by Amelia Oz
"Why are you loitering and blocking my doorway?" a sharp female voice asked.
I carefully closed my pad. Tucking a pencil in the spiral binding, I glanced at the young woman who stood nearby with pursed lips.
Silvan's boss, Jing San, loved nothing more than to find fault and complain. She looked my age, but Silvan had seen her passport once and confirmed she was twenty-six. Slight of build, she had a narrow face and dark hair past her shoulders with a wide streak of red that ran diagonal from her crown. Today she wore overalls over a bandeau top, her hair twisted in a knot and held in place with a silver letter opener.
"I told her she could, Jing!" Silvan called from a corner of the store where he was manning the cash register next to Jing's only other worker, Ford.
Jing crossed her arms, ignoring Silvan.
"See? Silvan said I could. Besides, how am I blocking the doorway if you're standing in it?" I countered.
"You are in the corner of the door. A nuisance!" she jeered.
I may have been loitering, but people had been flowing easily around my spot and into the busy store since I'd moved the stool outside—the better to watch for Amanda or her parents. The manga shop was actually pretty cool. It wasn't my thing, but the manga and anime drawings in most of the books were true art. Jing, however, was uptight in the extreme. Which is why I enjoyed irritating her every chance I got. Maybe not a wise choice given her hobby of collecting samurai swords. I eyed the letter opener in her hair with wary respect.
I had every confidence she could use those swords with skill. During last year's Comic-Con she’d surprisingly gone along with Silvan's plea to cosplay with us.
Jing had arrived as an anime vampire with sharp-looking Tanto daggers strapped to each arm and leg. When people had pressed to take photos with her, she'd left. But not before throwing a dagger across a room to land between the eyes of Hugh Jackman on a Wolverine poster. Jing was not a people person either.
"Are you chewing gum?" she asked suddenly, her eyes locked on my mouth.
"Pssh. No." Her lips tightened. Jing hated chewing gum with an unreasonable passion, and I wasn't looking to make a scene right now. I shifted to offense.
"Come on, Jing. I’m not blocking the doorway. Your nerdy manga customers can get around me just fine."
"Nerds? My customers are business people. They are lawyers, teachers..." she trailed off, her eyes locking on something over my shoulder. Her arms uncrossed, and she stood straight, lips parting before they pressed together.
Curious, I followed her gaze and saw nothing special. When I turned, Jing was standing with her feet planted shoulder length apart, her pupils dilated so that hardly any brown remained. I half tumbled off the stool, adrenaline immediately pumping. My first thought, as irrational as it might be, was that Marcus had found me. Jing stepped back; her slim arms swung behind her. Thanks for the help. I tried to land with one foot caught in the wooden stool.
A strong hand grasped my elbow and helped me steady into a standing position. Alarmed, I glanced at Jing, but she stood with several feet between us.
I stopped breathing when a trace of woodsy sandalwood and pine caught my attention. A subtle layer of frankincense and spearmint completed a scent that belonged to only one person I'd ever met. I felt him, although we no longer touched. His proximity vibrated awareness from the crown of my head to my bare feet.
I blinked to see Jing give a tiny nod before melting back into her store. "Don't forget to bring my chair back inside," she called over her shoulder. My mouth was suddenly too dry to give my usual mocking reply.
"You should be more careful," a deep voice murmured. The hand released my arm with a lingering brush of fingertips that triggered an involuntary shiver.
Turning slowly, I looked up. My first impression was of soulful brown eyes and tousled sable hair. I drank in the stranger from the forest. I'd half convinced myself that I’d imagined his good looks but here he was, just exactly as I remembered except today his t-shirt was black. He tucked his hands into the pockets of dark denim jeans, and I recognized the Omega chronograph watch he wore as a version my Romany cousins sold counterfeits of.
His face—all of him really—belonged in magazines or film, and I couldn't look away from the intensity of his gaze or the impure curve of his beautiful lips. He was drinking me in as well. I came to my senses and realized I was just standing there, gaping, and closed my teeth with a snap. The music of the market had faded while late afternoon sunlight dappled across the lane in mellow peach shades.
