Gerard's Beauty (21 page)

Chapter 1

The haunting, eerily lyrical strain of Type-O Negative filled the alleyway like a siren’s wail. Beckoning. Unrelenting. Deathly.

Undetectable to all mortal and immortal alike, Cian stood within the shadows of Club X. A popular club that catered to the interests of the supernatural’s. The outsiders. The vampires, werewolves, and witches.

Behind the club, the inky black of the San Francisco bay stretched for miles. City lights sparkled and danced over the obsidian water like will ‘o wisps.

He waited, scanning the milling faces. An electrical shiver of heat sizzled down his spine; his transformation had begun. He despised this part most, seeing the victims alive, happy and smiling. Centuries of watching death was like a poisonous cancer spreading through his soul, devouring him whole. He was tired, but still he trudged on. What else was there for someone like him? He existed in darkness, a creature born to night and madness.

Sounds of honking cabs, cable cars, and trotting horse drawn carriages warred with the knowledge that out there now lurked monsters of the worst sort. They were coming out to play, to feed, and to kill. The latter a trait he knew by heart.

The tenuous peace between the races today a far cry from the cold reality of earlier centuries. Then, there had been war. Any person thought to be outside the norm was either killed, maimed, or tortured. No questions asked. Ever.

But the veneer of civility between the groups was fragile at best. Infighting between the clan, coven, and pack continued to this day. Partially over turf wars, but mainly over a past so dark many feared history would repeat itself.

He lifted his hand, staring at the glove inscribed with runes of death and instantly he was transported to another time. A different era. Screaming horses, the sharp smell of crushed grass, and battle cries consumed him. It had been a massacre and all caused by the deception of the fae.

The
super’s
might not want to admit it, but once they’d revered the beauty of the fairy folk, admired their skill of magick and knowledge of the arcane. But now the fae were outcasts in a society full of them. The irony was not lost on him.

The musty odor of old blood and fur snapped him back to reality. A pack of Were’s threaded their way through the alleyway. Eyes roving the dark shadows. Top lips pulled back to reveal large incisors, gums exposed. Nostrils flaring as they tasted the scent of night, ever vigilant, aware, and wary.

More followed. The soft strike of shoes on wet pavement. Rustle and sweep of leather trench coats. The lethal, rapacious glide of vampires. Postures screaming of confidence and deadly grace.

Humans came too, at least those bold enough to brave the club’s nefarious clientele. Women mostly. Dressed to the nines in their short black dresses, long hair down, and garish
screw me
red lipstick standing out brighter than any neon sign. 

Thick smog slithered through the night like a python on the prowl.

Then the sharp clack of stilettos striking concrete drew his attention. He glanced at the source and instantly knew many things. The raven-haired woman was coven. Her power rippled like waves beneath the pale flesh of her skin.

She was not alone. Two other females--one blonde, one redhead—walked beside her. Their striking features—high cheekbones, strong round jaws, and full red lips—proclaimed them sisters. Walking beside them was a man. He towered the sisters by a good foot. Cian waited for the tell-tell pulse of magick that covered an supernatural like second skin, but it never came. The man was human. He moved with an easy, uncaring stride, every once in a while brushing his thigh or hand against the raven-haired witch.

A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning him from man to monster. Fire traveled his veins, scorching him and making him grunt with the momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his glove. The transformation of smooth, tanned flesh turning to a skeletal hand of ivory would have frightened many.

He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider to look at the transformation would almost seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man. Flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him--and it was time to harvest--the hand turned to a design of the macabre. The flesh, muscle, and tendon literally faded from sight.

Human depictions always had the Grim Reapers wearing the traditional black cowl with a sickle in their skeletal grip. In truth, Reapers were as normal as man. You could pass them on the street, commenting on their remarkable beauty, little knowing that beneath the white smile and ever-present glove lurked the killer of legend.

Cian tucked his hand into his pocket and glanced up. The human male walking alongside the sisters smiled and grabbed the raven-haired witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.

Blood pounded through Cian’s veins. Quickened his pulse. He moved deeper into shadow the closer the group came to him. But his eyes remained riveted to the woman.

She laughed. A rich, lilting sound. Deep and throaty. Hot and sexy. Bewitching.

A tangled web of scents filled his head. The rotting stench of food, the strong, acrid odor of human waste, but amongst those and almost imperceptible, the gentle fragrance of patchouli and vanilla.

Hers. He closed his eyes, savoring the richness of it and realized with a small pang that she smelled of home. Reminding him of rolling hills, crystal clear waters, and smog-free air. He missed it. Needed it. The dark stain of humanity rolled like venom through his soul.

Clenching his jaw, he opened his eyes to see the man and two sisters enter the medieval doors of Club X. His dark witch stood poised, ready to step inside when she paused and glanced behind her shoulder.

Golden eyes met blue.

He sucked in a breath.
Can she see me?
His gut clenched. Waiting. Hoping. For what?

Then she blinked and walked away. Swallowed by the thick gloom of darkness.

He’d found them. The man and his dark witch. Grimfaced, Cian followed and brushed by the bouncer. The vampire’s one eye widened, the orb a rich mahogany in the pale face. He licked his canines and growled, “Whatever you be, keep to the code, creature.” The threat of malice hung in the air like the sharp tip of a blade poised for the kill.

Cian chuckled, amused by the taste of the vamps fear on his tongue. Predators always had a sixth sense when another, more powerful predator was around. An idea that settled like lead in the gut and instantly turned them feral, making them more dangerous for their unpredictability.

