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Authors: Claire Delacroix

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Abyss

by Claire Delacroix

“Angels are the root of all evil.”

Tupperman glanced up when a woman claimed the empty seat beside him on the train, as startled by her pronouncement as her presence. She swept into the seat with a vigor that was remarkable for a woman dressed to the full specification of the Sumptuary & Decency laws. She carried a large and dusty black carpetbag and dropped it before herself so that it landed with a thump.

Then she smiled at him, as if they were old friends.

The hour was late and the train had only reached New D.C. His hope that the seat beside him would remain unassigned for most of the trip was dashed.

Worse, she was talking about angels. She couldn’t know who he was, could she? He’d dressed with care, intending to blend in with humans even more than he did usually. He’d booked the ticket in his own name, though, not wanting to give any hint that he suspected he was being set up. Someone could have followed him.

But this woman?

Tupperman was sufficiently intrigued to survey his fellow traveler. She was tall, maybe even as tall as he was, and dressed all in black. The skirt of her dress was cut full and had a deep ruffle on the hem. It rustled as she took her seat and had the sheen of taffeta. He caught a glimpse of her boots and was surprised again. They were not the high-heeled laced boots that most women wore, the ones that ensured they took small and careful steps. These were boots much like his own, sturdy low-heeled boots for walking quickly or even running.

A violation of the S&D code, but one few people would notice.

Who was she?

Tupperman continued to look. Her jacket was black and fitted to show her curves to advantage. He was particularly struck by how narrow her waist was in comparison to the ripe curve of her bust and assumed she wore a tight corset.

The idea agitated him, as such ideas seldom did.

But then, he was unsettled.

Her gloves were long and black, made of faux leather perfectly fitted to show the elegance of her hands. He had to assume that the black meant she was in mourning and wondered whose death she lamented. Not that of an angel, he was sure. Or did she disparage the angels to encourage some confession from him?

She wore a simple hat that seemed to exist solely to support the yards of dark netting that wound across her face. The only part of her that was uncovered was around her eyes.

They were so dark that they didn’t seem to have pupils. Fathomless black, with long dark lashes. A man could fall into those eyes and never return. The whimsical thought was uncharacteristic of Tupperman and he tried to dismiss it, without success.

She stared directly at him, as if willing him to look at her. Tupperman was sure he had never seen eyes so feminine and lovely. That she held his regard steadily showed a forthrightness that was unusual.

As unusual as her first words to him.

“It’s what my mother used to say,” she added, giving him a moment’s relief. “I always thought she was kidding, but now I think she was probably right.”

She gestured and Tupperman glanced up at the vid over the door to the train. The story about the ambush of the Watchful Host was playing again, part of the newscast about the memorial service.

He understood her reference, a bit late but with relief.

“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” he said, hoping to divert her attention.

“Everyone is talking about them,” she said easily. Before Tupperman’s astonished gaze, she peeled off her gloves with impatience and chucked them into the top of her bag. He blinked, unable to believe that she had revealed her hands to his view.

Fortunately for her, the people on the other side of the aisle hadn’t noticed. Tupperman looked surreptitiously, well aware that the S&D laws existed so that a mortal man would never glimpse the bare skin of women.

Lest he be tempted.

Tupperman had always scoffed at the very idea, but as he looked at this woman’s graceful hands, he was tempted. Her skin was golden brown and her fingers were elegant. Her nails were cut short and unpolished, but they gleamed with a health unusual in the Republic.

The remarkable thing was that she wore silver rings. There had to be one on every finger, some broad enough to fill a whole knuckle. They were simple bands for the most part, unadorned with gems, and they shone in the shadows.

Tupperman also noticed that she had never had a palm embedded in her left hand. The skin there was perfectly smooth.

His suspicions were roused again. Who was she? Every citizen of the Republic had routinely had a computer installed in his or her left hand, colloquially called a palm. The wafer-thin flexible communications devices had worked both ways, allowing citizens to communicate with each other and allowing the so-called Eyes of the Republic to monitor all such conversations. Palms had shorted out and been disabled when the angels had descended four years before and Tupperman, like all other citizens, now had a blank implant in his hand to replace the destroyed device and missing flesh.

This woman didn’t have one. Had she been a shade? Few shades had had palms—and all shades had been liberated by the angels.

Tupperman risked a glance at her face, only to find her avidly watching him, as if she was waiting for him to finish his survey. He felt the back of his neck heat in self-awareness, but she smiled, apparently untroubled by his boldness. Her eyes shone with intelligence and a humor that made him self-conscious.

“Don’t you have an opinion?” she asked.

“About angels?” At her nod, Tupperman felt a flicker of annoyance. “Sounds as if you have enough opinions for both of us.”

She laughed then, a hearty laugh that was so genuine that other passengers turned to look. “My mother used to say that, too,” she admitted, her eyes sparkling.

She looked so vital and attractive that Tupperman felt a surge of desire for her. He was taken aback by his own reaction.

He had never been particularly tempted by mortal women. Lust was a detail, a demand of his physical body that Tupperman usually managed with ease. He had sex at regular intervals to keep his desires in check, but one woman was as interesting in that moment of need as another. He had never felt the need to have a relationship. Women seemed so transparent and predictable. He could anticipate their thoughts and guess their expectations. They held no mystery for him and certainly didn’t capture his attention beyond a basic attraction that could be easily satisfied.

But this woman was different. She was an enigma, at least thus far, and he doubted that his attraction to her would be easily satisfied.

If it ever was.

If it was even appropriate for him to be thinking of her in such terms, on such a brief acquaintance.

He wished he could think of something clever to say.

The lady showed no such limitation. Against all expectation, she offered her bare hand to him, such a breach of propriety that he thought his eyes deceived him. He stared at her hand, her skin so soft and golden, at her glinting rings and long fingers, and his desire simmered. “Since we’re condemned to each other’s company for the foreseeable future, I see no reason to be shy. I’m Kara.”

Watch for
Abyss

By Claire Delacroix

Coming Fall 2013

About the Author

Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval called
The Romance of the Rose,
which was published under the pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published over fifty romance novels in a wide variety of sub-genres, including medieval romance, contemporary romance, time travel romance, paranormal romance, paranormal young adult and fantasy with romantic elements. She has written as Claire Delacroix, Claire Cross and as herself, Deborah Cooke. Her medieval romance,
The Beauty
, was her first book to land on the New York Times’ List of Bestselling Books, and her books are nationally bestselling under every name.

Currently, Deborah is writing the “Dragonfire” series of paranormal romances, which feature dragon shape shifter heroes and the women who love them. The current title in that series is
The Dragon Legion Collection
, which includes three Dragonfire time travel novellas. Her next release in that series will be Thorolf’s book,
Serpent’s Kiss
. As Claire, Deborah is writing “The True Love Brides” series of medieval romances, which continues the story of the siblings introduced in her “Jewels of Kinfairlie” series.
The Highlander’s Curse
is the current release in this series. Her next book in this series will be Malcolm’s book,
The Frost Maiden’s Kiss
.

Deborah lives in Canada with her husband, a lot of incomplete knitting projects and many many books.

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Books by Claire Delacroix

Historical Romances

The Romance of the Rose
Honeyed Lies

Unicorn Bride