“How do you know?” David asked. “I mean… you’ve been facing the bar the entire time we’ve been in here. Those two just came in a few minutes ago.”
But a second after he asked the question, David held up his hand and leaned back in his stool. “Never mind. Of course you know. You’re like Cain when it comes to casing a joint and everyone in it.”
Mace smiled tightly, gesturing to the bartender to get his attention. He needed something to wash the IPA taste out of his mouth.
“That’s true,” said a third man who was seated on the other side of Antares. “It’s almost a kind of obsessive compulsive thing with him, like Adrian Monk or that Psych guy.” He chuckled. “I bet Mace could tell us how many skirts and suits are in here.”
Antares cut his gaze to the other man, taking in his profile. Nathan Connor was six-foot-three inches of sun-kissed surfer god with actual gold colored eyes. Sitting beside Antares, the two clashed like night and day. If it weren’t for the jacket on Connor’s back and the skull patch it bore, no one would associate them with each other in any capacity.
To make matters stranger, Connor’s mode of speaking sometimes acted up, as if it had become jammed somewhere in the forties.
“You watch too much TV Nate,” said David, addressing Connor.
“And you need to download a speech update,” added Antares. “No one says ‘skirts’ and ‘suits’ anymore.”
Connor also said “dame” and “broad” from time to time. Old habits died hard for some people, and he was old-fashioned.
But Connor just shrugged his sculpted broad shoulders and smiled a brilliant white smile, and in response, Antares caught the rising scent of female sex hormones flood the room.
“Trends always come back around,” said Connor. “You watch. I’ll be the one to start this one up again.”
“He’s probably right about that,” said David before he took a swig of his ale. Antares could see him in his peripheral vision. David continued to sneak peeks at the duet of girls by the bar’s window, and they continued to notice him as much as Antares did.
“For the love of the Storyteller, Sharpe. Take the ladies some drinks already,” Antares told him. “Hell, I’ll buy.”
But David wasn’t fazed by Mace’s ribbing. He didn’t respond except to ask, “How can you tell the blonde is interested?”
“I can smell it.” Now he did look up, but only because suddenly he was sensing something else too. A second scent was airborne, one all too recognizable. He settled his black gaze on the girls, then slowly slid that gaze to the pair of men seated alone at a table in the far corner of the bar. “But you’d better hurry, Sharpe. The twins have eyes on them too. And you know how those two are.”
David Sharpe straightened and followed Mace’s line of sight. His eyes settled on the two men at the table, both dressed in Monsters jackets, both grinning. Dave’s gaze darkened. He signaled to the bartender. “Two unopened beers please, ice cold. And they’re on him.”
The bartender smiled, grabbed two fresh drinks from the cooler below the bar, and handed them to David. “Smart,” the bartender said, whose nametag claimed he was Luthor. “I know those two young ladies. Neither one of them would have accepted an open drink from a stranger.”
No woman in her right mind would accept an open drink from a stranger, thought Antares. David nodded at Luthor, took the beers, and made his hasty way to the girls’ table. The blonde beamed at him as he drew near, and Antares had a very good feeling his Withered clansman was going to get lucky that night.
He smiled to himself when the men in the far corner visibly bristled. His eyes met theirs, one after the other, and they suddenly grinned ear to ear at him. One of them looked right at him and mouthed the words, “Fuck you Mace,” and Antares chuckled softly before turning back around to face the bar.
But mid-turn, he stopped. He swallowed hard. His hearts skipped a vital beat, all three of them.
At once, he spun back to face the window. He’d seen something. Something… precious.
Outside, people walked by at varying paces. Most were drunk or hoping to be that way in short order. On a Friday night at just after midnight, there was very little other reason to be found on Sixth Street in Austin, especially during the holidays. Austin was a college town by and large, and those who remained – or came caravanning – when the students trekked home, were here to celebrate.
This section of Sixth was known by the locals as “Dirty Sixth” for a reason. Drinking establishments lined both sides thick as thieves, their signs glowing neon and bright long into the night.
Antares scanned every living being outside that window, but what he thought he’d seen, he saw no longer. Could he have imagined it? Was he seeing things?
It had been a flash of long rose gold hair… and big, violet eyes.
Whether he’d imagined it or not, his senses were instantly on alert, every iota of his attention shoved into overdrive. His nerve endings buzzed with electricity, his hearts now hammered discordantly, and his pupils dilated.
Antares rose from his stool, tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bar, and headed for the exit.
“Hey! Where you going?” called Connor.
“Never mind!” replied Antares distractedly. He reached the door and pushed through, his dark gaze adjusting to the light difference at once. He continued to scan the sidewalks like a missile programmed to locate something pink and purple and not supposed to be there.
It smelled like rain outside, freshly fallen, which was different from the usual scent – a cocktail of cigarette smoke, frying Mexican food, alcohol, perfume or cologne, and vomit. The scent of rain was refreshing. But Antares came up empty-handed on his search, even after moving quickly down the block, crossing the street, and heading up the other side.
I imagined it, he thought.