The vampire growled and fisted his hands tight to his side. A dark green vein in his lily-white neck pulsed like the angry beat of a heart. This was a dangerous time, as a predator he could show no weakness. In order to stave off a fight, Cian had to become the alpha, the more dominant and powerful of the two.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, exposing the skeletal appendage. The bouncer stiffened. Cian pointed his finger at the blond vampire. The penetrating chill of hoarfrost shot from his hand into the air, circling the vamps head. Death’s mark. The vampire sucked in a shaky breath as his crimson stained lips turned a pale shade of blue. A dark trickle of blood slid from his nose.

“Move aside.”

The vampire moved, stumbling over his stool in his haste. Cian shoved his hand back into his pocket and resumed following the scent of his witch, ignoring the fury-filled stare boring into his back.

It was ten ‘til midnight.

He walked along the medieval stairwell at a sedate pace, pausing to enjoy the antiquated finery. The allure of the club was in its décor. Black, iron chandeliers hung from rafters. Heavy, crimson tapestries adorned the walls, depicting grisly scenes of death, men transforming to beasts, witches gazing into cauldrons filled with bubbling brews. The low yellow radiance cast the stairwell in a sickly light, adding shadow to hollows and turning faces into nightmarish masks of ghouls.

There were four floors to the club, each divided by species. First the vampires, second the witches, third the Weres, and fourth the mixed flock. Yeah, he’d been here a couple times. Mainly to scout out a potential victim, but sometimes simply for the enjoyment of hanging out with creatures that didn’t know what he was. There was a certain solace in anonymity.

Her scent wound up past the first level and into the second. He pushed open the arched wooden doorway and scanned the dancing, shifting bodies of wizards, warlocks, and witches. Scattered throughout was an occasional human or two, but of his dark witch he could not find. He lifted his nose and tracked her unique perfume.

Her scent was a golden wash of color throughout the room. His heart picked up in speed the nearer he came. There was an allure to the witch he’d never before known. It was a burning desire to believe she’d actually seen him. That it hadn’t been his imagination, that for once in his life he wouldn’t be so easily forgotten.

He found her in a dark corner of the club. She was alone, gazing at a floor length mirror affixed to the wall and applying a dark shade of lip-gloss.

Five minutes ‘til midnight.

His heart tripped in his chest at the sight she made. The mass of black curls spilling down her back, her ivory skin sparkling with tints of pink and green glitter, and the tight fit of her violet corset top. A gothic rose standing out amongst the thorns.

He took a step closer. What would she think if she saw him? He looked at himself standing so close to her in the mirror. Would she find the neon blue of his eyes shocking, or would she lose herself in them as she did her human male? What would it feel like to be gazed at with something other than scorn? To be loved? Desired?

He blinked the strange desires away.
Turn it
off. Don’t feel. Don’t want. Never. Not ever.
He was reaper. Killer. Here to do his job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Two minutes ‘til midnight.

A heated argument between two witches, over a male they both desired, broke out on the dance floor. No one noticed yet, but he knew. That was part of his skill. He’d always know what, when, where, and how his victims would die. And this was how she was meant to go. An unfortunate casualty to another’s greed and lust.

The words were quickly escalating to something wild and heated and with it a simmering threat of violence. Dancers nearest the women began to notice and take pause.

A few cleared the floor. His dark witch was still unaware. 

She slipped the lip-gloss back into the velvet drawstring purse on her wrist and like a flame to flesh he felt her. Her gaze, it was on him. On his face. She smiled and whispered, “hello”.

A physical warmth spread through his body with rocketing speed. He couldn’t rip his gaze from hers. Transfixed by her gentle beauty. As if her smile was connected to the center of his being,  and for a brief moment in time, the darkness inside him washed away at the beauty of it. In her exotic golden gaze he read the truth.

She saw him through eyes without revulsion. To her he was only a man. Not a monster. Not a despised fae. His breath stuttered and his fingers clenched, to know that gaze for the rest of his life would be a small miracle. 

The emotions were powerful and foreign and not his own. That’s when he suspected these were not his feelings but hers. She had to be a projecting empath. A being capable of transferring their thoughts and emotions onto another.

One minute ‘til midnight.

The screams in the center of the dance floor rose to cacophonous levels. His witches gaze ripped from him to the disturbance, little knowing she watched the beginning of her end. Her human male sidled up to her side, gripping her elbow with a worried frown.

Thirty seconds.

Cian turned, gazing at a brunette and blonde witch glaring with fury at the other. Panic fluttered desperate wings in his throat. His witch would soon die and with her the smile that ripped through his soul.

Some protective instinct snapped to life inside him. Not pausing for thought, he pulled his glove on over his skeletal hand.

The brunette witch lifted her hand and hazy red curls of power undulated between her fingers. She screamed, “...you’ll never have him!”

From her fingers shot a shaft of pulsating ruby colored energy. People yelled and fell to the floor. The intended target, the blonde, was barely nicked on the arm.

He didn’t think, merely reacted, and threw himself in the path of blast. They never glanced up from the scene before them. The energy ripped through his back, sizzling through the flesh, even as he knocked his witch and her human to the ground. He landed with a hard grunt on top of them.

Then there was chaos. An explosion of sound erupted behind him and Cian bowed into the pain. Sweat stung his brows. The pain ate at him like flames licking at a pig’s carcass, the hot sizzle of burning flesh reached his nostrils and he grimaced.

Undulating waves of heat seeped through the front of his shirt. He glanced down, expecting to see blood. A glowing bubble of silver encased his witch and her mate. She’d thrown up some type of shield.