him. Yet he didn’t move from the bar stool, not even when self-preservation screamed at him. Every hair on his body was raised, both in alarm and extended as antenna to catch the smallest of details.
He smeared cold beads of sweat on the glass, his gaze drawn to the mirror once again. He did not have the full range of the color spectrum, but the dimmer the light, the more shades of gray he could see. He couldn’t tell the difference between yellow, green or orange; they all looked the same to him—a dull yellowish color. Red looked brownish-gray or black, but he could detect blue. What he lacked in his abilities to distinguish color, he more than made up for with his acute hearing, his sense of smell and his long-range eyesight.
Her scent reached him as she opened the door. The woman. The woman. Was she bait to catch him? If so, he was hooked. That scent of hers, fresh earth, the forest, of dark secret places and the night itself, drew him as no expensive perfume ever could. She’d been coming on and off to the tavern for the last week. Three visits, and yet he was already under her spell.
She’d captured him effortlessly, without doing anything but walking through the door. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful or alluring. She literally stopped all conversation the moment she entered, but she never seemed to notice. And that was the trouble. She was far too young and naïve, far too innocent looking to come unescorted to a place like this one.
He’d heard the whispers of some of the men and he knew she wasn’t safe. The two barmaids glared at her, aware that the moment she came in, they no longer had the attention of the men. Again, the woman seemed completely unaware. She walked with confidence, but she seemed to pay no attention to the predators surrounding her—and they were predators. The only reason she hadn’t been attacked so far was because he’d made it very clear she should be left alone. When one of the men had started to make his move on her, Fen had stood up. That was all. He just stood up.
The man subsided instantly and no one had dared make another move, but it was only a matter of time. From what he heard, the three conspirators planned to follow her when she left the tavern and Fen wouldn’t be around to protect her. He could have told them not to put their money on that plan, but he didn’t bother. He rolled his shoulders slowly, opened and closed his fists, stretching out his fingers and looking down at the hands that could be such deadly weapons. He needed the exercise.
He watched her in the mirror. He’d seen her try a drink each time she came in, one she’d obviously seen someone else drink, and each time she made a horrible face and spit the liquor back into the glass, shook her head and moved away from the bar to the tiny area where she could dance. Again she seemed completely oblivious to those around her, losing herself in the music. Fen was certain she came to the tavern only because she loved the music.
She never spoke, not even to the bartender, and Fen wondered whether or not she could speak. Her skin was porcelain white, as if she never saw the sun. Her hair was beautiful, falling far past her waist, long enough that she probably could sit on it, as if she’d never cut it in her life. She wore it in a braided rope that was as thick as his wrist. The silky fall was a color he couldn’t quite define, but when the light hit it just right, the color seemed to change—although it could just be the way he perceived color.
Her eyes caught his attention. He couldn’t stop staring at them, and as she danced, she suddenly lifted her lashes, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. His heart nearly stopped and then began pounding. Women didn’t have that kind of effect on him. His mouth didn’t go dry. His jaw didn’t ache and his canines didn’t grow sharp. He was always—always—in control. And yet . . . He heard thunder roaring in his ears, and breathed deep, calling on centuries of discipline.
Emotions dulled and disappeared in time. What little he felt, he felt as the other, not in this form. Sometimes he forgot what it was