"Hi," I croaked. Clearing my throat, I tried again. "You're real."
"Yes. So are you." His lips twitched.
"How did you find me?" I asked.
His brow furrowed. "Find you? Couldn't this just be a coincidence?"
I considered his words. The odds of meeting the same stranger from the forest in the shopping district would be an incredible fluke.
"Actually, I was about to ask you the same thing. First you appear in the forest and now right in my path."
I played with my pursed lips, unsure of whether he was serious or not. His perfection drew attention and both women and men did a double take as they passed. I couldn't blame them. It was like seeing the Queen of England buy paper towels at Target—he didn't blend well with the normals.
As I considered what to say, his expression shifted. His nostrils flared, eyes darkening as they dropped to my lips. He resembled a wolf suddenly, staring at prey. Instinctively, I let my arm drop and straightened.
The sketchpad fell from my nerveless fingers to the sidewalk. I scrambled to scoop it up, making sure the pages remained closed. He removed a hand from his pocket and slowly rubbed the shadow along his jaw. He didn't just look at me. He observed every detail and it made me feel...devoured. I shook my head at the strange notion.
"I apologize for not introducing myself yesterday. My party was waiting for me deeper in the forest. My name is Alaric."
His voice was a deep, accented river of honey. I blinked, recalling Amanda's challenge to be more social. I squared my shoulders and extended my hand.
"Hi, Alaric. Nice to meet you. My name is Stella. Thank you for running interference with those guys yesterday. I was afraid they would never leave."
He eyed my hand and I nearly pulled it back, annoyed that he seemed to actually be considering whether to take it or not. Just as I began to rethink my offer, his large hand engulfed my own. His hand was warm and strong, his palm dry and lightly calloused as he gently clasped mine in a firm press of skin.
My thumb settled over the muscle between his thumb and forefinger, and I felt his blood pulse. Did his thumb brush across the top of my hand? Just as I was sure he could feel my heartbeat speed up he withdrew from my grasp. The air buzzed and I struggled not to stare.
"Hello, Stella. Very nice to meet you. Are you shopping for—" he glanced at the store sign "—comic books?"
I gasped with a delighted smile, hoping Jing was close enough to hear Alaric refer to her precious manga as comic books. As no letter opener pierced his body, I assumed she was too far away to have heard him.
"No. My cousin works here part-time. It's my day off and I was just stopping by to visit." Partial truth.
"Ah. Who's your cousin?" He peered through the window into the store.
I squinted through the doorway, following his line of sight. "He's the tall skinny kid speaking with the woman staring at you right now." It was true—Jing was watching us. I couldn't blame her. Alaric was stare-worthy.
"His name is Silvan."
He nodded, eyes lingering on my fingers as I played with the end of my braid. I cleared my throat and tried to stop fidgeting.
"So, are you shopping?"
"Just enjoying the sunshine and doing some sightseeing," he said with an easy smile.
My heart stuttered. "You don't live here?"
"No. I'm staying at the Regis Arms for the week. My work is in security, so it takes me all ove
r. I travel quite a bit but live mostly in New York City."
He didn't look old enough to have a career that took him all over the place, but then I remembered there were many twenty-two-year-old CEOs in the tech field. The accent I'd heard yesterday had the melodic quality of French, yet today it had disappeared into a non-descript American. I mentally flagged the inconsistency, wondering where he was really from.
"Must be nice. I've never been anywhere, but someday I want to travel." It was true. I wanted to stand in distant countries and paint landscapes, test the light in different parts of the world.
"Really? Where would you like to go?" His voice was compelling, his expression slightly pained. Before I could answer, the world's most annoying sound erupted behind me.
"Stell!"
Dear Lord, please not now.
Chapter 5
The Emperor
Stella
laric scanned the Portland Market over my head and my scalp tingled with dread. My fingers clenched the sketchpad, prepared to use it in self-defense.
