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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780989036283 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Audeamus LLC |
| Publication date: | 06/19/2018 |
| Series: | Guardian Trilogy , #4 |
| Pages: | 334 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.75(d) |
About the Author
Find out more about Laury and her novels on her website at www.lauryfalter.com.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
VISITOR
The night before humans learned they weren't alone on this earth, the city of New Orleans was thriving.
Beneath expansive balconies lined with sophisticated wrought-iron balustrades, lived a constant hum of eager bartering merchants and lazy conversations drifting from open restaurant windows. Tourists and residents fanned away the humidity of an approaching thunderstorm as they waited for tables and observed the kaleidoscope of bright, rich colorful artwork of southern life that seemed to constantly be within arm's reach no matter where you stood throughout the French Quarter. Horns honked along the narrow, cobblestoned streets, mingling with thumping rock music that seeped from clubs along Bourbon Street; and on the quieter, tree-lined avenues, musicians huddled in doorways below flickering gas lamps and consumed by eerie shadows, playing slow, melancholic Jazz melodies while street performers played out their skits on crates to those who paused to watch. Everyone's tills spilled with cash before the sun had even set, and I wondered for the third time if I'd closed up the small parcel I used for commerce in Jackson Square too soon.
"It's a single night off, Magdalene," observed an English accent to the right of my shoulder. As always, it sent a thrill through me. "And, who knows," he added, "you might even enjoy yourself."
I rotated my head to find Eran's striking blue-green eyes smiling back at me, a motion that forced me to work myself free from their captivity. This was his charm, and I had met no girl unaffected by it. Their color was staggering enough — a beautiful, tranquil hue that felt like you were looking over a wood railing into the shallows off a Caribbean beach — but it was their intensity that told you that as calm as they appeared, he actually missed nothing at all, a result of having spent the majority of his existence fighting. Even being clothed in jeans and a black tee-shirt and projecting the casual appearance of a typical teenager, Eran exuded comfortable ease, as if the world would find him to be a testament of strength and resilience every time it dared to challenge him.
"You've worked hard this summer," he pointed out, "and tomorrow we start another attempt at finishing senior year, along with a guarantee of copious amounts of homework." He was trying to be playful, but it stung no less.
A weak grimace broke the still surface of my stiff face. "Yes, those teachers love to torture us," I muttered.
"Us especially," he added.
"You would think that since we personally know the principal they would ease up."
"Ms. Beedinwigg is too admirable to use her influence in that way," he reminded me.
"But she could put on the pretense that she might," I suggested, and he tipped his head back to laugh into the darkening sky.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, shifting the slinky black cocktail dress as it twisted around my waist. It had been fighting me the entire fifteen-minute walk from the house that Eran and I shared with our three housemates.
"A place where you will not be suitably dressed," Eran replied bluntly.
"Not be?" I repeated, instantly slowing my pace.
Eran held back a grin as he avoided my stare.
"Do you know I've already tripped twice?" I demanded.
Without waiting for a response, I veered off our path and through a tourist shop's open door. Under the bright, halogen lights, tee-shirts hung from every available spot on every available wall, silk screened with phrases designed to shock. I reached for the nearest one before I felt Eran's hand take hold of mine.
"There's no time to change," he insisted and drew me back out into the street without releasing his grip.
We turned a corner quickly, onto a row of brownstone homes shaded by bowing trees and obscured by a distinct lack of street lighting, as he maintained his forward pace. Without ever looking in my direction, he remarked, "Those brown eyes of yours are much more beautiful when they're not glaring at me."
"Flattery," I muttered, twisting my hand toward freedom.
"Um-hmm," he replied, untroubled, ignoring my struggle and maintaining his easy, tender grip.
"I'd like to remind you that I typically wear biker boots and ride a Harley Davidson motorcycle," I warned.
His profile lifted in an arrogant grin. "A five-foot girl with hair down to her waist and eyes the size of hubcaps does not intimidate me, Magdalene, no matter what she wears or rides."
