by Anthology
“Just knock and if there’s a bevvy of blond whores, there’s a bevvy of blond whores.”
Devon took the four steps up to the door. She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and wiped her palms on her jeans.
“Just explain the situation. You’re here to warn him, check on him, then go back home. Easy.”
Raising her fist, she knocked.
3
The Christmas tree stood in the corner of his living room, bowing under the weight of all the ornaments and glittery nabobs on its branches. Soft Christmas tunes jazzed on the air. He rather liked jazzy Christmases. Hell, he rather liked Christmas. The lights gave off cheer for some stupid reason.
Francisco Beauxchamp lifted the crystal tumbler to his mouth and sipped the peaty scotch. There was nothing better than a perfect glass of whisky on a cool evening.
He leaned his head back and sighed, refreshed from having fed.
He wanted some peace and quiet. Or to get laid again. The blondes should have taken the edge off, but no. He’d love a nice long night of….
Not fucking.
Okay, that’d be smashing, but he wanted more.
More like he’d had before. Before, when he’d been the nice guy. The guy who stood aside and let the best thing that happened to him walk right out of his life. He took another sip. He should hate Christmas. He always got moody this time of year. Wishing things were different, remembering they weren’t. Wondering what she was doing and if she was happy. That was all he’d ever wanted.
“Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered to himself.
He studied the fire, the flames dancing on the logs.
One Christmas… One Christmas out of all the Christmases through his long, long life, had been…perfect. With her.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
No. No. No. He was not answering the door.
Again they knocked.
He growled as he stood.
It was after one. If it was anyone from the club, or the cops because of the club, heads would roll. He had turned off his cell phone so his employees couldn’t call him with whatever problem they thought they’d have. He didn’t want to worry about drunken brawls, drunken coeds, or someone not wanting to pay their bar tab.
Maybe if he waited, they’d be gone.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
No such luck.
“Open the door, Frankie!”
He froze at the voice.
“Bloody. Hell.” So much as think of the devil and she arrives.
On another growl, he set his scotch on the side table before he strolled to the door, surprised he was still buzzed from feeding earlier. Or maybe he was actually drunk.
She knocked again.
“Just a minute.” He opened the door, to the night, to memories, to her scent, to her. “Am I drunk?”
She raised one perfectly arched brow. “I don’t know. How drunk were the blondes?”
He smiled. “Very.”
“Then quite possibly.”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“I must me dreaming. It’s my ghost of bloody Christmas past.” He leaned against the door.
“And quite possibly future. Be glad it was me who knocked.” She frowned, still too damn pretty for his peace of mind. Red hair pulled back in a ponytail, pale, slightly freckled skin and a gaze that could always see straight through his soul—if he’d still had one. She shook her head and tsked. “Here I always thought you were so polite. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She leaned a bit closer. “Or do I scare you that much, Frankie?”
“It’s Beaux and you could never scare me.”
“That just might change. And I’ve never called you Beaux.”
Again he could only stare at her. She was so much the same as the last time they’d spoken so many, many years ago. Yet, so different.
“Can we talk inside?” she pressed.
“Oh, but of course. How rude of me,” he opened the door wider and bowed, allowing her in.
Flowers. Flowers always trailed her. Not roses, not lilies, nothing too sweet. Her scent always reminded him of a meadow full of flowers as the dew fell late in the night.
Damn, but he must be drunk.
She stopped in the doorway to his parlor. “A Christmas tree? I thought you didn’t do Christmas trees.”
He hadn’t until their Christmas together….and every Christmas after. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, well…”
Silence grew between them. Her red hair caught the low lights, her pale skin appearing as soft as the last time he had felt it.
“You’ve a new scar,” he muttered, stepping closer. There just along her right cheekbone.
Her blue stare stopped him in his tracks. “I’ve several new things, scars being one them.”
Again silence stretched, until he took a breath, waved her to the sofa. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
She leaned against the doorjamb, crossing her arms. Clad in slim jeans, black boots up to her knees and a cream sweater, she looked good. No, she looked great.
“You can’t help it, can you?” she asked.
“Help what?” He picked up his discarded scotch.
“Ogling.”
“Darling, we all have talents.”
“Some more so than others. Try not to achieve for greater ones.”
“It starts at ogling.” He smiled. “That’s merely the first step.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to know the many steps in your seductive talents.”
“You admit I have seductive talents.”
She smiled fully at him. “As so many of us do.”
“Touché. Would you like anything? I’ve wine, red and white, vodka, scotch.” He rattled the ice cubes in his faceted glass. “Water, or tea or the like.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to get drunk, Frankie.”
“Ah, darling Devon, don’t shatter my hopes.”
She snorted. “Your hopes are never shattered.”
“I disagree.”
“I should know, I’ve tried long enough.”
He placed his hand over his heart. “Perhaps you’re just blind.”
“With you, I was blind about some things and not to many, many, many others.”
“Always kept you on your toes though, didn’t I?”
