Leaving Eden

by Kelly A Walker et al.

  Except Kingston. His eyes had gone from quicksilver to opaque, lost to a vision of the future.

  The tug got stronger, letting Retta know what was coming. At least this time it appeared Ace would be her shadow hitching a ride.

  Not fighting the pull, Retta accepted the responsibility. With the bond lessening the constant overburden and influx of rage, her Wrath was under better control than it had ever been. At least Priest’s meddling had done some good where she was concerned. Whether she could forgive and forget or not, there was an ancient player in the mix, and she was going to need all their help and then some to stop it in its tracks and put it back where it had come from.

  Until next time…

  Sincerely,

  Retta and her Death Dealers

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emma Cole lives in a small town in the mountains with her babies, fur and human. Bringing the stories in her imagination to life has been a long-term goal she’s only begun to explore. Reading has always been a great passion and now writing is as well.

  You can find her on Facebook for updates:

  https://www.facebook.com/emmy.coleman.85

  https://facebook.com/groups/223385255239741

  ALSO BY EMMA COLE

  Remington Carter Series

  Echoes and Entanglements

  https://www.books2read.com/u/4EMMIM

  Requiem

  https://www.books2read.com/u/47EZy8

  Anthology

  Love and Vice: A Multi-Author Erotic Collection

  https://www.books2read.com/u/bO6Xzg

  GLORIOUS GLUTTONY

  By Lexie Winston

  GLUTTONY

  Gluttony (Latin: gula, derived from the Latin gluttire meaning "to gulp down or swallow") means over-indulgence and over-consumption of food, drink, or wealth items, particularly as status symbols.

  1

  “Miss! Excuse me, miss!” I walk a little faster toward my table. The click-clack of her shoes behind me echoes in my ear. Good, she's wearing high heels. I might just get away.

  Smirking, I pick up the pace. I can feel my butt cheeks jiggling in my skirt like a hippopotamus dancing. I try carefully not to spill the plate I’m carrying while I make my escape. I look back—the woman is still following me, and she, too, has picked up the pace.

  It's not easy weaving in and out of the tables at top speed, and the senior citizens dotted throughout the room make the journey even more perilous. I mean, I could flash my demon eyes to clear a path, but these people are old. They may pee their pants, or even have a heart attack, and that would totally ruin the dining experience.

  Turning back to check once more, I find the waitress has been accosted by an elderly, pink-haired lady. She is speaking very loudly with a strong German accent, gesturing enthusiastically with her hands. She turns, her face creased with wrinkles and a sparkle in her eye, and then gives me a quick wink before continuing her loud complaints.

  Phew. Thank goodness for dessert-addicted hausfraus who understands my plight.

  I slow my pace once again and continue to the corner booth I have commandeered for my daily descent into dessert dissertation. The arrangement of macarons on my plate have stayed in place—not dropped to the floor in an adult version of Hansel and Gretel.

  Placing my plate on the table and sinking down into the booth, I examine the mess in front of me. The table is covered in empty plates. Not a single crumb is left on any of them, and I find myself embarrassed to admit that I may have used my finger to swipe up the rest of a delicious berry coulis that was left on one. Shaking my head, I reach over to the teapot that comes with the high-tea-buffet deal. It’s supposed to be never-ending pots of tea, but the service in this place has left much to be desired and I find my pot is empty again. Before I even attempt to eat my macarons, I think another pot is needed.

  As I go to signal a waitress, a shadow appears over the table. I look up to find the waitress who was chasing me earlier has finally caught up with me.

  “Perfect timing!” I exclaim before she can say anything. “I would love a refill of tea, please. English breakfast. I don't want anything to compete with the flavor of these magnificent looking macarons.” I sigh, looking at them. They are beautiful. Shiny and vibrantly colored, and I’m dying to take a bite.

  Her frown deepens before she replies in a condescending tone, “Are you sure you really need to be eating those?” The woman is reed thin and looks like she would snap in a stiff breeze. Her blonde hair is pulled back off her face in a severe bun and her pursed lips and wrinkled nose make her look like she's smelled something rotten.

