’t known Barrington Hall even had a telephone. But there it sat on the hall table at the foot of the stairs, black and smug and ringing. “He can’t possibly know I’m here.” The butler had come out of the dining room and was gliding toward the phone. She rushed past him and snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“And who is this then?” The voice was female and extremely cross. “Where is he?” She wasn’t the man Stella had been dreading, which was good. But she didn’t sound like anyone who ought to be calling Barrington Hall, either.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you mean.” Stella was so relieved, she was almost laughing.
“Oh ho, ain’t we posh? And an American, no less.” The woman on the phone sounded like a Cockney gutter snipe in a pantomime. “You listen to me, Miss Rockefeller. You tell him it’s nothing to me if he’s found somebody else to toast his crumpet; have it and be glad. But I ain’t going to just up and disappear. You tell him I meant what I said about coming to settle accounts.”
“Miss, really,” Stella said. “I’m absolutely positive you’ve dialed the wrong number. This is Barrington Hall.”
There was a short pause and sharp intake of breath. “I don’t care if it’s bloody Buckingham Palace,” she said at last, sounding a bit less sure of herself. “You just tell him what I said.” Before Stella could answer again, she had hung up.
“May I be of help, miss?” the butler said. “I am accustomed to answering the telephone here at the Hall.”
“No, it’s all right,” Stella said, hanging up the receiver. “Sorry, Hennessey.” Whoever the lout was, she hoped the girl found him. “I think it was a wrong number.” From the drawing room, she could still hear the clink of teacups. Suddenly, she simply couldn’t face it. “Thank you,” she said, smiling at the butler. “If my mother should ask, tell her I went for a walk in the garden.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, bowing as she headed out the door.
She started down the gravel drive with a vague plan to wander in the hedge maze. Then she heard the sputter and roar of a motorcar. A smart little roadster was racing up the drive in a cloud of dust, and she smiled in spite of her blues. “George!” she called out, waving.
The car screeched to a halt, and a long, lean scarecrow in tweed unfolded from the driver’s seat. “Cuz!” Her stepfather’s favorite nephew threw off his cap and goggles just in time to catch her as she threw herself into his arms. “It’s been donkey’s years!”
“It has.” George was the only Englishman she’d met, except Henry, who could give a girl a proper hug. “Mom didn’t tell me you were coming.” She drew back and looked up at him, feeling stupidly emotional all of a sudden. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Likewise, sausage.” He frowned. “Say, what’s the trouble?”
“Nothing, honestly,” she lied. “I guess I’m still worn out from the boat.” She made herself let him go. “You should go in. Everybody’s in the drawing room having tea.”
“There’s a shock.” Compared to the Hollywood types she’d been around lately, she supposed George was too endearingly peculiar-looking to really be handsome. But he had warm, sparkling eyes that never looked bored and a crooked smile that made her happy every time she saw it. “Where are you off to, then?”
“Just a walk,” she said. “I’m not thirsty.”
“I’m parched, but not for tea.” The footman had come out, and he and George’s valet were unloading valises and George’s guns from the car’s little trunk. “Let’s toddle down to the village pub, and you can tell me all about what’s not wrong.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said, feeling better already.
“At last!” a woman’s voice said from the steps behind them. “Good God, Georgie, where have you been?” A girl of about Stella’s age dressed in a tweed coat and jodhpurs was coming down the steps with a fluffy little dust mop of a dog in her arms. “I’ve been bereft.” She had blond hair and the odd combination of rose petal skin and horsey features peculiar to young ladies of the English upper-est class. She threaded her arm not holding the dog through George’s and gave Stella a catty look. “But who is this?”
“Lady Barrington’s daughter, dearest,” George said with the mildest tone of reproach. “This is my cousin, Stella.”
“Oh my,” the girl said, laughing. “I’ve stepped quite in it, haven’t I?”
“Stella, this is Mavis Farley,” George said, still sounding rather odd. “My fiancée.”
Thank heavens Stella was an actress. “Fiancée?” she repeated, a smile of delight to fool the toughest critic blooming on her face. “Oh my heavens! I hadn’t heard!”
