I WAS walking along Market Street on my lunch hour, wishing I hadn’t worn high heels today, or a skirt. Pantyhose were no protection at all against the icy winter air. I was minding my own business when I saw them. They floated by the streetlight at the corner like gigantic moths attracted to the cold electric light. Half a dozen small naked children with cotton-candy wings and curly ringlets, mostly blond. They were also carefully neuter, smooth as a Barbie doll.
Cupids. Shit. That was all I needed. I looked for a door, a shop, anything that I could take refuge in. The brick building stretched smooth and doorless. There was a small shop across the street, but I’d never make it, too open, no cover. I began to walk sideways, back down the street. One hand on the wall to make sure I didn’t trip. If I could just make the far corner, maybe I could run for it.
But it was too late; they had spotted me. One of the chubby pink things strung his tiny golden bow and began to sift through his quiver for an arrow. His shiny little eyes never left me. I wasn’t close enough to see his eyes, but I knew what color they were. All Cupids have sky-blue eyes, like Easter eggs, or baby blankets.
I didn’t wait to see what color of arrow it chose, I turned and ran. My high heels seemed to echo the narrow street. They’d find me. Damn it!
I made it around the corner and found every building as blank and smooth as the Cupids themselves. I had just walked down this street. There should have been doors, shops, people. I had heard that Cupids could cloud your mind, but I had never believed, until now.
I darted a look behind me. Nothing. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign, or a bad one. They either had given up, or were so sure of me that they didn’t need to hurry. Or, they were right above me and I just couldn’t see them, like the doors that should have been here. I wanted to scream and rant and stomp my feet, but that wouldn’t help. Think, Rachel, think.
If I couldn’t see the doors, maybe I could feel them. Cupids wouldn’t follow me inside. I had walked this street a hundred times, surely I could remember where one door was, any door.
My hands slid over cold, blank bricks. If there was something there, I couldn’t feel it. The Cupids flew around the corner. There were six of them, hovering, soft pastel wings fluttering like lazy butterflies. The look in their eyes wasn’t soft, it was cold.
I flattened myself against the wall and screamed, “Leave me alone, you overweight cherubs!”
They glanced at each other; maybe I had offended them. I hoped so. A Cupid with soft pink wings drew an arrow from behind his back. The rest of them hovered like chubby vultures.
A man yelled, “In here!”
I glanced to my right and found a door open and a man motioning to me. “Run for it,” he said.
I ran for it. I was almost to the door when my heel broke and sent me sprawling on the sidewalk. Something whirred over my head and thunked into the door. The white arrow vibrated in the door. White, the color of true love. Shit!
A hand grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. I scrambled inside the shop on hands and knees, no time to be ladylike. A tall, broad-shouldered man closed the door and asked, “Are you all right?”
I nodded, still sitting on the floor, staring at the arrow. It was already beginning to evaporate. In a few minutes it would be gone. No danger of us mere mortals getting hold of one of the arrows of love. Once fired they just didn’t last.
“What did I do to deserve white?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Are you over thirty?” the man asked.
I thought that was a rather rude question from a stranger, but he had saved me. “Why do you ask?”
“Because once you’re over thirty the little things get pesky. I’m thirty-five and never been married. Something in a Cupid just can’t stand that.”
I smiled. “Thirty-three, never married, never want to be.”
He offered me a hand up. I took it. His hand was big like him and nearly swallowed my hand to the wrist. His eyes were perfect brown like polished chestnut. Curly brown hair was cut short and had never seen the inside of a styling salon.
I couldn’t stand straight with only one heel so I took the shoes off. “It was lucky I wore heels today.”
“Damn straight. How many of ’em are after you?”
“Six.”
He gave a low whistle. “They want you bad.”
I nodded. He was right. One Cupid was standard, maybe even two; they didn’t seem to like to be alone much. But a lust of Cupids was a damn posse. All for little ol’ me. Had I offended someone? I had an awful thought, an uncharitable thought. Had my mother paid them off, slipped one of the little winged horrors some sweets? Cupids didn’t need money, but they loved candies and desserts. It was frowned upon, but everyone knew it happened. Corrupt Cupids with a sweet tooth.
“I’m Tom Hagan,” the man said.
“Rachel Carrdigan.” We shook hands again and his hand was warm and callused. There was something oddly appealing about his square face. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have wondered if a pink arrow had gotten me. Pink for infatuation.
“Were you out to lunch?” he asked.
“Yes.”