  “Holy fuck!” I exclaim. “What is wrong with your voice?” High pitched and nasally, it sounds as bad as nails on a chalkboard. I start digging around in my bag, pulling out my purse, phone, and a tampon before grabbing out a fluff-covered throat lozenge I find in the bottom.

  I offer it to her. “Please, have one. Your customers will kiss my feet.”

  Her face starts to turn red, and she speaks again, ignoring the offering. “Ma’am, I really think you should probably think twice about eating those macarons.”

  I look around the room and notice we have an audience, so I talk just a little louder. They shouldn't miss out on the show, and the majority looks like they're wearing hearing aids.

  “Why shouldn’t I eat them?” I ask her. “Is this not an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

  “Yes, it is, but do you think you need them?” Her eyes run down my body, her lips turning up in disgust.

  “Oh, I see what this is,” I announce, standing up to even the playing field. I don’t need some skinny bitch trying to lord it over me. “Are you implying my luscious body probably doesn't need any more sweets?” I say, gesturing to it. A wolf whistle from behind the waitress rings out, and I peer over to see it’s the gentleman sitting with my German lifesaver, winking at me.

  I blow him a kiss and return to face Sourpuss McSkinny. “Are you fat shaming me?”

  She shrugs as if to say yes.

  “I'd like to speak to your manager, please,” I demand and hand her my teapot. “And while you’re at it, why don't you take the stick out of your ass and get me some more tea? Bless your heart.” I sit back down into the booth and focus on my macarons. Which to eat first?

  The waitress huffs out loud but does as I have asked and disappears. The audience loses interest when nothing happens, turning back to their own delicious desserts. I have tried nearly all the selections on the menu of this new dessert buffet restaurant.

  Tasty Treats is a brand-new trending business venture put together by a culinary school graduate and two others. The menu is extraordinary; the range of desserts is astronomical. The marketing behind the place is ingenious as well - monthly theme days for various cultures or countries. Weekly senior citizens specials. Mom and baby sessions where they don't allow any others. That way the babies don’t disturb the other diners. Available staff to push strollers if needed, and a supervised play area for the older children. People flock here in droves. Even now, there are lines of people waiting. It is the perfect place for me to write my new blog piece.

  After finally deciding to try the apple pie macaron first, I'm about to take a dainty—yeah right—bite of the delightful greenish-red treat, when another shadow falls over the table. The waitress is back, and she's brought with her what could be a sister from another mister. Tall, with the same reedy build, blonde and elegant, this one is wearing a “power suit” in a lavender color, pearls around her neck, and a look of disapproval.

  “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?’ This one's voice is nasally and unattractive.

  “Great Scott!” I exclaimed in my best English accent. “Where did the owners employ you lot from? You all look like you would blow over if someone farted in your direction.”

  Her nose crinkles up in disgust. The older gentleman who whistled at me earlier is out-right chuckling. The other customers all have amused looks on their faces. Of course, they all instantly to
ok notice again as soon as the two women approached me.

  “Do any of you even know what any of the desserts taste like? Or are you all members of the ‘eat nothing but air’ club?” I know I’m being offensive, but they did start it.

  When neither responds, I roll my eyes. “I would like to complain about my treatment. I paid for the all-you-can-eat dessert buffet and never-ending pot of tea, and to be questioned about my consumption by the wait staff is in poor taste.”

  “Here, here,” cheer the German couple, and both women shoot them a dirty look.

  The manager turns back to me with a look of disdain, gesturing to the waitress in question. “Well she does have a point; you’ve been sitting here for two hours and have just about sampled every item on the buffet. And, well, I’m not sure you've noticed but you aren’t exactly going to win a Miss America pageant.”

  I give a fake gasp of shock. My hand comes up to my chest and tears well in my eyes. Damn, I’m good. Let's see if she can dig herself any deeper, because out of the corner of my eye, where the back office and kitchen is, I can see a whole heap of staff have poked their heads out to watch the showdown.