"How about one who can maneuver a sword better than most men?" I challenged.
"Now that," he agreed with a nod, "earns my interest. Lucky for me that you don't have one."
I snorted in agreement and turned my glare to the side, toward inanimate objects.
A saxophone's long, expressive notes stirred the night, making us pause to listen, and humbled by the lure of the moment, Eran came to a halt. Turning swiftly toward me, he took my other hand and stared down at me with genuine sincerity. "This is a date, Magdalene, our first one I'd like to remind you, and for that reason you are appropriately dressed. And forgive me for saying this but ... I'm attracted to the way you look."
Despite my irritation at the tight, all-too-revealing clothes and awkward angle of my heels, I was flattered. Undeniably.
"Thank you," I replied, and surveyed him quickly. He looked different in the shadows here than he had at the base of the stairs where he'd waited for me before leaving on our date, but he was no less intoxicating. His clothing easily revealed the well-established muscles along his arms, back and chest, and being of average height and lean build, and with a stunning face framed by seductive, wavy brown hair, Eran was entirely breathtaking.
His eyes relaxed and humor grew in them. "You're welcome," he said and paused as the entertainment he felt broke through into a smile. "You really do look good. I like you in your usual clothes too, but ..." He stepped back for a sweeping view of me. "Wow ..." Closing the gap between us again brought a waft of heat and the earthy, sun-drenched scent of his body, and in the warm, damp air it was almost palpable as it hit me, stealing my breath instantly. "Do I have Felix to thank for it?"
Shifting my ankle to alleviate the heels' pinching, I muttered, "You do."
Eran smiled understanding. "Living with a gregarious chef who has a flare for both fashion and swamp meat cuisine can pose challenges."
"Yes, it does."
"I'm thankful that our other two housemates didn't interfere with his efforts."
"They tried. He was undeterred."
Eran chuckled quietly, momentarily closing his eyes to imagine the arguments that must have ensued. "Against a temperamental Irish man painted in tattoos and a mild-mannered African woman who has a gift for stabilizing the craziness? Felix prevailed over Rufus and Ezra both? I'm impressed."
I shrugged, acquiescing slightly to the humor of the situation, and admitted, "I was too."
Eran's laughter deepened briefly before quieting to a sincere gaze.
"I'll tell him of my appreciation when we get home. Until then ..." He bent forward and settled his sweltering, soft lips on mine before pulling back just enough for our noses to brush. The unexpected gesture instantly made my heart leap in my chest, nullifying all discomfort my outfit was causing and instinctively making me lean into him.
With his whisper hoarse and tinged with unashamed temptation, he murmured, "Until then I'd like to enjoy it. Would you mind remaining as you are for a few hours more?"
Slowly, I nodded, breathing him in, openly seduced by him, and he whispered, "Thank you."
He hesitated then, his breath thick with an urge that I shared, but a subtle, disappointed groan ended it as he turned unexpectedly and led me up a set of forest green concrete steps toward a mustard yellow and olive green-trimmed home where we had stopped. I had ignored it entirely even though we'd been outside it for the last few minutes.
Narrow in size and tucked between two other homes of the same dimensions, the house was unassuming. A window to our left was draped with shutters the color of an avocado and a thick satin gold-colored curtain, but a soft yellow light flickered behind it and a sign hung around an iron fleur-de-lis doorknocker giving me a hint as to the type of people we might find inside. It read:
We aren't much for visitors,
"This is a restaurant?" I asked, my eyebrows arching together.
"It is," he said, casually, and made no attempt to let our host know that we'd arrived.
"Do we need to knock?"
"They already know we're here."
A few restrained seconds passed and the door opened to a stocky man dressed in a crisp, black tuxedo with a forehead that curved into the shape of a mushroom and a bulbous nose that seemed to consume the rest of his face. Small eyes scrutinized us beyond the folds of his flushed cheeks as the side of his thin lips turned down into a frown.