“I will give you that. Yes.” She smiled again.
He’d missed her smile, the way he could read so much emotion at times in her eyes. “You missed me.”
“Miss is such a strong word.”
He smiled, then laughed. “I admit I miss you.”
She strolled into his living room and over to the Christmas tree, tapping a Mardi Gras mask, causing it to spin. “Sure you did. Pined and missed and wept into your pillow?”
He watched her, caught the edge of something in her voice. “I never weep.” He sipped his drink. “That’s so…sparkly.”
She snorted, then laughed. “You’ve fed. Good. I need you to concentrate.”
She’d always known when he had.
Devon glanced around. “Is she still here? Or rather, they? I can leave if I need to. Come back later. We can schedule an appointment tomorrow or rather later today.”
He shook his head. “I’d love to say I’ve stashed them both in the back room.” He never invited anyone over. He didn’t like anyone in his place, especially not those he fed from. “But no, I left them at the club, healthy, happy, and feeling more drunk.”
“Yes, blood loss can make one light headed. Poor Frankie, leaving the bevies at the bar.” She turned then. “Puts a crimp in your…style.”
“There’s never a crimp.”
“Of course not.”
He smiled again. “Care to find out?”
“Been there, done that strip tease.” She shrugged. “Didn’t pay well.”
“I don’t recall a strip tease.” He leaned back in his chair. “Refresh my memory, love?”
She t
urned and strolled to him, her boot heels clicking on the wood floors. She placed her hands on the arms of his chair. “I would, but since you don’t remember, it seems a waste.”
“There’s so much in my long memory, it’s easy to forget some things.”
“Indeed.”
“Others, I never,” he leaned slightly closer to her, “ever forget.”
“You mean like the fact I don’t share well.”
He remembered. He sipped his drink again and watched her. “Memory serves, neither do I.”
She leaned closer so she was just a hair’s breath away. “But I’m not the one who shared first. Blonde, too, wasn’t she? You always had a thing for blondes.” She straightened and pulled a long strand of—bloody hell—blonde hair off his shoulder. “Still do it seems.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Let me guess, blond, bouncy, buxom. Probably a cheerleader down with friends and having a fun time.”
“They were engineer majors and here for a bachelorette party.”
She snapped her fingers. “So close. That was my second guess.”
Devon walked back to the window and peeked out.
He gave her a minute, got up went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and—what the hell—champagne and two flutes. As he walked back into the living room, she turned from pacing in front of his fire her gaze dropping to the champagne.
“What are we celebrating?” she asked.
He took a deep breath and worked the cork out before pouring them both a glass. “I don’t know. The holidays. Happier times? The fact neither of us believes in Santa Claus. The fact both of us are alive and well and can celebrate.”
He handed her a glass of chilled bubbly. Warily, she took it.
He’d stopped keeping after every detail of her life several decades ago, but he’d known where she was. In Texas last he’d known. Doing what, or whom, he didn’t want to know.
“To old friends who visit on a chilled evening,” he said.
“I can drink to that,” she said, tipping her glass to clink to his.
He sipped the champagne as he had the scotch, but the surprise had worn off of her visit. Or at least had dulled. He studied her and listened. She all but hummed. Not from happiness, not from satisfaction. No, her energy was off, reminding him of an electric current.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, love. And not that I am not happy to see you, but I get the feeling you didn’t drop in simply to have a toast and reminisce.”
She took a long drink of the champagne, set it down and sat on the couch. Staring up at him, she shook her head. “No. No, I didn’t. I came to check on you.”
“Me?” He tried to see if she was joking, but no. Her face held no smile. “You came to check on me? Worried about me, sweets?”
Her gaze grew serious, the light leaving her blue eyes. “We’ve heard rumors of soul thieves for years off and on. We always check out the unusual, or so it seems.”
Soul thieves. Things their kind was often warned about.
His kind, her kind were long-lived creatures, but they could be killed. The longer they lived, the harder it was to kill them. But a soul thief could kill the oldest of their kind—vampire, were, shifter, fae, even demons and angels of old. He’d known a soul thief once. Once.
She was walled up in a dungeon in France and hopefully rotting.
“We?” he asked.
“A group I work with,” she said and didn’t elaborate.
“I hate soul thieves,” he muttered.
“Known many?”
He finished the champagne and then picked up the scotch again. “A few. Most were killed off as soon as we all knew what they were.”
“Might be why they are pissed creatures.”
He just stared at her. “They hunted us first, or so the story goes. They had power and one of them figured out how to get more power. Humans were not enough of a…thrill? Power transfer? Either way, in time, we realized they’d learned of ways to kill powerful beings, to take our very souls to increase their own power and lifespan. Most of those things were always nonsense.”
“Yes, because a vampire killing another being and draining their blood did not prolong said vampire’s life.”
“It’s not the same and you realize quickly enough to take enough and leave the donor alive. Less hassle that way. In any case, several of our kind, fae included, banded together and started to hunt the soul eaters. Take out the enemy before they take you out.”