  My voice rises, hitching with emotion. “Are you calling me fat?” A silence surrounds us as the audience waits; the two women exchange glances.

  “If the shoe fits,” says the waitress with a shrug.

  “If it eats like a pig and waddles like a pig, surely it’s a pig,” says the manager.

  The restaurant explodes in an uproar. I fake swoon into my booth and the two women just eye me with disdain.

  I close my eyes and start to hyperventilate (it’s fake), my hands waving in distress. My breath gets short and choppy, and the room starts to feel warm and suffocating. Crap! I think I took it too far.

  Sounds echo in my ears when a hand on the sleeve of my dress draws my attention. The fogginess clears, and I recognize the nasally tone and chalkboard screeching for what it is. Two bitches barking out excuses.

  Opening my eyes, I see the loveliest sight. Even more lovely than my plate of macarons, and that's saying something. Crouched down beside me, holding onto my arm, is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He must be tall, because even crouched down, his chocolate-and-caramel eyes are level with mine. His short, stylish hair is dark brown, shot through with streaks of gold and bronze. The well-trimmed scruff on his face is matching in color, and my mind immediately wonders what it would feel like against the inside of my thigh. He has a long, slender, aristocratic nose, and lips that are succulent and plump. He looks at me with such concern, making my heart pound. It's been a long time since my heart got excited for anything but food.

  I quickly look to his purlicue to see if he has a demon mark, but he's got a hold of my arm from underneath, hiding the webbing between his thumb and first finger. I shake my head when I realize he's talking to me.

  Oh, and what a voice. The accent is gently French, like he was born there but hasn't been back in a long time. A little tingle starts to happen in a part of my body not ruled by my stomach.

  “I'm sorry, what did you say?” I ask breathlessly. Between my performance and the magnificence of this man, I am a bit discombobulated.

  He smiles gently at me. “I asked if you needed a drink of water.”

  “I'll have an Appletini please.”

  He blinks, the only sign he’s surprised, but smiles as he turns to the waitress.

  “Get it,” he snaps. She practically curtsies before scampering away. He stands up and looks around at the crowd of patrons surrounding us. “Now, can anyone tell me what's actually going on?”

  “They called her fat,” shouts the old man.

  “Und a schwine,” chimes in his pink-haired wife.

  “English, woman, English,” the old man shouts at his wife, banging his hand on the table.

  “Pig. They called her a pig,” she amends in heavily-accented English.

  “Nasty women,” they both declare before sitting back down.

  The face of the sexy man in front of me becomes a thundercloud. He focuses that fury on the manager. “Are they telling the truth, Nicole?” He growls just as the waitress returns with my drink, slamming it down on the table so that half of it spills. I study it closely for floating lugies before taking a sip.

  Nicole squirms, then grows a set of balls and makes a bold move. “Yes, I did. Look at her!” She points her long, boney finger in my direction. “She is…squished into that dress. Her breasts are spilling out everywhere.” She turns to me, looking at me like I was the gum on the bottom of her shoe. “You could at least dress for your body type.”

  “She sampled almost everything on the buffet and kept going back for more,” the waitress chimes in.

  The man turns and looks at me. He slowly peruses my body with a gleam of admiration entering his eyes; I give him a wink and blow him a kiss.

  “Stop, you tart!” screeches the manager, obviously losing the plot. “Like he would look at a fat cow like you.”

  Again, the audience gasps in shock, and the man's face turns an alarming shade of red. “This woman is a goddess!” he shouts at her. “All curves and softness. Someone you wouldn’t have to worry about hurting when bending her over a desk.” He gives the woman a sneer. “Unlike you.”

  While absolutely charmed and completely turned on by that declaration, I’ve finally had enough. All the desserts I have consumed are not sitting right with the aggravation in the air. I down the remaining Appletini in one go and stand up. I smooth out my long sleeved, cherry red, pin-up dress and grab my handbag from where I left it in the booth. Reaching into my purse, I pull out my business card and hand it to the man. He takes it, looking down before looking back up in surprise. His expression falls when he realizes who I am.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell them. “You were going to get the Glorious Gluttony seal of approval, a 5 Macaron rating, but I’m afraid your staff leaves a lot to be desired.” I smirk at the women. “And, well, you lost a macaron for each of them. Do yourself a favor. Hire some fat woman like me. We appreciate the food and we appreciate other people who enjoy the food.”

