by Susan Conley
“It proves I care for you.”
“How so?”
“You know how embarrassing it would be for me if you rejected me after I told Ryan that I love you?”
“You told Ryan?”
“Yes. He gave me his permission to ask you out.”
“I see,” I said. Although in truth, I found the idea of Bécquer asking Ryan’s approval beyond ridiculous.
“Ryan loves you,” Bécquer said when I didn’t elaborate.
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. He mainly complained that you were crazy when he came to see me last Sunday. And by the way, you were not supposed to tell anybody about the immortals, you know? The Elders were not pleased.”
“Sorry. Is that why you’re still human?”
“No. I told you. That was my choice. I chose to have a human life.”
“You had one already.”
“Not really. Meeting Lucrezia when I was eleven spoiled it for me. I was her puppet. Or so I used to think. I’m not sure anymore. Maybe I was weak. Maybe things would have been different had I fought her harder. I’m not proud of who I was or what I did during my first human life.”
“I think you were brave.”
Bécquer frowned.
“I read your journal. I think you were pretty decent as a human. I’m not so sure how I feel about your behavior when you were immortal, though.”
“Because of what Beatriz said?”
I shrugged. “And Federico.”
Bécquer started. “You discussed my life with Federico?” He seemed dismay.
I nodded.
“Then, there’s no hope for me, is there?”
“If I say there is not, would you leave?”
Bécquer stared at me, a deep frown in his forehead. Finally he shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t leave. I love you.”
“So you said to every one of your many lovers.”
“So I may have,” Bécquer agreed, then continued eagerly, “I’m sorry, Carla. I can’t change the past, but, please, don’t reject me just now. I only ask that you give me a chance to show you that I really care.”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if our relationship ends? Wouldn’t you regret then giving up immortality for nothing?”
“It wouldn’t have been for nothing. Have you forgotten I wrote my best poems when my love went unrequited. You are my muse, Carla. Thanks to you, my mind is full of stories once again. You have given me a gift more precious than immortality. You will be my muse even if you get tired of me.”
“No pressure, then?”
His eyes lit up as a lazy smile curved his lips. “No pressure.”
“I suppose, in that case, I could give you a chance. You brought me roses, after all, so it’s fair that I let you stay. At least until they wilt.”
“And when they wilt, I’ll replace them,” Bécquer said wrapping his arms around my waist. “And you’ll pretend you haven’t noticed and let me stay a little longer because, by then, you’ll be crazy about me.”
“And I’ll pretend I’ve not noticed,” I repeated tracing with my fingers the red scar on his neck. “Because I’m crazy about you.”
Bécquer took my hand and kissed my fingers one by one.
“Is that human enough for you?” he whispered as another drop of blood welled in his thumb. Without waiting for my answer, he pulled me to him and stole the yes from my lips.
About the Author
I was born in Galicia (northern Spain) and went to college in Madrid, where I finished my Ph.D. in Biology. For the next ten years, I worked as a researcher both in Madrid and at the University of Davis in California.
My writing career started when I came to live in Pennsylvania in the 1990s. Following my first sale, a magazine article on latex allergy, I published four nonfiction books for Chelsea House (Facts on File).
My Young Adult novel, Two Moon Princess (the story of a discontented medieval princess, eager to live life on her own terms, who lands in modern day California) was published in 2007 by Tanglewood Press. It was recognized with the bronze award by the ForeWord Magazine in the Juvenile fiction category.
Immortal Love is my first adult novel. The Spanish version, Bécquer eterno, was included in the Exhibition, Bécquer tan Cerca … A través del Arte (Sevilla, May-June 2012).
You can visit me at my blog: http://carmenferreiroesteban.wordpress.com/ or at my website: www.carmenferreiroesteban.com.
For information about my writing/editing/translating services, please go to www.WriteEditPublish.com.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
A Demon Bewitched by Holley Trent
If Claude Fortier had been a typical man, he wouldn’t have seen the punches and slaps coming.
A typical man wouldn’t have lost count way back in the 1860s of how many fights he’d had to carefully extricate himself from. Fighting men was too easy. Hurting them was too easy, and he didn’t even have to use his magic to do it. He could probably put a fist through his opponent’s skull without too much effort.
He wasn’t fighting a man this time, though.
The angry witch boldly swinging at his head was very much a woman. To the best of his recollection, he’d never tussled with a woman. For that matter, he’d never come to blows in a country-western bar’s parking lot, either. He was far more likely to be found haunting one of North Carolina’s few strip clubs. The music tended to be much better than the “I love God, America, my truck, and beer (in that order)” tunes played at joints like Rooster’s. However, strip club patrons had a higher-than-average tendency to pick a fight when Claude suggested that they should, perhaps, keep their fucking hands to themselves. The dancers didn’t like being touched.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that it was the incubus in the audience cautioning restraint. Honor wasn’t a catalogued sex demon trait, but a few had consciences. Claude was one of those few.
He laughed and leaned back to avoid a wild punch. “Well, goddamn, chéri. You’re really trying to lay it on me, huh?”
She growled.
