Faith Hunter - Seraphs

My loft was one huge open area, once the hayloft of the two-hundred-plus-year-old former livery that housed Thorn’s Gems. The walls were three feet thick, four in some places, made of old brick, some of which I had plastered and painted rich greens and blues. Complementary window hangings were teal and sea green tapestries, to match colors from my childhood and the stained-glass window at the back of the loft where hay bales once were inserted. Wood floors were covered with rugs except in the kitchen and bath areas, where I had laid teal tiles. The furniture was dun and tan and soft, soothing colors, clustered around the freestanding natural gas fireplaces. There were no closets, and the armoires still hung open, clothes hanging out. The place looked like it was owned by a slob.

I tossed my cloak over the coatrack near the door and untied my boots, leaving them piled near the door so the ice that had crusted on the soles could melt and drain. I put away the cuffs, earrings, and rings. Hanging up the mageskirt, I thumped a bell for a last little jingle. The shirt was harder to get off than it had been to put on, but I finally got it unlaced and hung on a hanger. For some reason I didn’t want to look at too closely, I didn’t put them back out of sight, hooking the hangers over an armoire door instead. The clothes looked exotic and foreign in the human apartment. Cold, I pulled on leggings, slippers, and a fuzzy turtlenecked sweater, and turned up the fire to warm the apartment, my necklace around my neck.

In a sudden need to restore order to my life, I made the bed with ruby red silk sheets, fluffed the teal comforter smooth, and arranged lavender, ruby, and turquoise pillows. The emerald bed skirt and an inch of ruby sheets were contrasting jewel tones. When the bed was made, I dusted, swept, vacuumed, and cleaned the bath, working up a sweat. As I worked, lazily turning fans overhead pushed heated air back to the floor from the rafters.

I checked my blades to see if they needed attention. Constant wet was a prelude to rust, but I had been careful to keep them oiled and so far I’d been lucky. In mountainous areas, sword blades needed oil once every three months, and I was weeks away from that timeline, but two blades looked dull, so I wiped away the old oil with a soft rag and sprinkled the blades with talcum powder to remove the excess oil. Lastly, I wiped each clean and applied a coating of light oil before laying them aside.

I was standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator at my sparse lunch offerings when I heard footsteps and smelled the food. Though it had been months, I recognized both the stride and the menu. Roast duck for him. Roast vegetables for me: potatoes, zucchini, and mushrooms sliced and marinated in herbed oil. Fresh onion bread, still hot out of Shamus Waldroup’s oven. A salad with more of the herbed dressing would be in a sealed container to complete the meal. I couldn’t smell it—but he wouldn’t have forgotten the salad.

They were my favorite foods, and had once been part of a well-planned seduction that ended with my being stretched out on my mattress, losing my virginity with eager abandon and getting engaged to the man of my dreams. Who then cheated on me and broke my heart. Right. Remember that, I told myself, even as I closed the fridge door and went to greet him.

“Peace offering,” he said when I opened the door, craning his head around a bag of food. I just looked at him, so he added, “I have wine and beer.”

“I have food,” I lied. “And wine and beer,” I said, more truthfully.

“I have a foot rub.” His blue eyes gleamed with mischief. I felt my toes curl up.

He shifted the bag. “And a shoulder rub, if you want. I remember how your shoulders ache when you drill stones all day.” When I still said nothing, his brows went up and his voice dropped into a low register that sounded like pure sex. “And three kinds of hot peppers and cheesecake and red grapes and divinity candy imported from Louisiana.”

My belly did a funny little dip and curl, leaving me breathless. I couldn’t help it. I said, “You are an evil, wicked man, here to tempt me with fat, protein, and alcohol.”

“Don’t forget the hot peppers, fresh fruit, and candy,” he said. Something in his voice reminded me of a vision I’d had of him not long ago, emaciated, in a dungeon, his neck scarred by fangs. I crossed my arms over my chest but my foot pushed the door wide. It was an ambiguous invitation at best, but he didn’t wait for better. Lucas Stanhope walked back into my loft and my life with an unrepentant grin and the scent of really great food.

He went straight to the kitchen, where he began to unload the bags of edible treasures and set the table. I hadn’t rearranged the dishes after he’d moved out. His hands went straight to the plates, the wineglasses, the salad bowls. Taking the bottle of wine and a six-pack of Dancing Bear Brew, he walked through the apartment as if he belonged there, and out onto the back deck, where I watched him brushing snow off my beer cache. He deposited the new six-pack and the wine in the snow, bringing four cold bottles back inside. He twisted one open and held it out as he passed. I had no intention of taking it but my arms unfolded and my hand reached out on its own. My fingers wrapped around the bottle. As he passed by, I found I was watching his butt. Drat. This was not good. A woman in town claimed they were married. Jane Hilton, a breathtakingly beautiful blond with vivid eyes and a sculpted face. Lucas was married. Married. Maybe.

I needed to tell him to leave. Now. Instead, I said, “Thanks,” and took a swig.

I told myself it was the smell of roast veggies and the way the little potatoes glistened in oil and the sight of the salad greens all crisp and curled that shut me up. But it was the dried cranberries that did it. That and the almonds. They were a sure sign that this wasn’t a spontaneous gesture on Lucas’ part.

The other food could be obtained in Mineral City from greenhouse farmers or a trader who made regular runs on the mule train. But not almonds and dried cranberries; they had to be imported all the way from Atlanta. At fabulous expense. I was the only person I knew who craved slivered almonds and cranberries. None of the locals even knew what they were.

My mouth watered when Lucas set a small china plate mounded with pieces of fluffy white divinity candy studded with pecans in the center of the table. He dribbled raspberry sauce over the cheesecake. The china was the set we had used when married, the pattern an ancient Pre-Ap one, the plates and dishes from Audric’s claim at Sugar Grove. They had been one of many engagement gifts from my fiancé.

Lucas lit candles and set out cloth napkins I hadn’t used since he left. He looked up at me. His blue eyes were the exact shade of the Gulf of Mexico at sunset, the far-off water touching the darkening horizon. He was wearing a black button-down corduroy shirt over a cotton T, black jeans, and pointed-toe boots made of tooled leather. I had given him the boots.

“Get out,” I said. Only it came out as, “I don’t have any coffee.” To go with the cheesecake. He smiled that smile that had blown me away when I first met him and pulled out my chair. The chair I’d sat in when we were married. I didn’t tell him I’d taken to using his chair when he left. I just walked over and sat. And I bowed my head when he prayed a blessing. He’d never prayed a blessing when we were married. Never.

He raised his head. As if reading my surprise, he leaned over and kissed my cheek before placing my napkin over my lap. “Eat.”

The bastard. If he’d tried to kiss my mouth I’d have cold-cocked him. Instead, I met his eyes. And was lost. I picked up my fork and took a bite of salad.