  The sexy man looks down at my business card in shock. Before he can say anything, I throw two hundred dollars on the table.

  “That's for my buffet and the drink,” I say, gesturing to the half-assed cocktail. “And for the couple over there.” I lift my chin in the older German couple’s direction.

  “Give the change to your bus boy. I’m sure he deserves it more than these two vapid bitches.”

  With that, I depart with style and grace, waving and blowing kisses to the German couple. I hear shouts of “wait!” from behind me, but I ignore them. I've got better things to do than get insulted, and no pretty face will change my mind.

  2

  After that disaster, I decide to head home instead of heading to the wine bar I was going to review next. My energy is baselining after that unfortunate encounter at Tasty Treats.

  I started the Glorious Gluttony food blog as a way to earn my daily energy needed as a Gluttony demon.

  That’s right. Demons. We are everywhere.

  That teacher who yelled a little too much at you in high school? Probably a wrath demon. That investment banker who gave you great stock advice? Probably a greed demon. Heck, half of Hollywood's most famous stars are pride or lust demons. Not much different than humans, except the three M’s: magic, mischief, and mates. Oh, and we are all born in the flames of Hell.

  Evil? Not anymore than humans. It's all about freedom of choice. Even for the denizens of Hell.

  Demons need to feed on energy to be able to use their powers. If they don’t, their energy can get too low and magic doesn’t happen, making them practically human. This is why you will find them working in careers relevant to their specific sin. Seven different ones, in case you didn't know. Pride, wrath, sloth, lust, envy, greed, and lastly, gluttony.

  That’s me.

  Mom is a lust demon and Dad, gluttony. I also have two other dads: Papa is a s
loth demon and Father is greed. There are no cross breeds so you will be either one or the other if your parents are different. My twin sister, Serena, is a lust demon. But we both have latent tendencies. She likes food, a lot, and I like men. A lot. Serena isn't fussy and goes both ways, but I am partial to thick, rock hard…bodies. Get your minds out of the gutter.

  My much younger brothers are a sloth and a greed, respectively, like their dads. Yep, lots of dads. Lust demons and demons with lust side tendencies tend to have multiple partners. Fated mates make it easy for lust demons, but until they find their mates, they need other ways to feed. Serena owns an escort service, charges an arm and a leg for sex, and gets well fed in the process. No judgement here. Lucky bitch.

  Demons are identified by a small symbol that appears on the purlicue. That’s the little bit of skin between your thumb and first finger. At the onset of puberty, a symbol appears designating your class of demon. The gluttony symbol is a little circle with what looks like the figure for pi in it, two boobs on either end of the horizontal line. They are black when they first appear. You know you’ve met your mate after one touch of their skin, when the symbol changes color. For gluttony, it's orange. You also get a ring of your mate’s sin color around your symbol.

  Entering the apartment I share with my sister, I throw my keys in the bowl on the little table in the hallway near the front door. Looking down at my hand, I notice my symbol is still black. Well, I guess it was just wishful thinking on my behalf. I couldn’t even see if he was a demon, plus he didn’t touch my skin. Damn, the man was smoking hot.

  The sounds of music playing in the kitchen and the smell of food cooking drifts down the hallway, lighting my tummy on fire again. I head in that direction, of course, and find my sister dancing, singing into a wooden spoon as she works. Not noticing me yet, I lean against the door frame, smiling in amusement. Although we’re twins, we really are opposites. I’m tall to her short, both of us curvy in all the right places, though I have to work hard not to lean towards chunky. She has ice-blonde, curly hair, whereas mine is a dark, mahogany brown and dead straight. We both have plump, full lips and arched eyebrows, but my eyes are light blue and hers, a pretty pale green.