Storywitch's "Book of Shadows"

Intro: As you’ll remember, Shyness won a walk-on part in the Mason and Jessica vignette, but turns out, she plays a far more key role to Mason’s state of mind than first anticipated. As such, I wrote you TWO segments this week. I’m going to post one today and one TOMORROW. This one is Shyness’s “walk on”, and happens about an hour BEFORE Mason is within range of Jessica’s mind. So he hasn’t yet discovered what Jessica is doing. Tomorrow’s part takes us back to where we left off at the end of Part Two. Hope you enjoy this segue, however – I interrogated Shyness for a few basic facts about herself, interwove fact and fiction to create this section, and had quite a bit of fun with it. It’s kind of a “step into her shoes” vignette, where each of us could imagine a chance encounter where we not only get to meet a favored character, but help him out in some useful way (grin).

Whenever I have the privilege of getting to know one of you a bit more, I’m always amazed to find out what extraordinarily interesting and remarkable people read my books. It makes me all the more flattered to have you as fans. Shyness or “Helen” (she was okay with me using her first name for this) is a prime example of that high regard.

The other reason I’m giving you two segments at once is it’s possible I may have to submit the next part in three weeks, rather than our usual two (wincing, ducking the thrown vegetables). I have a family vacation coming up this month, as well as a rework for my mass market witch series, and a couple of promo things that may suck up my evening time. But no more than three weeks before we resume again, promise. And we will have Bookclub night to talk about Daegan, Anwyn and Gideon!

So here we go…

* * * * *

Helen Shyness slipped her feet out of her heeled sandals and buried her toes in the deep carpet, marveling at the lush feel of it, as well as the rest of her opulent surroundings. She still couldn’t believe she was on her way to the American Geophysical Union to accept an award for the climate science paper she’d published. She hadn’t expected publication to happen for years after her thesis, let alone receive an award. Hell, she’d been delighted to simply finish her PhD. The greatest prize she’d anticipated from that was no longer hearing, “How’s it going? Are you done yet?” from her well-meaning family and friends.

However, this prize, as well as the full course treatment that AGU had arranged to go with it, was serious icing on the cake.

After making a landing from the long crossover flight from Australia, she’d been braced to wait for her connection in the crowded main terminal. Instead, she’d been escorted here, to a waiting area reserved for dignitaries and other parties traveling by private plane. Of course, since it was close to midnight, she was the only one here, with the exception of an attractive, well-groomed concierge in a snugly fitted dark suit. The woman was standing behind a desk, ready to respond to Helen’s every need. At first, the concierge had made her a bit uncomfortable, in that way that occurred when you were the only two people in a room. That awkward expectation of having to interact. Even in this, though, she was pleasantly surprised. The woman stayed discreetly busy at her desk, giving Helen a sense of privacy she appreciated.

She liked not having to talk to anyone as she looked at the comfortable reclining chairs and sectional sofa arrangements, accented with coffee and end tables that she’d have expected in a well appointed living room rather than an airport terminal. No chairs bolted to the floor in rows. No fluorescent lighting. There were lamps on the table that threw warm yellow light out for reading. There was even original artwork placed between the dim bronze wall sconces, and potted plants with a profusion of greenery and tropical flowers. She’d taken a closer look at a couple of spiral topiaries, digging in among the ivy to check out the forms, despite the concierge’s sidelong look. She’d just finished creating a topiary of a sea monster in her own backyard, one that looked like it was about to dive into her manmade pond. On the flight over, she’d passed the time looking through a big book of forms, trying to decide what she’d do next. It was a solitary hobby—her favorite kind.

All that aside, the fancy surroundings and VIP treatment made her glad she’d dressed up a bit for the trip. While she normally preferred her long sleeved T-shirts and jeans, before she landed, she’d changed into a favorite pair of fitted trousers and a medieval style top in swirling blue-green color, the sleeves flaring just past the wrists. The ensemble was enhanced with silver and teal jewelry that brought out the blue in her eyes. She hadn’t yet taken down her waist-length brown hair to brush it out and do a better job of re-pinning it, but as she took a seat on one end of a comfortable-enough-to-nap sofa, she found her brush in her bag and set it on the arm so she could do just that. She might still be a few hours from her destination, but she wanted to look damn good to reflect the way she felt inside. Deeply satisfied that all the hard work she’d put into earning her PhD, writing her thesis and pushing for publication had been worth it.

