created a tiny whirlwind that plucked at Cáel’s jacket tails and hair.
Brenden reached over the rope line and closed his fingers around the throat of one of the fans.
Instantly, a dozen camera lights were turned on him.
Ryan was staring at the fan struggling in Brenden’s grip, while he held his hand up in the air. He squeezed and what looked like blood dripped from between his fingers. His incisors were still visible as he snarled at the fan in Brenden’s grip, fury etched on his face.
Screams went up from the crowd.
Cáel closed his eyes.
“It’s tomato juice,” Nayara said calmly. “They threw a tomato at me.”
“That’s not what it looks like on the cameras, though,” Cáel replied, feeling sick. “Let’s just get inside.”
* * * * *
“You were protecting Nayara,” Cáel said. “It’s your nature. I get it. It’s done now. Let’s just move on.” He was sitting on one of the uncomfortable wrought iron chairs at an angle, his arm propped on the back of it, while he rubbed at his forehead.
Nayara studied him. He wasn’t tired, because both she and Ryan had been monitoring his sleep patterns and knew he was getting at least adequate amounts of sleep now. So what did the stressed note in his voice mean?
Yes, this was bad. But there was something deeper working away at Cáel that she didn’t understand.
Ryan turned his chair around backwards and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and his chin on his arms. “Well, you said humans needed to get to know our real natures. They just got a great demonstration of our real natures, up close and personal.”
Cáel gave a half-laugh, then another, that turned into a low series of chuckles. He turned on his chair to face the table properly and sighed. “Let the chips fall where they may?” He reached for the champagne. “Pity you guys can’t enjoy this stuff. For champagne it’s not so bad.” He lifted his glass. “ Salute !” He drank deeply, then pushed back his jacket sleeve to consult an old fashioned wrist watch. “There’s someone I want you to meet. They should be here any time soon. Where is Brenden, anyway?”
“Dancing,” Nayara said.
“He found someone who will dance with him?”
“Lots of someones,” Nayara replied. “He’s a novelty. He just donated a million dollars to the charity. Money buys all sorts of popularity.”
Cáel peered around the curtain drape that gave their table a little bit of privacy from the main dance floor. “I believe he’s getting the hang of this. Ah! There he is.” He stood up and waved. A man with actual reading glasses and street clothes weaved his way around the tables, heading toward them. He had blonde curly hair and sharp earnest brown eyes and he was carrying a satchel.
Cáel took him by the arm. “This is Lyle Bean. He’s a writer and researcher. He’s going to write your biographies.”
Nayara blinked. “What?”
“Are you fucking kidding, Cáel?” Ryan exploded, sitting up.
Cáel calmly pushed the nervous Lyle Bean onto a chair and sat back down himself. “You’ve declared yourselves public figures tonight. How long do you think it’s going to take before the muck-raking biographies hit the market? You have to get your own out there before they do. The real version. Not sanitized, not sweetness and light. It will be hard-hitting, no holds-barred truth. An honest and fair look at your lives. We want humans to know you and vampires. This is the perfect way for them to know all about you.”
Fear bloomed deep inside her. Nayara shook her head. “No, Cáel. I can’t. You don’t understand. We’re not talking about a simple eighty years, or even a second generation’s worth, like you. Do you know how many bad memories, sorrows, hurts...how many old friends we’ve had to bury and deal with over our lifetimes? You’re asking us to dig all that up.”
Ryan shot her a glance. She read gratitude in it.
Cáel glanced at Lyle. “Give us a
Brenden reached over the rope line and closed his fingers around the throat of one of the fans.
Instantly, a dozen camera lights were turned on him.
Ryan was staring at the fan struggling in Brenden’s grip, while he held his hand up in the air. He squeezed and what looked like blood dripped from between his fingers. His incisors were still visible as he snarled at the fan in Brenden’s grip, fury etched on his face.
Screams went up from the crowd.
Cáel closed his eyes.
“It’s tomato juice,” Nayara said calmly. “They threw a tomato at me.”
“That’s not what it looks like on the cameras, though,” Cáel replied, feeling sick. “Let’s just get inside.”
* * * * *
“You were protecting Nayara,” Cáel said. “It’s your nature. I get it. It’s done now. Let’s just move on.” He was sitting on one of the uncomfortable wrought iron chairs at an angle, his arm propped on the back of it, while he rubbed at his forehead.
Nayara studied him. He wasn’t tired, because both she and Ryan had been monitoring his sleep patterns and knew he was getting at least adequate amounts of sleep now. So what did the stressed note in his voice mean?
Yes, this was bad. But there was something deeper working away at Cáel that she didn’t understand.
Ryan turned his chair around backwards and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and his chin on his arms. “Well, you said humans needed to get to know our real natures. They just got a great demonstration of our real natures, up close and personal.”
Cáel gave a half-laugh, then another, that turned into a low series of chuckles. He turned on his chair to face the table properly and sighed. “Let the chips fall where they may?” He reached for the champagne. “Pity you guys can’t enjoy this stuff. For champagne it’s not so bad.” He lifted his glass. “ Salute !” He drank deeply, then pushed back his jacket sleeve to consult an old fashioned wrist watch. “There’s someone I want you to meet. They should be here any time soon. Where is Brenden, anyway?”
“Dancing,” Nayara said.
“He found someone who will dance with him?”
“Lots of someones,” Nayara replied. “He’s a novelty. He just donated a million dollars to the charity. Money buys all sorts of popularity.”
Cáel peered around the curtain drape that gave their table a little bit of privacy from the main dance floor. “I believe he’s getting the hang of this. Ah! There he is.” He stood up and waved. A man with actual reading glasses and street clothes weaved his way around the tables, heading toward them. He had blonde curly hair and sharp earnest brown eyes and he was carrying a satchel.
Cáel took him by the arm. “This is Lyle Bean. He’s a writer and researcher. He’s going to write your biographies.”
Nayara blinked. “What?”
“Are you fucking kidding, Cáel?” Ryan exploded, sitting up.
Cáel calmly pushed the nervous Lyle Bean onto a chair and sat back down himself. “You’ve declared yourselves public figures tonight. How long do you think it’s going to take before the muck-raking biographies hit the market? You have to get your own out there before they do. The real version. Not sanitized, not sweetness and light. It will be hard-hitting, no holds-barred truth. An honest and fair look at your lives. We want humans to know you and vampires. This is the perfect way for them to know all about you.”
Fear bloomed deep inside her. Nayara shook her head. “No, Cáel. I can’t. You don’t understand. We’re not talking about a simple eighty years, or even a second generation’s worth, like you. Do you know how many bad memories, sorrows, hurts...how many old friends we’ve had to bury and deal with over our lifetimes? You’re asking us to dig all that up.”
Ryan shot her a glance. She read gratitude in it.
Cáel glanced at Lyle. “Give us a
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