shine. “Saved us all.”
Wench?
“I guess we all have a lot of catching up to do,” I say. “Where does that accent come
from? Besides the fourteenth century?” I smile.
“Ah,” Tristan says, nodding. “’Tis my English-French Norman accent you fancy. As does
my bride, Andrea.”
I nod my approval.
“When we sup I shall tell you all about it,” Tristan promises. He glances around.
“There are beings in this chamber who still consume food, aye? Mortal food?”
“Riley definitely does,” Noah says. He walks up and sticks his hand out to Tristan,
and the two shake. “Noah Miles. I’ve heard quite a lot about you from Andorra.”
“And I, you,” Tristan answers. “I hear you have a fine ’sixty-nine Camaro you’ve restored
single-handedly.”
Noah’s eyes take on a shine that I’ve seen in otherbeings and human males alike. It’s
that . . . car-shine. A deep, weird love of iron and steel and whatever else with
four tires. “I did,” Noah says. “Smooth and fine.”
See?
As Jake introduces Tristan around the room, I lean my back against the wall, cross
my feet at the ankles, and watch. It’s sort of a surreal scene. I’m in an old manor,
once a school for weird, freaky little kids with unexplained powers, and I’m training
under a medieval knight who was murdered centuries ago but gained another chance at
mortality. I’m part of an extermination team comprised of vampires, immortal druids,
and werewolves. We’re in old Edinburgh, where three nasty fallen angels can create
human-looking monstrosities to apprehend innocent souls for their own selfish needs.
And then there’s me. Probably the most . . . normal of the bunch.
With the exception of Peter. The old, crazy driver.
Seriously, even growing up with my surrogate Gullah grandparents and their hoodoo
and root-doctor beliefs, I never suspected such otherbeings existed on the same plane
as mortals. To look at them all now—Tristan, Jake, Darius, Gabriel, Eli, Noah, Victorian,
Lucian, Ginger, and Sydney—they seem to be ordinary, although beautiful, regular-Joe
human beings. Skin. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. Blood.
Well, some without blood.
It’s all seriously mind-blowing.
Despite the long windows lining the dojo wall, the already-bleak grayness from outside
now grows darker, shadows begin to extend, and the chamber takes on a distinctly creepy,
eerie feel. It’s almost as if I’m looking at an old black-and-white roll of film or
one of the silent pictures from the 1920s. Surreal. That’s about the only word that
fits it. I almost feel displaced, as if I’m not really here, but rather looking down
through a hole and seeing all of this going on. Weird.
“Grimm. How nice of you to find your way up here and join us,” Tristan says, causing
me to glance at the doorway.
And things only get weirder.
Now there’s the guy standing in the entranceway. I immediately sense something different
about him, other than being from a long-ago century. Something unearthly. Not so much . . .
otherbeing, but, no . . . yeah. Otherbeing. Holy? Definitely ethereal. With dark,
wavy auburn hair worn loose around his shoulders, he isn’t as big and bulky as Tristan.
Lean. Strong. Broad. He also wears black martial arts gear and a black jacket. His
name is Grimm? Seriously?
“Aye, well, I was detained by Peter,” he replies. He moves his gaze to Gabriel. “Gabriel,
quite a . . . unique place, this.”
Gabriel gives a slight nod. He even almost smiles. “It is.”
I study Grimm. A unique sort of accent he has, too. Old. Medieval, like Tristan’s,
but different somehow. I’m already anxious to hear his story.
Or see it.
Jake introduces him to the team. “Gawan of Conwyk, of Castle Grimm, and a longtime
best mate of de Barre here,” he says. “Conwyk, the team.”
Gawan Conwyk, also, apparently, called Grimm, glances over us all, and his eyes rest
on me. It’s
Wench?
“I guess we all have a lot of catching up to do,” I say. “Where does that accent come
from? Besides the fourteenth century?” I smile.
“Ah,” Tristan says, nodding. “’Tis my English-French Norman accent you fancy. As does
my bride, Andrea.”
I nod my approval.
“When we sup I shall tell you all about it,” Tristan promises. He glances around.
“There are beings in this chamber who still consume food, aye? Mortal food?”
“Riley definitely does,” Noah says. He walks up and sticks his hand out to Tristan,
and the two shake. “Noah Miles. I’ve heard quite a lot about you from Andorra.”
“And I, you,” Tristan answers. “I hear you have a fine ’sixty-nine Camaro you’ve restored
single-handedly.”
Noah’s eyes take on a shine that I’ve seen in otherbeings and human males alike. It’s
that . . . car-shine. A deep, weird love of iron and steel and whatever else with
four tires. “I did,” Noah says. “Smooth and fine.”
See?
As Jake introduces Tristan around the room, I lean my back against the wall, cross
my feet at the ankles, and watch. It’s sort of a surreal scene. I’m in an old manor,
once a school for weird, freaky little kids with unexplained powers, and I’m training
under a medieval knight who was murdered centuries ago but gained another chance at
mortality. I’m part of an extermination team comprised of vampires, immortal druids,
and werewolves. We’re in old Edinburgh, where three nasty fallen angels can create
human-looking monstrosities to apprehend innocent souls for their own selfish needs.
And then there’s me. Probably the most . . . normal of the bunch.
With the exception of Peter. The old, crazy driver.
Seriously, even growing up with my surrogate Gullah grandparents and their hoodoo
and root-doctor beliefs, I never suspected such otherbeings existed on the same plane
as mortals. To look at them all now—Tristan, Jake, Darius, Gabriel, Eli, Noah, Victorian,
Lucian, Ginger, and Sydney—they seem to be ordinary, although beautiful, regular-Joe
human beings. Skin. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. Blood.
Well, some without blood.
It’s all seriously mind-blowing.
Despite the long windows lining the dojo wall, the already-bleak grayness from outside
now grows darker, shadows begin to extend, and the chamber takes on a distinctly creepy,
eerie feel. It’s almost as if I’m looking at an old black-and-white roll of film or
one of the silent pictures from the 1920s. Surreal. That’s about the only word that
fits it. I almost feel displaced, as if I’m not really here, but rather looking down
through a hole and seeing all of this going on. Weird.
“Grimm. How nice of you to find your way up here and join us,” Tristan says, causing
me to glance at the doorway.
And things only get weirder.
Now there’s the guy standing in the entranceway. I immediately sense something different
about him, other than being from a long-ago century. Something unearthly. Not so much . . .
otherbeing, but, no . . . yeah. Otherbeing. Holy? Definitely ethereal. With dark,
wavy auburn hair worn loose around his shoulders, he isn’t as big and bulky as Tristan.
Lean. Strong. Broad. He also wears black martial arts gear and a black jacket. His
name is Grimm? Seriously?
“Aye, well, I was detained by Peter,” he replies. He moves his gaze to Gabriel. “Gabriel,
quite a . . . unique place, this.”
Gabriel gives a slight nod. He even almost smiles. “It is.”
I study Grimm. A unique sort of accent he has, too. Old. Medieval, like Tristan’s,
but different somehow. I’m already anxious to hear his story.
Or see it.
Jake introduces him to the team. “Gawan of Conwyk, of Castle Grimm, and a longtime
best mate of de Barre here,” he says. “Conwyk, the team.”
Gawan Conwyk, also, apparently, called Grimm, glances over us all, and his eyes rest
on me. It’s
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