"Word," the man commanded.
"Blatherskite," Eran replied, and I glanced at him curiously.
"Of which we don't allow any within," our 'pleasant, welcoming' host warned briskly.
Eran tipped his head in acknowledgement, which seemed to be the criteria for entry, and the man swiveled on the heel of his polished leather shoe to march down the short hallway.
"It means —" Eran began, but I interrupted.
"Don't talk at length about nonsensical topics."
Impressed, he gestured for me to enter. I fell in behind him and we followed the bristly man as he waddled down the floral runner into the back of the traditional but stately house.
We were led past the parlor, study, and library, all of which were impeccably decorated in the rich colors and polished antiques of a Southern highborn home, and out the back door. The view from the top step leading down into the yard stunned me to a halt. Built in a patchwork of private dining areas with a single stepping stone path winding between them and separated by thick flourishing green shrubs, sat intimate candlelit tables for two and a small patio where a jazz band played slinky music. We were the last of twenty guests to arrive and younger than the rest by forty years, which warranted their curious looks.
"I thought ..." I said and fell silent.
"That you would be over-dressed?" Eran concluded for me.
"Yes."
"Miss Elowen breaks from the southern tradition and demands her guests dress opposite their natural appearance. To minimize pretentiousness."
I thought of my wardrobe back at the house comprised of tee-shirts, jeans, hooded sweatshirts, and a dismissed floral dress shoved into the back of my closet bought for me by Felix in hopes I would break down and wear it by choice. No, in my sultry cocktail dress, I was out of form as much as if I'd worn Felix's dress. The only consolation was the fact that most of the other guests presented henna tattoos and fake piercings, leather and head scarves, making me realize these people were on display themselves. I could easily envision the women in the same black dress and heels as I wore and the men in classic business suits.
"But you ...?" I said, turning to Eran. As I did, our griping host caught my eye at the base of the stairs, where he held a dinner jacket open for Eran.
"I made arrangements," Eran said plainly, offering his hand to me for a safe trip in my unsteady heels down the steps.
When he slipped on the extra layer, it was obvious how difficult it would be to find anything Eran didn't wear with casual sophistication. Even a miscellaneous piece of clothing laid over his shoulders looked as if it were cut specifically for his lithe, muscular frame. I had to stop myself from staring as we were seated in the far corner.
Our table for two nested beneath a tree bough draped with small lanterns suspended from the branches, where a specialty drink and glass of water were already on the table for us. Our griping host gave no pleasantries, no announcement of nightly specials, and no menus, but instead swiveled again on his heel and marched off as Eran smiled, amused. He was spellbinding in the jacket, offhandedly refined, and he didn't meet Miss Elowen's dinner guest requirement in the least.
"How did you hear about this place?" I asked, as our host began delivering small, immaculate, artful plates to each table.
"Some here in the city have come to me for help. Miss Elowen is one of them."
I tilted my head curiously. "What kind of help?"
"The kind that prevents them from using the local law enforcement."
"Hmm," I mused, "that kind."
He grinned subtly as Miss Elowen's host entered our quiet domain and placed a single plate on the table piled delicately with fruits and vegetables and drizzled with three sauces and announced, "The Storm," before retreating in a huff again.
Observing it, I realized something wasn't quite clear to me. "How did Miss Elowen know to find you?"
"She's heard of us."
I lowered my voice so that it wouldn't carry. "Is she human?"
"No," he replied simply, and I nodded thoughtfully before turning my attention to our food.
The Storm was a colorful mess, like a blast of chaotic colors.
"Felix would be jealous," I murmured, scooping up a portion closest to me with my fork. On the first bite, The Storm's flavors became a blend of earth, heady ionization, and sweet grass before they gave way to the aftertaste, a peaceful, cleansing balance of fresh confection and crisp coolness. After chewing and swallowing, I corrected myself, wide-eyed at the taste, "No, he'd be covetous." Eran laughed out loud as I declared in awe, "Miss Elowen's a culinary master."