“Save it for the bedroom.”
She swung again, grunting as she missed. “You wish. How about you stand still and make it easier for me?”
“Not today.” He stepped sideways and narrowly avoided her sweeping kick, whistling low. “Damn. I bet you could have me black and blue in all the ways I like. Just ask nicely, chéri. Maybe I’ll oblige you.”
She froze, and the creases in her forehead deepened slightly. “What?”
Thirty. She had to be around there. He’d been following her for weeks, from the time his prescient brother Charles had told him, “She’s back,” but this was the first time he’d seen her up close. Well, this version of her. The last time he’d known her, she’d been a young Creole woman named Laurette and they’d shared a home in 1843 New Orleans. Their love had been passionate, but far too short. He’d thought with her back that they had another chance—but this woman obviously wasn’t his Laurette. Sweet Laurette hadn’t been a witch, and she sure as shit hadn’t had a swing like a prizefighter.
Laurette hadn’t been a fighter of any sort, to tell the truth, and his inner caveman had liked that about her. This chick, though? She wouldn’t know sweet if it bit her on her well-apportioned ass.
Tuning back into the here and now, he shrugged in response. “I believe in being up front.” She didn’t look like his Laurette, but shit, the body she was in was fine. The way she pursed her full lips as she considered him made a certain neglected body part of his stand up and wave. He said a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for steering him clear of the skinny jeans trend. His junk had already endured enough torture. Celibacy was a bitch.
“You crept up so you could make a crude pass at me?”
He tried to smooth his expression into a mask of trustworthiness. He’d had a lot of pra
ctice at that in the past two hundred-something years. Demons, or half-demons in his case, weren’t generally trustworthy sorts. Add his witch half to the mix, and he should have been born with a Caution blinker installed in his forehead. Instead, he’d gotten blue eyes that turned red when he drew on his magic. He was pretty sure they were blue at the moment. He hadn’t wanted to ensorcell her, just talk to her. That talking thing was going so well.
“I didn’t creep up on you. In fact, I very audibly said excuse me.” He leaned in and flicked at the small headphones dangling from her neck. He pulled his hand away before her swat could connect. Scrappy little—
He ground his teeth. “Maybe you shouldn’t walk into dark parking lots with your earbuds in. You should be able to hear what’s going on around you.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “Maybe I wear them to discourage strangers from initiating unwelcome conversation. Some men just won’t take the hint. You think I haven’t noticed you’ve been here every night for weeks? Creepy.”
He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and stared at her. Apparently, his slow and gentle tactic had backfired. His plan was to reveal his witch magic to her gradually so she’d approach him, curious but comfortable. She seemed blind to it—or maybe she didn’t give a shit. He could take a hint.
“Okay,” he said, taking a step back in concession. He was growing weary of the whole exchange. Whatever curiosity he’d had about not-Laurette was waning by the second. She couldn’t possibly be his mate. Charles had gotten it wrong. “You don’t want to have a conversation? Suit yourself.”
“Really?” She packed a shitload of incredulity into those two—no, three—flat syllables.
He barely managed to suppress his snort. The accents in North Carolina were so different from region to region. He’d heard a lot of them during his decades in the state, but he couldn’t quite peg hers beyond the fact she wasn’t from the mountains.
“Bullshit.” She reached into her purse, and all he needed was a glimpse of the plastic to know her intent. Shy of decapitation, she couldn’t do him any major harm, but if he were going to be forced to inhale chemicals, he’d at least like a nice contact buzz or nicotine hit. Pepper spray, unfortunately, wasn’t formulated to have that side effect.
She aimed it square at his face, and he feinted left, weaved right, grabbed her around the generous thighs he’d been ogling for the better part of the evening, and hauled her up to his left shoulder.
“I was going to walk away, chéri,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was going to go and let your attitude keep you company, but you need to learn to save the fighting for when it counts.”
“Pride wounded? Poor baby.” She brought her elbow down hard on his back.
The blow knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he stumbled as he gasped for air, but somehow managed not to drop her.
Grunting, he started toward the back of the country-western bar’s parking lot, swerving a bit with each step as she flailed atop him.
“Put me down, or so help me, God, I’ll—” She shifted on his shoulder again, but this time he anticipated the blow and tossed her onto the grassy strip between the deep ditch that acted as a barrier between the bar and the sorghum field next door, and the concrete of the parking lot.
She fell with an oomph, and scrambled onto all fours as he backed up, predicting the offensive strategy she’d take next. Sure enough, she jumped to her feet, swiped her hands through the, air and pushed magic at him.
It was probably meant to hurt, at least a little. He feigned a yawn, patting his mouth, as she groaned and tried that little trick again.
His skin tickled where her magic touched, and he should have been angry that her reflex had been to fight and not talk. She’d come after him like a wildcat on the offensive, and all this time he’d been trying to be a fucking gentleman. He’d given her space, hadn’t stalked her.
At least, not closely.
He wasn’t angry, though. He’d never stopped loving her, even after her death all those years ago. In fact, he’d never forgiven himself for how she’d died.