Because she had time, though, instead of doing her hair immediately, she decided to put on her ear phones and listen to her Ipod. As the Metamorphosis track filled her head, her fingers played the notes out on her knee. She loved the music, had heard it on Battlestar Galactica, one of the plethora of sci-fi shows she preferred to watch above any other genre—she was a scientist, after all.

Heaven must be like this. A quiet room provided with every comfort. A panorama of windows, the darkness and jeweled lights of the airport coming through like a star-filled sky at eye level. It was so…satisfying, to be relaxing here, being treated like someone important, while at the same time not being so inundated with attention that she couldn’t have this isolated moment of time to savor it without interruption.

Of course, everything was temporary. A surge of air told her someone had opened the door to the waiting area. She squelched the twinge of disappointment, trying not to resent the interruption of her fantasy, being queen of her airport domain. She hoped it was no one who would feel the need to be sociable with her. She cracked open an eye. Reflexively, both eyes came wide open.

Okay, she really was in a fantasy dream world. Because if this bloke was part of the amenities of this room, she was never leaving. Award? What award? She was keeping her ass right here.

He was well over six feet, which meant he’d be taller than her 5’ 10”—six feet in her heeled sandals. That was a point for him already. His long hair was the color of a tiger’s copper-gold markings, with the silken texture of a horse’s well-brushed mane. Despite being pulled back and held by a silver buckle tie, a few strands of it had worked their way forward, gleaming across one broad shoulder. He wore belted gray slacks and a dark turtleneck that molded to his upper body and told her he was extremely fit. When his eyes briefly turned to her, it gave her a start. Those amber eyes were not made in nature. He must wear contacts, but it didn’t seem to fit. Despite his awesome appearance, he didn’t give off vain, pretentious vibes. It was almost like his appearance was an effortless afterthought. If he was a woman, she’d have hated him on principle. But in this case, Helen could only admire.

There was an impatient and very physical energy emanating off him as he nodded shortly to the concierge. She’d asked if he wanted a drink.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said. His voice was a tiger’s purr. He moved that way as well, a dangerous flow of movement as he went to the window and studied the small plane she expected was his, pulled up to the refueling dock. Setting a briefcase down on a chair, he paced restlessly. Since he seemed oblivious to her after that cursory acknowledgment, she was more than happy to take advantage of her apparent insignificance to stare at him.

Then, abruptly, he turned around, looked straight at her. It took a concerted effort to hold her ground rather than shrink visibly back into the sofa, but she managed to look reasonably inquiring and mannerly as he cocked his head, considered her. He didn’t speak at first, taking in her appearance from head to toe. The intensity of his gaze was riveting to say the least, and she wondered what kind of important personage or dignitary this guy was. If it wasn’t for the aura of reserve and authority around him, she’d say he was a larger-than-life rock star. But she suspected he was some kind of Middle Eastern prince, despite the Western dress. She could almost imagine Bedouin robes on him, and she wasn’t typically that fanciful. Well, okay, she did like watching all manner of sci-fi shows, from Battlestar Galactica to Firefly, so she supposed she was capable of a wide imaginative range.

“Metamorphosis,” he said. Then nodded toward her hand, which had stilled. “You play the piano.”

“I’m learning.” She wondered how he’d heard the track, since she didn’t have it on that loud, but as she spoke, a faint smile touched his firm mouth, distracting her.

“You’re Australian.”

Outside Oz, people often mistook her for British, because her dialect wasn’t as pronounced as a lot of her fellow countrymen, but she expected this guy noticed a lot of details others didn’t. “Yes.”

“I have a friend whose servant is Australian. He’s from Queensland, originally.”

“Is the servant your friend as well? Or is he just a servant?”