"Stell!" repeated my cousin, Midora. Sharp, pointy nails dug into my shoulder, and I winced. This was about to get very embarrassing. Why did they have to show up now?
Alaric's hand shot out so fast it left just an impression of movement, and Midora's claw disappeared within his grasp. I noted two things. His eyes had flared from chocolate to onyx. An impossible thing. And that he still gripped Midora's hand, keeping her from hurting me.
I twisted around to find three young women. My cousins Midora, Mira, and Medea stood in a semi-circle, all in similar outfits of bohemian dresses with boots and beachy brunette hair—and matching expressions of astonishment.
Alaric still gripped Midora's hand, although that black gaze had lightened once more to brown. I blinked hard. No way had Alaric just grabbed one of the twisted sisters.
Alaric's other arm had hardened into an iron barrier, preventing me from thrusting forward as a wedge between them. I watched, eyes wide and with churning stomach, as he gently turned her wrist in a practiced move and bowed, lowering his lips to hover the barest breath above her skin. He blinked up at her with liquid intensity. W.T.F.
I expected talons to strike those soulful eyes. At minimum, a hard slap across his face. At worst, a UFC style attack with Mira on his back and Medea holding his scalp.
But, incredibly, her outrage morphed into a feminine smile. Stunned, I observed her arm grow noodle limp, her hand curling into his like a Disney princess.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Her smile must have been approval, because he closed the hair-breadth distance, pressing firm lips to the back of her hand. It was fast, lasting the barest second, but the image burned into my retinas. I laughed lightly in shock.
"Forgive my impudence. I supposed you must know the lovely Stella here and couldn't resist." Alaric lay his free hand across his breastbone, sincerity and limpid remorse in every line of his expressive face. I noticed he kept her hand in his. The man had turned into a freaking BBC character from the eighteenth century.
His pose brought attention to the molded planes of his chest, the fine hair dusting his muscular forearms mesmerizing. His beauty stunned as I tried to remember to breathe properly. Medea and Mira must have agreed with my assessment because I heard their sighs. The girls were four to eight years my senior. You would think they could control themselves.
"Not at all." Midora assured him as she thrust out her chest and batted her stupid spikey eyelashes with not so much as a glance in my direction. This was the same crazy woman I'd once seen shatter the kneecap of a three-hundred-pound cat-caller using a flying kick. She'd been wearing a skirt and high heeled boots at the time.
"We're her cousins. Her father was our uncle. The better part of the family."
I rolled my eyes. He released her hand, yet it remained curled in the air for a few seconds. Scowling, I imagined breaking those nail extensions to the quick. Midora whipped her hand back, rubbing it. She looked at me, one thick eyebrow raised.
Mulishly, I blinked, refusing to make formal introductions.
I felt Alaric's warm hand against the center of my spine and started. We stood so close I didn’t think my cousins could see his touch. I should have pulled away. I didn't like to be touched, let alone by someone I didn't know. But the contact was electric, causing my cheeks to flame. I didn't pull away. Surprised with my own acceptance at the casual touch, I nevertheless focused on the distracting sensation, letting it anchor me. Perhaps Alaric wasn’t the gentleman he seemed. But his hand was warm and it remained in a respectable location.
Midora introduced herself and her sisters and then cooed over what an interesting name he had when he politely responded. The sweet, musky perfume they preferred curtained the area. Medea agreed about his name while smoothing a dark lock of hair across her breast. Mira's lips were still parted like a fish. I listened to them chat about the weather while my short nails pressed half-moons so deep into my palms I expected to feel blood drip. I disliked them so much.
"Stell, you never mentioned Alaric before." Midora deigned to acknowledge me.
"We just met. And I told you not to call me that. My name is Stell-ah," I demonstrated it for her. "Maybe you should talk your hus-a-band into springing for vocab lessons," I suggested in the saccharine voice that drove her crazy.
