Her scent hits my senses, fear, doubt, and… has the taint of this world messed up my perception, or is it arousal? The peaks of her nipples straining against the soft fabric of the dress confirm it. I am aware of how my looks, stature, and skills affect females, yet this is utterly unexpected. Is it the presence of a powerful male in her living room making her desire pool, or is the danger we have just escaped? What a fascinating creature this human is.
I slowly lick my sharp fangs and cup her face. She freezes, terror and curiosity swirling in her gaze.
“Fascinating…” I murmur as the tranquilizing needle stings her cheek.
Celeste-The Anchor
I wake up in my bed, neatly tucked in, Catherine sleeping at my feet, experiencing the worst hangover of my life. Slowly, visions of last night flood my tormented brain, and I wince. Was this all a dream? I stumble toward the living room, and there is the proof—an empty beer glass next to the armchair. I didn’t imagined last night’s visitor. Or the demon.
My car! Still abandoned in the middle of nowhere. I get myself together, pushing aside the screaming questions that bombard my aching mind. First things first. I make a phone call, take a shower, letting the water wash away most of the grogginess as it slips down the drain, then I force down some toast as I mull over the night before.
A few hours later, the tow truck delivers my dead Honda to my doorstep. A ding from my phone alerts me to a text.
What are u wearing tonight?
Jasmin’s question startles me.
Pajamas? I reply, unwilling to get into explanations about my weird night.
Pajamas? For the exhibition of your super-hot Viking artist friend who saved you from the feral dogs?
I curse softly as another text comes through. Will pick you up at seven. Put something nice on. We´re getting you laid tonight. Doctor´s orders. I groan and prepare myself for an evening out, squirreling away the fear and confusion regarding whatever the hell happened last night. Was it even real? Too many meds? But what about the beer…?
With no answers forthcoming and no logic to explain it away, I decide ignoring it is the only real option.
Diaphonus´ art is haunting, detailed, and otherworldly. Floating cities over jungles teeming with alien beasts, ghosts of lost civilizations in the turquoise depths of unknown oceans, creatures generated by a Victorian explorer’s absinthe and opium-fueled mind. The atmosphere in the gallery matches the exposition, soft experimental jazz buzzing, the cream of the art society chattering, servers dressed in skin-colored tricots generously refilling our glasses.
Jasmin’s striking eyes, contoured with lapis lazuli kohl, widen.
“Is that him?” The crystal bracelets on her wrist clank when she motions toward the man I briefly met at the park. I nod, embarrassed, as he catches us staring.
“If Thor and King Thranduil had a baby—” she starts, and I almost choke on my gin and tonic. Our host covers the distance with three giant steps and looms over us.
She’s right. Diaphonus is breathtaking. He’s wearing a casual gray jacket with a plain cotton t-shirt and jeans, accentuating his fit legs, an emanation of Scandinavian minimalism. The colors bring out the cool sparkle of his eyes, and his blond hair brushing his shoulders frames his chiseled features.
“Celeste, I’m so glad you made it,” he declares, his accent making Jasmin curiously cock a brow, “and who is your charming friend?” He turns to her. Jasmin beams, flirtatiously stretching her hand. He distractedly squeezes it and faces me without bothering to wait for her answer.
“I would love to show you my… more private work,” the artist declares and leads me through the crowd, leaving my disappointed friend behind.
Soft warm light fills the side hall he takes me to, his large warm palm on the small of my back sending sweet trembles along my spine. I can feel the pressure he applies, his confidence, his desire to be alone with me in this room.
These paintings are more intimate and more abstract. As if Diaphonus was trying to perpetuate an idea, an unclear concept. Feminine curves and tangled bodies, hands squeezing flesh in a bruising caress, lips open in ecstasy, tongues entwined. There is a striking similarity between all the female faces, distorted by pleasure, and I gasp. Maybe I’m imagining it, but these models look a lot… like me! Indeed, the hair colors are different, yet the way their lips curve, the way their lashes flutter…
I turn to my host and find him smirking, his broad chest heaving mere inches away from me.
His eyes make my knees weak. Rivulets of pristine water trickling down alpine glaciers, clouds over Caribbean waters, lighthouse lights over dangerous tropical reefs, inviting pools, tempting with the promise of bliss. He cocks his head, watching me, and I forget what I am about to ask. I raise to my toes, lips half-open, ready to follow this siren call, to dive into these clear depths, and he leans in.
Heat pools between my legs, my body forgetting all the warnings, ignoring my “too pretty means trouble” motto. The hot huff of his breath brushes my face, when—
A dramatic, annoying clapping in the background. The real world sucks me back in, and it’s beyond frustrating.
“Diaphonus, old friend! I am so proud of you! Do you see? You made it! And who is this?” The male voice turns husky at the last syllable.
A disappointed growl escapes Diaphonus as he looks away from me.
“Tarcyll! I see you made it, too, friend, even without an invitation.” The word friend sounds forced, and I turn around to face the intruder.
Sweet Lord. What is it with me and the men I’m meeting lately? Is the Universe compensating me for decades of lame relationships, mediocre sex, and below-average-looking boyfriends?