She sucked at small talk, and had a terrible tendency to latch onto an intriguing facet of the conversation rather than following the mundane flow like a normal person. As a result, she had to deal with the consequences. In this case, him lifting a brow, his gaze sharpening on her. She’d just made herself more interesting to him. Strewth, what had she been thinking? If she’d stayed as unremarkable as wallpaper, she could have just watched him to her heart’s content and not had to worry about being in the spotlight like this. Even more harrowing, he moved over to the sofa and sat on the opposite end. Though there was still the space of one cushion between them, the way he sat sideways, putting an ankle on his knee so that he was fully attentive to her, made him feel unbelievably close. He smelled good, a masculine, clean scent flavored with something exotic, like sandalwood. “He is a friend as well. In fact, I owe him a debt, for he helped protect someone very precious to me.”

“Your wife? Girlfriend?”

His eyes gleamed at the perception. “She is a servant, too. Which means something very much like wife or girlfriend, in my world.”

“Oh.” That was a pretty intriguing comment as well, but she wasn’t sure if it meant what she thought it meant, so she figured she’d better not test those waters with her admittedly limited interpersonal skills. Realizing she must appear rude, she pulled the ear buds out of her ears. Come on, Helen. Don’t back away from this. What’re the chances you’ll ever be in this situation again? Even if you make a fool of yourself, you’ll never see him again. “Are you going to her now?”

“Yes. Not nearly fast enough.” He shifted, stretching one long arm across the back of the sofa. God, did he realize how much he appeared like a sprawling tiger? In fact, she would almost believe the man could shape shift into such a beast right before her eyes, complete with lashing tail and a heavy ruff begging for hands to sink into the thick fur, feel the powerful muscles of the neck and shoulders. Those fangs so close, eyes so still and vibrant.

“What does servant actually mean in your world?”

That faint smile again. “If you are going to ask such direct questions, I expect you should give me your name.”

“I’m sorry.” Helen felt color tinge her cheeks. “I’m just really bad at small talk, at stuff that doesn’t seem to matter.”

“I did not say I was offended. Your name?” He lifted a brow, and Helen felt a frisson of warmth go through her at that direct gaze, the hint of command in what should have been a polite request.

“Helen.”

“Helen. Lovely. Were you going to brush your hair?” He nodded to the brush at her elbow.

“Oh, yeah. I thought about it, so that I’d look presentable when I land at the next place. People will be meeting me at the airport there, with a limo and everything.” She flushed, wondering why she’d said something so ridiculous to a man who obviously rode everywhere in limos.

“I like to watch a woman brush her hair,” he observed. “Do not let me interrupt you. It reminds me of home. Of my habiba. She is growing her hair out long now as well. Watching you brush yours would be calming.”

Helen blinked. Was he really suggesting she should go ahead and brush her hair while he watched? And instead of recoiling from him, as she normally would from a intrusive stranger with a hair fetish, she was actually thinking she wouldn’t mind doing that in front of him. “You kind of look in need of calm,” she ventured, playing for time. “I guess you really miss her.”

Instead of responding, he remained silent, studying her in that steady, intent way. She realized her palms were feeling a bit damp. Crikey, he was compelling her to brush her hair, just by that silence. Funny, but she was sort of okay with it, despite the fact it was kind of a forward, intimate thing to do in front of a stranger. Now, instead of a tiger, she was imagining that Bedouin prince again. Inside a tent of silken walls, lounging back on cushions in a robe, the top loose enough to reveal a section of impressive musculature across his chest, the hint of shoulder architecture. His amber eyes were gleaming, watching his favored…servant, brush her hair. Those eyes and his regard would get more heated with every stroke, until that heat swept over his “habiba’s” skin. As she brushed her hair forward, blinding herself with the thick fall of it, his lips would brush her bared nape. He’d take the brush away and comb his fingers through her hair instead, tightening his grip to tilt her head back, back, exposing the throat, until his mouth came down on hers as he stood over her.

What does servant mean in your world? He hadn’t responded, but she had a feeling she knew exactly what it meant in his world. Yet she knew she was going to do what he wanted, as if nothing that happened in this dreamlike moment was wrong or misguided. So she unpinned her hair.

As it tumbled to her waist, it flustered her, how attentively he watched its track. If his servant did such a thing for him, she expected she was completely naked when she did it, her hair caressing bare skin. “I’m actually thinking of cutting it,” Helen said, noting her voice was a bit thick. She cleared her throat. “Once I get back home, that is. Easier to care for and all that. You know, it’s really unnerving, the way you’re looking at me. Can’t tell if it’s making me nervous because you’re looking at me like that, or because I’m doing this for you.”