Midora grimaced and took a step in my direction. My brows rose as my chin dropped in mock surprise. Come on, then. I knew she was bluffing because the tiny gold hoop looped through her left nostril was in place. Ever since I'd ripped out her nose ring for locking me in a closet when I was eleven, she was careful to remove it before tangling with me. My cousins were spiteful, but there was nothing wrong with their memory.
"M&Ms!" came Silvan's loud greeting. "What are you doing here? Why don't you come inside? We have cookies for customers." Silvan had taken to calling the three sisters after the chocolate candy since he was a child. I had no idea why the nickname stuck. There was nothing sweet about them.
Silvan was trying to divert a scene. I knew he knew better than to intercede on my behalf. The nervous glances he flicked towards Jing's figure in the window made me realize that his timely distraction was for her benefit. Jing had fired him twice already, and he might not survive a third time if we started a street fight in front of her store.
If it were anyone else, Midora would have exploded with a tirade at the interruption. Yet the family adored Silvan for his musical talent and usually left him alone. Silvan was our neutral territory, even with his penchant for mischief.
"No, thanks, Sil," Midora grumbled. "We just stopped by to ask you to tell that one—her sharp purple nail came way too close to my face as I silently dared her to try while I didn't have my back turned— "that Baba wants her to spend the night at the compound Monday night. Stella's blocked all of our cell phone numbers again or we would have called."
I glared at Midora. "You can tell Mahari to shove it up her—"
"Don't even think about it," Medea hissed.
"—ass," I continued, drawing the word out. They hated that I used her name and not Baba, their nickname for our shared grandmother.
They clasped their bony sternums as if I'd blasphemed in front of a priest, except for Mira, who wore a slight smile. I flushed when I felt Alaric's gaze on me. I'd probably never see him again and his opinion shouldn't even register on my radar, yet I imagined I was making a pretty poor impression.
"There's a solar eclipse on Monday. She just wants the family together—you know how superstitious she is," Medea said in a flat voice. As if the moon had anything to do with me.
"And she wants you to sleep over at her house. You can't stay with Silvan or Aunt Lemontina," Medea groused, tossing her chestnut hair over a shoulder.
"Nope."
"You can't say no, Stella," Mira warned.
"Nope," I repeated, my lips popping on the p.
Mira stomped her foot. "You—"
Midora flung an arm out, as if holding her sisters back, and I rolled my eyes. Always so dramatic. I was too old to be bullied and ordered around by the old tyrant and her lackeys. Mahari could stick it.
They eyeballed one other, communicating silently between quick glances at Alaric. Even in modern America, in the Romany culture, young women were "well behaved" in the presence of men. They’d tried to explain to me once how this deception actually made them feminists but the logic seemed convoluted to me.
Nearly six inches taller, Midora stared down her nose at me while speaking to the others as if I were dirt beneath her heel. "She's as stubborn as a cat. You know she won't come. Let's just tell Baba that she agreed. When she doesn't show up, she can be someone else's problem."
"Yeah. That's a great idea," I agreed. They were practiced liars, but Mahari would see through them, as always. They lied about everything, regardless of whether there was a need. Almost always for their own amusement. When I was twelve, as an April Fool’s prank, they convinced me that Sam had died. They’d found my tears hysterical. It was the last time I cried in front of them.
Alaric continued to hang out throughout our exchange, surprising me when he could’ve marched off to a thousand more interesting ways to spend his time. They took turns kissing Silvan on both cheeks and moved eagerly in Alaric's direction, but I stepped in front of him on impulse. My movement was abrupt, causing me to trip over the stool again. From behind, warm hands steadied my waist before they dropped away.
It was a mistake. Speculation lit their hazel eyes and Midora's gleamed with satisfaction. I could only imagine the mileage they would get from teasing me about this. I'd just waved a red flag in front of bulls. Stella was acting jealous over a man. They completed fawning goodbyes over my head to Alaric, and he responded with that molasses voice.