“Old way of seeing things in this world.”
“The world may change in many ways, but in others, in some realms, it stays the same. Humans will fade, will die. Empires will rise and fall. We though, we see it all, live it all, and watch the cycle all over again. Ideals ebb and flow, but at the heart of it all, warriors are warriors. Life is life. We’ve simply learned to adapt and survive—no matter what.”
She hummed. “So a soul thief, soul eater? You knew one, right? Refresh my memory. I know you mentioned it before.”
He would rather not remember. So many dead. Humans and others alike. There was no line a soul thief wouldn’t cross.
“I know we discussed this when we… That is… Some called them witches in more modern times. Very powerful witches.” He stood and paced. A soul thief. Maybe he should take a trip to France. He’d left and never looked back. “Not just any witches though. They are generally decedents of Druids.” He took a drink. “A soul thief can be either male or female, though the truly powerful ones of old, can not shift between the sexes, but—”
“Glamor. Yes, disguise who or what they are.”
He nodded. “Yes. Why all this in the middle of night? If it’s just a rumor?”
She leaned her head against the back of the couch and watched him. “Well, you’re not known for accepting company throughout the day, are you? Burned skin and all that.”
He shook his head and walked to her before sitting on the other end of the couch.
“Sometimes, I can almost hear what your thinking. Others, through the years, are almost like radio stations. I just tune in and pick up their thoughts. But you, I’ve always had to work for.”
“Makes you appreciate me more. Otherwise, I’d just be another easy bimbo.”
“Darling, you’re never easy and certainly not a bimbo.”
“You’ve always said the sweetest things.”
They stared at each other for a minute. “So, the reason for you being here has to do with the rumor of a soul thief?”
She tilted her head one way, then the other. Finally, she held up her glass and wiggled it. He obliged her by refilling the flute with bubbly. “You just happened to have a bottle of my favorite champagne?”
He smiled at her. “Is it now? I’ll have to make a note of that. For the next time you stop by.”
“Who said they’ll be a next time?”
“Well, I can always hope, can’t I?” He winked at her and stood. “So you hear a rumor of a soul thief and you come see me?” He held his hand out to her. “Grab the bottle of champagne, love, and come with me.”
She thought about it for a minute. She always thought about everything, as if weighing the pros and cons of the most mundane. That hadn’t changed, he was glad to see.
“I don’t bite,” he coaxed.
Her brow arched. “Aw, but it was one of the few things you did so well.”
He laughed, then stopped as she slid her hand into his and stood, pulling her fingers from his before he could hold on. He leaned closer to her as she grabbed the bottle and her flute. He took the bottle from her. This close her scent was heavier. Against her ear, he whispered, “If you beg me nicely later, I might oblige.”
“With what?” she blinked, then smiled.
He sighed. “I’d forgotten how fun, yet exhausting you can be.”
She laughed. “I know, it’s a special talent.”
“One I’ve dearly missed.”
She laughed again, then asked, “Where are we go
ing?”
He walked from the parlor down the hallway and through the kitchen. He opened the door to the courtyard and motioned for her to proceed.
In the doorway, she paused, tapped her flute to his chest and said softly, “And if you beg nicely later, perhaps I’ll remind you how fun, yet exhausting I really can be.”
He almost tripped down the stairs. Instead, he poured more bubbly into the glass she set on a side table as she wondered through the flowers, stopping at the fountain. “A little oasis, with all these lovely, night blooming flowers.” She stopped and plucked a bloom from his sasanqua plant. “I thought you hated gardening.”
He had. Then well, he hadn’t. “I’ve acquired a few new hobbies.”
“From the looks of all this, you enjoy it.” She sat on the edge of the fountain.
He walked to her and sat down beside her, hearing the water trickle softly behind them. “So, m’dear, fess up. Why are you so tense, all but humming with energy.”
She cut a look at him from the corner of her eyes. “Perhaps I’m just nervous about being here.”
“Why would you possibly be nervous?”
“Well, we didn’t part on the very best of terms.”
“Yes, you telling me you preferred the fairy boy over me, did not sit well. I will admit that.”
She smiled sadly. “Wound your pride, did I?”
The water spit and sprinkled when it fell from the top of the sprite he’d installed. He wondered if she noticed the face on the sprite was hers.
“All in the past, love. And none of my business. We all choose paths in this life. For those of us long-lived, sometimes we can go back and choose the path we did not take.”
She ran her fingers through the pool of water at the feet of the sprite. “So we can.”
The silence grew between them. Finally, she said, “I’m not this sprite anymore.”
So she had noticed. “Oh?”
She waved a hand at the blue statue. “No. She’s full of life and hope and dreams.”
The face on the sprite was one of wonder and hope, he supposed, but then he always thought of her as a ray of sunshine to his dark world.
“You’re not?”
“Not anymore,” she said. Her stare was icy.
He reached out and ran a finger over her cheek. “What happened to turn you so cold?”