“My apologies.” He straightened, looking genuinely chagrined, such that she felt reassured and guilty, all at the same time. “It was not my intent to distress you.”

“Oh, I’m not distressed. It’s just…” She gave a half laugh. “It’s pretty ironic, that I hate small talk and would prefer to have real conversations like this with strangers, not that shallow façade. Yet now that it’s actually happening, I’m freaked out. But in all fairness, you’re about as intense as a final exam. Okay, I’m shutting up and brushing now. You sit there and just be…calmer.”

However, the twinge of embarrassment eased as she closed her eyes and heard him give a short chuckle. She adjusted herself in her chair and began to brush. She’d closed her eyes so that she could focus on the movement, instead of his regard, though ignoring that was like ignoring a summer wind caressing her face. Strangely, she didn’t feel he was making a move on her, which added to the easing of her tension. He was like this with most women, she was sure of it. His passion, his…love, was all for that one woman, the woman that had had him pacing restlessly. But he was so confidently male, his way with women was instinctively easy, intimate.

“So, you can’t call her on your cell? It sounds like you’ve been out of touch for awhile.”

A pause, as if he was considering his words carefully. “I’m out of range right now. Once I get on the plane, I will be in range within minutes. It is part of why I’m impatient now. She wasn’t happy when I had to leave her behind for this trip, and I want to be close enough to…make sure she is all right. Not through someone else’s report, but through my own senses.”

“You’re really waltzing around something. But don’t worry, I won’t ask. Why wasn’t she happy?”

“I travel a great deal on business, and it’s not safe for her to come with me. She disagrees.”

“‘Not safe’ as in life-threatening?”

“No, not exactly. She has had experiences that were very…traumatic. Where I travel would exploit those fears. I do not wish her to ever experience such fear again.”

He shifted, she heard him, and the edge in his voice suggested she’d hit a nerve. She’d always been more of a listener than a talker, which was one of the reasons she hated small talk—it was just static. She’d honed her listening skills though, such that she often picked up the true story from the nuances and undercurrents beneath the white noise.

“So you’re afraid for her state of mind, not her life. And she disagrees with you, because she’s as crazy about you as you are about her, and she doesn’t want you to go places without her.”

“Yes.”

Helen opened her eyes then, putting down the brush so she could thread both hands beneath the now smooth fall of her hair and let it pour down her back, testing that it was all untangled. “Lovely,” he said again, with a serious smile that made her toes curl into the carpet, for different reasons this time. “Would you like to see the gift I’m bringing her?”

Helen nodded. “Is this an “I’m sorry I totally pissed you off” gift?”

The light in his eyes danced, a laughing tiger now, but he lifted a shoulder. “I suppose it is somewhat, but it’s something I’ve wanted to give her for awhile.”

He opened the briefcase then, and withdrew a purple velvet box, the kind that was handed over a counter at Tiffany’s or some other exorbitantly expensive jewelry shop. He opened and extended it so she could lift out the necklace.

The slim choker was a one inch circlet, a melding of different metals into the pattern of a tiger’s skin. Copper, bronze and gray, with threads of white glazing that made it an exceptional piece of metalwork. The closure looked like the talon of a tiger, and an amber pendant dangled below it. The choker could be locked, because she saw the key hole beneath the talon. Looking in the box, she saw a small silver key.

A servant…Which means something very much like wife or girlfriend, in my world. Yep, it had been what she thought. It was a collar, the kind that a Master purchased for a submissive, as binding as a wedding ring for two who shared such a relationship. Helen knew about such things, but to come face-to-face with it here, made her a little speechless. Then she found her voice. “She’ll love it,” she said. “But I think she’ll say it just underscores her point.”

He lifted that patrician brow again. His gaze cooled just a fraction, a hint of temper. “And what point would that be?”