He stopped and ran a hand through his jet-black hair when he felt eyes on him. He turned to find a group of women practicing safety in numbers outside Maggie Mae’s. A few of them caught his gaze and smiled at him nervously. He smiled back; it was only polite. But he really wasn’t in the mood.
He was distracted now. His mind was playing tricks on him, and when he turned back around and closed his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache, the only thing he could see was the color violet.
He wondered what had set it off….
Buffalo Billiards was in Philly too. Maybe that had been it. He’d been thinking about Philly and why he’d stayed there as long as he had in the first place. And then of course, he’d felt that familiar and not-at-all-welcome pain that made him want to do bad things and do them a lot. And so he’d conjured her out of thin air, probably.
Desperation. That’s what had done it. It had to be.
But why now? After all this time?
He sighed and lowered his hand, shaking his head. Then he crossed the street again, made his way back to Buffalo Billiards, and told the boys he was calling it a night. By the time his head hit the pillow in his room at the Driskill Hotel, he was praying like mad his dreams wouldn’t be haunted.
But he knew damn well his prayers would go unanswered. They always did.
Chapter Twelve – Austin Texas, Sixth Street
He was already taller than most of the people on Sixth Street, and dressed impeccably. When combined with his dark, unnatural beauty and the grace he exuded as he strode through the crowd, Jarrod Sterling attracted a notable amount of attention. It couldn’t be helped. Unlike other supernatural creatures, he was unable to change his appearance. Incubi were always beautiful, and ordinarily that beauty was tainted slightly wicked. The beautiful kind of wicked.
Sterling couldn’t really stand crowds. He also disliked the more simple social gestures such as handshakes, or even, ironically, a beautiful woman’s flirtatious hand-on-the-arm, or the seemingly innocent brush of fingers in exchanging a glass of champagne or a phone number.
Jarrod was handsome, but also jaded. He was an incubus who li
terally needed affection to survive but was anything but affectionate himself. It was part and parcel to the curse he’d cast upon himself long ago.
But he needed to be here in this crowd. This was the street his vision had shown him, this was the throng of people, and these were the same lights and sounds. This was where he was going to find her – if he could find her at all.
She’d fallen off his radar more than twenty years back, much to his stark disappointment, but not to his surprise. She had always been brilliant. In so many ways. So of course that brilliance had finally seen her learn how to escape the detection of a practiced warlock, even a warlock who was also a seer.
But something was changing of late, some general echo of will and magic in the air, some chaos-versus-order command that saw the restructuring of the cosmos. Something vital was different; he couldn’t put his finger on any single thing, but he could sense it like a vibration in the wind or a barely-different filter placed over a photograph. And as if to confirm this sensation of change, after half a decade of trying and failing, he’d finally seen her again. In a bonafide vision.
He hadn’t even been trying this time. He’d simply closed his eyes, wondered where in the world she was, and the crystal clear image of her location came to him like a priceless gift from the Storyteller.
This street was where that vision had led him. Austin, Texas – Sixth Street.
Jarrod moved through the late night swarm with the deft dexterity of one who’d long practiced the skill of traveling swiftly while evading human contact. It was a generalization to say that Jarrod didn’t like being touched. But in general, it was true. Like most incubi, or Nightmares, as they were known in close supernatural circles, touch was sustenance. It was as much a necessity for continued existence to his kind as food was to humans.
However, unlike most incubi, he drew no deep pleasure from this contact. To any other Nightmare, sex was not only food, it was chocolate. It was the finest wine. It was delicious. It could have been this way for Jarrod as well, but he’d sacrificed the pleasure long ago in exchange for something that to him was far more valuable.
While he drew no pleasure from sex due to his sacrifice, he was able to draw something else: magic. As an incubus, a warlock, and a seer, Sterling was a magical jack-of-all-trades. No other incubi in the realms were warlocks, and no other incubus was a seer. The combination and what he did with it allowed him to change the world.
Long ago, he’d found a spell that could literally create within a being the ability to wield magic. In other words, the spell was so powerful, it was capable of creating magic users out of beings devoid of magic altogether. Turn a regular person into a witch or warlock, in other words. A sacrifice was required however, and it was a hefty one.
For a mortal, the pleasure of sex would usually be a no-go on the sacrifice list. For an incubus, it was taboo. But that was the kind of sacrifice required to create magical ability where there was none.
For various reasons, it took Sterling a very long time to find someone both willing and able to cast the spell for him. But when he did, and the spell was cast upon him at last, he got more than he bargained in the exchange. The mage who cast the spell was powerful and sure of himself. However, he died during its casting nonetheless.
Sterling had suspected as much would happen. Not that he’d shared that information.
Sterling also gave up his own ability to achieve carnal indulgence from mating. Another thing he was afraid would happen.
But in return for these two sacrifices, he was not only granted the abilities of a warlock, he was given a unique power that allowed him to absorb a magical ability from any victim he bedded – and keep it indefinitely.
That’s what he called them: Victims. He couldn’t possibly consider them mates or partners, and certainly not lovers. There was no love involved. He never hurt anyone during sex; he never would. In fact, he made it quite pleasurable for them. But in the end they were sustenance, nothing more.