“No one has yet,” Mavis said, obviously put out in spite of her own fake smile. “I thought we meant to announce it this weekend, you naughty boy.”
“Stella is family,” George said.
“Yes, but we haven’t even told your uncle yet,” Mavis said. “No offense to Stella, of course.”
“Of course not,” Stella said. “And don’t worry; I won’t tell a soul.” She made herself kiss the horrid thing’s cheek. “Congratulations to you both.”
“How sweet,” Mavis said stiffly.
“Thanks, cuz,” George said, kissing Stella back.
“Now do come in to tea,” Mavis said, tugging him toward the steps. “Mummy and Daddy are dying to see you.”
“Actually, dearest, Stella and I were thinking of popping down to the pub,” George said. “If you’d care to come along—”
“George, don’t be crazy,” Stella interrupted. “You have to let Mavis show you off to the home folks.”
“Quite,” the other girl said, spots of color appearing on her cheeks.
“Besides, I’m really very tired,” Stella went on. “I think I’ll just have a nap until dinner.” She couldn’t resist giving him a wink. “See you later, cousin.”
As she went inside, she heard Mavis saying, “Isn’t that the one who’s meant to be a film star? She’s hardly what I’d call pretty enough for paying customers.” The footman closed the door behind her before she could hear George’s response.
“Can I get you anything, miss?” George’s valet, Stewart, asked. He was giving her a look of such perfect sympathy and understanding, she felt her mask start to crumble. “Shall I send you up a tray?”
“No, thank you.” She kept her head down and hurried to the stairs.
She made it all the way to her room before the tears broke free. “Miserable horse-faced witch,” she muttered as she locked the door behind her. What kind of world did they live in when a nice man like George got himself engaged to a beastie like that? She didn’t want him for herself, obviously. They were practically related. But still…the very idea of him saddled for life with that gargoyle…it was a tragedy, was what it was, and if she cared for him at all, she’d never let it happen.
�
�Which witch is that?” her maid, Sophia, asked. Sophia, who’d been born and raised in the great state of Mississippi, hated the English manor even more than Stella did and avoided the servants’ hall as much as possible when they visited.
“Draw me a bath, kid,” Stella said, kicking off her shoes. “You’ve got to help me armor up.”
“Going to war, then, are we?” the maid said with a grin.
“We are indeed.” She opened her wardrobe and took out the new dress she’d just received from Paris, a gift from the man whose attentions had put her on the run. It was a slinky black gown made of beaded illusion and not much else, very much a Hollywood dress. Wearing it in Henry’s dining room, she’d stand out like a flamingo in a chicken coop, and her mother would be mortified. With regret, she put it back in the wardrobe and reached for a modest flesh-pink satin instead, the gown of a perfect English rose. “And I’m expecting a bloodbath.”
For all of Stella’s story, pick up Guinevere’s Revenge today!
Also by Lucy Blue
Guinevere’s Revenge
My Demon’s Kiss
The Devil’s Knight
Dark Angel
About the Author
I’ve been a writer since I was seven years old when I conceived my very first short fiction piece, a suspenseful tale of terror and triumph about a puppy stuck at the top of a very tall sliding board because he’s afraid to slide down. As I recall this plotline came to me as I was sitting at the top of a very tall sliding board with a long line of other second graders behind me yelling, “Are you gonna slide or what?” As an artist, I’ve always responded well to pressure.
Since the puppy (who made it, by the way, for anyone who’s worried), I’ve written and released ten and a half full-length novels and many, many short stories, published with two big publishers (Berkeley-Penguin and Pocket Books-Simon & Schuster), a couple of small indie publishers, and all by my itty bitty self. With my sister, Alexandra Christian, I wrote, edited, and published for Little Red Hen Romance, a micro-press for the kind of romances we wanted to read. I’m bringing that same sensibility and an abiding love for weird, pulp, gothic, and adventure tales of all kinds to Falstaff Crush. Don’t y’all wanna come play?