“That she belongs at your side.” Helen sighed, sat back. “Listen, I’m not trying to piss you off. I don’t talk a lot, and I don’t really know how to relate to people except to tell them the way I see things. And what I see is that it’s really hard not to be with the person you love.” In fact, she was pretty sure if she was this “habiba”, she’d chain herself to this bloke’s ankle to follow him wherever he went. “Have you explained to her why you can’t take her with you?”

“Of course. But she is brave, to the point of foolishness. Courageous even when she’s afraid, and I will not tolerate her ever being afraid again.”

“And that’s not foolish? I mean,” Helen added hastily, realizing she might not want to piss off a tiger that was close enough to bite off her face, “No one can protect someone from everything, right? The only thing we can do is help them face their fears, get through them, and be all the stronger for them. It’s like a baby. Parents want to protect them, but if you really did protect your child from every ugly, scary thing in the world, they’d never grow up, never get to be and do all the things you really want them to be, right? So in a way, if you protect them too much, you’re only reinforcing the fear, rather than healing it. Even adults get past traumas the same way, if they really want to live life to the fullest.”

“What do you do for a living, Helen?”

“Well, I have a PhD in atmospheric physics.” It was the first time she’d actually said it aloud, and it felt good. Good enough for her to be giddy about it, and a little silly. “I’m brilliant,” she mentioned with a grin, “for all that I’m socially inept and tick people off by saying things I shouldn’t.”

He smiled then, a true smile. For a blink, Helen thought she saw fangs, but certainly that was her imagination getting away from her, right? As devastating as he was without the smile, with it, he was irresistible. No matter how much his overprotective, overbearing arrogance routine infuriated his servant, the woman would forgive him anything. Helen was pretty sure of that.

“Look, you seem like the type of person who’d never let anything bad happen to her, and maybe she wants to show she trusts you to do that. And you just need to believe in that yourself.”

“But as you said yourself, you can’t protect someone from everything, particularly if they are in harm’s way.” The shadows that gathered in his eyes told her he knew that firsthand, and gave her another key.

“Well, we all lose people we love, don’t we? But the only sure thing is that we never get enough time with them. Why would you deprive yourself of a minute of being with her, if you don’t have to do so? If she’s willing to overcome her fear to be with you as much as possible, she’s offering you a gift. With both hands, and heart and everything. She sounds pretty amazing, and I think you should accept the gift. With as much enthusiasm as I’m sure she’ll accept yours.” She nodded to the velvet box.

A moment of silence descended between them, and she could tell he was considering her words, looking inside himself among a dark tangle of things. She kept silent, respecting that, until the concierge broke that pause.

“Lord Mason?” The efficient, trim young woman had left the desk, now stood several steps away. “Your plane is fueled and ready.”

Lord Mason. So he was some kind of aristocracy or royalty, though she couldn’t really place his accent. Maybe a trace of British or Arabic, but it was as elusive as a swirl of desert sand.

“Thank you.” Putting the box back into his briefcase and snapping it closed, he rose, but then took a step closer to Helen. Before she could rise, he squatted on his heels. With his height, he was still fairly close to eye level as he reached out, smoothed a stray lock of her hair back over her ear. He had a large hand, but it was amazingly gentle, conveying strength and sensuality in the one touch. She wasn’t a touch kind of person—didn’t even particularly care for shaking hands, and this was far more intimate. Still, when he did it, it didn’t feel intrusive in the least. He nodded, holding her gaze.

“You are a remarkable woman, Helen. If you do not yet have a man,” that smile touched his lips, “the one to whom you finally give your heart will be very fortunate. And if you were mine, I’d forbid you to cut that beautiful hair.”

His knuckles brushed her cheek, then he straightened, gave her another nod, and turned away. Laying a bill on the concierge’s desk for her service, he spoke in a quiet tone to her, then gave Helen one more look before he left the room. As the door settled closed behind him on a whoosh of air, Helen leaned over the sofa arm to watch him stride back down the hallway toward the exit door. He looked as good going as he had coming, a sight worth watching in those trim, well fitted slacks, the shirt creasing over his broad shoulders. She watched until he turned the corner, then glanced left and caught the concierge craning her neck, doing the same thing. It was a break in that professional mien that made them both grin at each other.

Yep, Helen thought. The icing on the cake.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 12th, 2010 at 8:30 am and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.