"Just a bit different than frog leg oatmeal," he agreed, and I giggled.
"Just a bit."
We finished the plate rapidly, and just in time for our host to swipe it out from under us and replace it with a pot steaming purple mist and swirling with gold flakes. "Dragon's Breath," he snapped and disappeared around the hedges again.
"So do you think we'll have time to be teens this year?" I asked, evaluating the soup.
"You mean will you spend an inordinate amount of time on your phone, shop for clothes every spare moment, and sneak out in the middle of the night to meet boys?"
I chuckled through my nose and muttered under my breath, "I can guarantee you that won't happen."
Responding to my statement with a knowing grin, he went on, "Or do you mean will I consume large quantities of pizza, stay up late, and play video games?" he asked, navigating his spoon around the shared pot before us. "I'm not sure I'll be allowed the time, me being your requisite guardian and all ..." He glanced up from beneath his lashes to catch my reaction, which came in the form of a sneer to confirm I still abhorred him bringing up his compulsory responsibility over me.
"Careful," I warned, "you're treading very close to the level of becoming a blatherskite."
Eran let out a hearty laugh which fell away as our host approached our table, empty-handed this time.
"Miss Elowen wants to thank you in person. She's in the kitchen," he said through his permanent scowl. He then turned and left abruptly, leaving Eran to find the path there himself.
"I'll be quick," Eran promised, stood, and disappeared around the hedge.
Without his company to preoccupy myself, I passed the time evaluating the only visible sliver of the house, the left corner of it where a small, curtained window was opened only a few inches and the delicious aromas of Miss Elowen's cooking seemed to escape. While surveying it, I brought my hand up to shield against a small but luminescent light disturbing my view and my fingers accidentally brushed the thick, fake lashes Felix insisted I wear. The awkward weight of their glued contact to my skin along the base of my eyelid shifted and the lash suddenly tumbled down my cheek to the table. There it lay, black wisps against the white linen tablecloth, like a centipede rolled over in death. Instinctively, I pinched the end of the remaining fake accessory that still trapped my other lid and meant to pull it off too, and be free from the uncomfortable deception altogether, when I noticed our host scowling at me from across the yard. Hands folded properly at his waist, eyes slits, and lips turned down, he silently shook his head in warning.
I wanted to insist he wear them for a night and see how he felt.
Instead, I rolled my eyes, stood, and picked up the centipede. Our host interpreted my actions to mean I would need a bathroom for a reattachment procedure, raised a hand and pointed to an arched wooden door against the back wall.
Apparently one of Miss Elowen's many quirks included excluding guests from using her personal bathroom.
I skirted past two tables where the women appeared entirely more comfortable than me, and left the property in search of a mirror. Beyond the garden yard's wall, sat a small concrete courtyard surrounded by brick buildings and decorative torches, and a long, narrow alley leading to the back door of a bar where conversations and dim light drifted from its opening.
Inside, I worked my way through the packed, small, round tables and curious patrons, cradling the centipede in my palm. The bathroom was small and dingy and the mirror's foil had started to erode at the corners, but the reattachment was successful and I was heading back to the restaurant in under a minute.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Defenders"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Laury Falter.
Excerpted by permission of Laury Falter.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE: VISITOR,
CHAPTER TWO: NEST,
CHAPTER THREE: PROVOCATION,
CHAPTER FOUR: SUPPLIES,
CHAPTER FIVE: IMPROMPTU MEETING,
CHAPTER SIX: SIEF,
CHAPTER SEVEN: SUBSTITUTE TEACHER,
CHAPTER EIGHT: HUBRIS,
CHAPTER NINE: CELEBRITY,
CHAPTER TEN: DESPERATION,
CHAPTER ELEVEN: UNITED,
CHAPTER TWELVE: INCURSION,
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CONCESSIONS,
Here's a sneak peek at Guardian ...,
Brief Biography,