Except…. Except for Annaleia. Annaleia Faith.
A flash of red moved out of the corner of Jarrod’s eye, and he turned to follow the movement with a keen gaze. He found the source of his sudden attention, but was immediately disappointed. A stranger with red hair laughed with her friends as they entered one of the many bars along Sixth. He watched her go, his thoughts elsewhere.
She’s here somewhere. He could feel her now.
Jarrod turned and continued down the street, his will bent on locating the woman who haunted his memories. She had been a single exception to the rule that was the numb existence he’d damned himself to. Just one night with one particular woman… one, in his entire cursed life.
He thought of that night and that woman. He always did. He recalled what he’d felt when he’d come in out of the cold to enter the diner where she’d worked fifty years ago. He remembered what he’d felt when he met her gaze. She’d had violet eyes. He’d never seen anything like them, not on a human. But then, that made sense.
Nightmares saw well past the outer layers of a person’s physical appearance. Incubi were capable of peering directly into a person’s heart. To a Nightmare, outward appearance was a manifestation of what lay deep inside. That night, it wasn’t the rare color of the girl’s eyes that moved Jarrod. It was the life in them. It was the anima.
Anima was the Latin term for soul, and the basis for the word “animal.” It was that certain something he frequently witnessed in the very young and ironically, the very old. He heard it in the laughter of children running madly while playing “tag,” or saw it in their acting faces during make-believe. He caught it at times in the still-glittering eyes of octogenarians when they recalled an inside joke from forty years past or saw a black and white movie they hadn’t seen in ages or decided to sneak dessert before dinner.
But almost never did he find the essence of anima in anyone between the ages of ten and seventy.
Yet, he’d found it in Annaleia.
On a night in November, 1968 a vision led Jarrod to a diner in the wintery Midwest. At the time, he’d been making a name for himself by divining instances, occasions, and occurrences that left important people – i.e., the sovereigns and their loved ones or wardens and their loved ones – needing magic they would not otherwise have. He would then supply that magic for them himself. For a small fee, of course.
He accomplished this by bedding the people who possessed the magic his clairvoyance told him he would need, and borrowing it from his sexual partner through that mating.
His latest stop was the diner; someone in that place possessed what he needed next.
Like a moth to the flame, he entered the bright, warm space that smelled of coffee and fried food. As all eyes fell on him, he scanned the inhabitants in search of the one who’d brought him there.
The girl with red-gold hair and violet eyes stared back at him. And Sterling was jarred to his core.
There in those purple depths, he saw something very, very special. It was something old, and volatile. He saw a soul weighted with responsibilities and the much heavier yolk of personal loss. He witnessed a sense that the world’s problems were her own, an empathy that screamed for justice, not for herself, but for everyone and everything around her. He saw a kindness so formidable, it rendered her heart in two. And he was entranced, because none of this had managed to dim the anima within her.
It had taken everything he had to look away and seat himself at a nearby table. One in a billion. That’s what he’d been thinking when he’d robotically taken off his gloves and set them on the table. His mind spun, his heart pounded, and he felt different than he had in ages. It was almost uncomfortable. Was he reading her right? Was she really so beautiful? Or was he just thinking about what it was she could offer him?
Maybe he was giving her too much credit? Especially given… what else he knew she possessed. He’d read more than confounding goodness inside her. The girl with purple eyes was not human. And it was a dark thing she did not even know sh
e possessed.
That’s right, she doesn’t know, he reminded himself. She has no idea what she’ll be capable of. It would seem that in this case, ignorance was bliss. Her life was not dimmed by the deathly power inside her because she had no idea it was there. And in any case, the fact that she was inherently kind was a miracle despite this inner darkness, making it all the more impressive, not less so.
But that was then. She’d changed in the years since. He wondered how much.
As he now moved gracefully through the throngs, avoiding people left and right, he mentally recited his long-time mantra, It was worth it. It was all worth it, all that he’d done, giving up his pleasure and inadvertently killing the mage who’d finally agreed to cast his spell. It was all worth it to gain all he’d gained.
It was worth it.
He no longer truly believed the mantra. As the days and nights passed, Jarrod was beginning to realize that he’d given up something so vital, it normally went unnoticed by his kind. Like air for humans. Like breathing. It was a necessity so pure, it was just assumed and forgotten.
He noticed it now, though. He’d taken the sweetness out of his life and replaced it with power. And after a while…. Well, without air, people died. It was as simple as that.
But you’ll find her. And you’ll breathe again.
That thought made Jarrod smile despite the crowd pressing in on him.
The smile took his appearance from handsome to angelic, and more attention was pulled inexorably his way. He concentrated on remaining calm. Maybe the attention was a good thing. Like back-up rations. Maybe if he failed in his main goal tonight, he would find something else in this mess he could borrow or even keep for good. Most people with powers that he could filch enjoyed drinking and partying just like the humans they chose to keep company with. There were quite a few supernatural creatures cutting loose with friends there on that Austin December night.
He was there, after all, and he wasn’t alone. He sensed vampires. And dragons. And… Luricans? Damn, he thought.
Monsters, Book Two: Hour of the Dragon Page 12