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Mercy Approaching from the south, she was electric. Before he laid eyes on her, the ground stirred beneath his feet. Blood rushed to his head. He was dizzy. Euphoric. From three blocks away, he felt the blast of her furnace. Her body was a vessel of searing heat. He nearly stumbled under the impact. Barely leashed violence, she pulsated with life, with the promise of sending him to his knees under the surge of her blood. Her scent came upon him like a heady, narcotic rush as soon as she crossed his threshold. She entered into his hunting grounds of her own free will. Her body would have been Nero’s joy. Prometheus’ downfall. A walking, breathing ignition. Inside his head, it whispered, “Strike a match and together we’ll burn this whole place down.” Her eyes conveyed a somewhat different message. She hesitated at the door and wrinkled her nose. Something was offensive. He looked around the crowded club. What could it be? Everything was much as it always was on Friday nights. A few humans, a few demons, and the rest were his kind—all beautiful after a fashion. But she was most profoundly displeased. Say the word, he thought, and I’ll move hell and earth to destroy it. She passed right in front of him, brushing the pale bronze skin of her lower back across his hands. He could almost taste her ripe, black cherry blood on the air. Heavy on his palate, he could almost feel the thick, sweet ambrosia passing over his tongue. He swallowed convulsively. She stalled at the DJ booth and lifted her eyes to Marcos, the fledgling. Offering him an enticing smile, she drew him lower. Lower. Down the steps the young one followed her call, until his employee stood toe to toe with his golden girl. |