He’d been back in New Orleans after traveling for several weeks and as was her custom, she’d taken him to her bed to welcome him home. The next morning he’d stepped out, intending to fetch news and breakfast, and when he returned, her blood had turned the white featherbed red. His father, the demon Gulielmus, had been standing in the dark corner, wiping blood off the sword he’d had from his old angel days.
“Get back to work, Scout,” Papa had said in an even, calm voice before he disappeared, the way he was prone to.
He’d left Claude the mess to clean up, but Claude couldn’t. He’d sat there on the bed, moaning and rocking, his own clothes soaked through with his lover’s blood, until his mother arrived.
Maman had led him away, saying nothing, and then set fire to Laurette’s little house while the neighbors watched, waiting with buckets of water in case the fire tried to jump. The fire was part of the magic. What it was supposed to do, Claude didn’t know, and Maman had refused to say.
It was only after the embers stopped glowing and Claude had stopped raging and bellowing that his mother said in the French she adored so much, “People who die like this don’t always stay dead, boy.”
At the time, that hadn’t helped. The only woman he’d ever loved was dead, and he’d had no choice but to toe the line for his father. He’d seduce women and taint souls for Hell, because what choice did he really have? Who would Papa kill next to make his point?
Claude had enough guilt, and he didn’t want more.
“You should have felt that,” the woman in front of him said now, drawing his attention back to her. She stared down at her shaking hands and then up at Claude again. “That wasn’t just a warning shot.”
He shrugged again and, taking a few slow, cautious steps forward, he kept his gaze locked on her tormented face. She may have been trying to be brave, but the roundness of her dark eyes and her ragged breaths through parted lips projected her fear of him. There it was. He knew there had to be some vulnerability in there somewhere.
“Your magic won’t work against me,” he said. “I’m generally immune to it.”
Unfortunately for her, the reverse didn’t apply. He was too strong. He could shuck off most minor magic without thought. Now that she was up close, he had a better reading of her capabilities. She possessed quite a bit of power for a natural witch.
“You … you know about magic?” She swallowed and then pushed to standing. She moved sideways, keeping her front to Claude but moving away from him. “My grandmother told me this would happen one day. She warned me. Said there were people in the world who could kill me without even touching me, and I didn’t believe her. When I was a kid, I thought she was just trying to scare me and my sister into keeping our guards up. I never fell for it, but why do I get the sneaking suspicion now that you’re one of those people?”
His mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? You don’t know a witch when you see one?” He’d been putting out subtle tendrils of magic for weeks, and she hadn’t noticed it? He felt hers. It seemed to crackle under her skin, compelling him to touch her—to know her. But that’d be a dangerous thing for a woman he had no intention of keeping. This woman may have had Laurette's soul, but she obviously wasn’t for him.
“Um, no. Kind of like I can’t tell whether someone’s straight or gay just by seeing them.” She kept moving, muttering her disbelief under her breath, but he didn’t follow. Her words had been seriously jarring. Like recognized like. She should have recognized the witches around her and felt magic coming off other paranormal types, too, even if she couldn’t categorize it at first.
“Merde.”
She held a key fob up and pressed a button. Across the lot, a tinny horn honked and the lights on a silver convertible flashed. She gave him one long, assessing look, and turned her back to him to walk the diagonal toward the little vehicle.
Now he followed, pu
tting about ten feet between him and her back.
“Look, I wanted to say hello because you’re a natural witch. There aren’t too many of us. Most mortal magic users get their power from practice.”
“Or making deals?” She tugged on the driver’s door and raised one well-groomed eyebrow at him.
“Yes.” He knew a little something about making deals. He’d made a few himself because he had the power to do it. He’d been born with his magic, and what he loaned out, he always got back. But when people made deals to glean magic for specific acts, the magic faded over time, and usually whatever his customers paid wasn’t worth the price.
Claude had to make a living somehow, though. It wasn’t like he could hold down a nine-to-five, not with his father on his ass nagging about incubus quotas and threatening to rend his soul from his body so Claude could witness his physical form’s obliteration.
Gentle and devoted, Papa was.
“How did you know I was a witch? And is that why you’ve been here all month? The food here is good, and I should know because I’m the one who cooks it, but there are other places around Robbins to get a fried chicken sandwich.”
“But you make it so well,” he said, deadpan. What the fuck was up with her magic? He was damned good at disguising his, and did so regularly, but he’d made himself a beacon for her. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d put a flashing neon sign to his head. He stopped near the left taillight and stuffed his hands into his pockets. First, a reincarnated love who’s not who I expected, and now a witch with clogged power? He looked to the heavens. Surely this is a test.
She fidgeted her key ring in her right hand and pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth. A red bloom appeared in her cheeks and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Suddenly shy? Why?
Fuck. He was too curious to leave her alone now. He had to at least troubleshoot why she hadn’t recognized his magic. The open-ended problem would drive a man like him nuts. Loose ends annoyed him to distraction. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“What do you put in the mayo?” he asked. “I couldn’t figure it out. That’s why I kept ordering the sandwich.”
