Los Angeles. A Crazy, controversial town that made a name for itself by constantly pushing the package. A sprawling metropolis encroaching on the ancient desert, oblivious to everything but itself, and full of self-centered and violent people.
Isaac didn't hate L.A. That would have been impossible since he lost emotions and color almost 900 years ago. He was uncomfortable. That was the right word. Even as a being completely void of a spark of feeling, Isaac preferred the cover of old Germanic forests to the blazing lights and occasional brush fires of southern California.
Still, the prince had ordered him to accompany the Trovatellis as they set up a counter-psychic research facility in the western hemisphere. Also, as was pointed out by his old friend Laroux, the United States seemed to have the highest occurrence of compatible female psychics. That was likely due to the original immigrants of the nation being the oddballs, outcasts, even freaks of the European nations.
At the moment, Jas and Maddie Trovatelli were setting up the facility headquarters in Montana while his friend Laroux and his lifemate Melanie were searching the east coast for undiscovered psychics. The plan was to make gifted people aware of the haven, even if they chose not to visit at the present time, and collect information on potential lifemates. A secondary mission was confronting the Morison Foundation on its own terms. While they knew a master vampire controlled the Morrison group, until now they had not tried to press the issue in such a public front. In fact, it wasn't until many of their males had found lifemates in modern women that they even considered changing their centuries-proven methods.
Now Isaac was scanning Los Angels in the form of an owl for flairs of psychic power. He did the job mechanically but thoroughly. He was nearing the coast when an unexpected ocean breeze brought him a faint perfume. It was masked by the scents of carnival food, old seaweed and many sweating human bodies, but somehow it crept into his senses.
Sweet. Fresh. Feminine.
He paused for a moment, circling to savor the scent, unique and refreshing like an oasis in the junk-yard desert. A voice drifted up to him just as sweet as the scent.
"There you are. A pair of vampire lovers," the voice almost sang. "Good enough to eat!"
Laughter followed the comment and he could just catch her tinkling chuckle. It played along his spine like bells.
Even at night, the brilliant colors of Santa Monica nearly blinded him. No longer was the sky black, but hazy indigo, light pollution crowding out all but the brightest stars. His breath caught as a lump of joy lodged in his throat. SHE was down there. The light to his darkness. All he had to do was swoop down to the pier and meet her.
"More than just characters," Sarina called. "See yourself as a goblin, elf, fairy or dwarf! Fantasy portraits, all sizes and subjects!"
"Draw me," a deep melodious voice suggested.
Sarina looked up into the glinting green eyes of a predator. For a minute, she forgot to breath as she took in the tall, dark, and classically hansom stranger. His black hair glinted with the rainbow of lights from the Santa Monica pier. He was dressed simply, black jeans and a black button down shirt, but the cut and quality of his clothes betrayed enormous wealth and European style. He oozed strength and power. She shivered at the cold, possessive light in those emerald eyes.
"Wh-What would you like?" Sarina stammered.
"Anything," he replied as he gracefully sank onto the stool in front of her mobile art studio. "Just draw me."
With trembling fingers, Sarina picked up her pens and began to draw. It wasn't long before she picked up her colored markers and highlighted her monochrome lines. She glanced up furtively once in a while, but she sensed the danger in staring at him for too long.
Isaac studied her and savored the colors radiating off her while she drew. She had brilliant blue hair cut short and layered to frame her face. Her skin was the color of rich, golden honey, and her slanted eyes were dark coffee brown. He remembered her calls for customers, her accent reminiscent of England, but he couldn't place it. She was too skinny, her bony joints showing even through the over sized Navy sweatshirt she wore against the chilly sea breeze.
His inspection was interrupted when she deftly flipped a thick page of paper in front of him. He stared at the page for a moment, startled by the image. A green dragon coiled around a rock. On the rock was a pole with manacles bolted to the top. Obviously, the monster was waiting for his virgin sacrifice. The colors were a delicious feast for the eyes, but the image they depicted was chillingly close to the truth.
When Isaac looked up again, Sarina and her art supplies were gone. He saw her hurrying down the pier. As she stepped off the wooden boards, he appeared in front of her. She gasped, choked, and coughed. Alarmed, Issac circled her slender shoulders, seeking to ease her struggle for breath. She covered her coughs and when her hand came away, it was speckled with blood. She hastily wiped it on her jeans.
"You are ill," Isaac stated, deep concern reflecting in those ominous green eyes.
"I'll be better soon," Sarina assured him.
"You are lying," he admonished.
"I'm being optimistic," she insisted.
"Why are you out in the cold?" he demanded. "You should be resting somewhere warm."
"I've gotta make the green to pay the doctors," she replied with a shrug. "Look, keep the picture. No charge. I need to be going."
"Wait," Isaac held tightly to her shoulders, but was careful not to exert any bruising force. "Please don't go. Just walk with me."
"Oh ho," Sarina cried with a knowing smile. "I'm not falling for that one. I don't even know who you are."
"Forgive my bad manors," he apologized. He stepped back and bowed elegantly. "My name is Isaac Liederman. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Whatever you say, slick," Sarina said, eying him with skepticism.
"Might I know your name?" he requested softly.
She thought about refusing, but something in his voice made her want to tell him. "Sarina Tobin," she muttered and bobbed a quick curtsy.
"Sarina," Isac savored her name. "Would you at least allow me the honor of buying you a cup of coffee? It is the least I can do in return for such insightful art."
"I never touch the stuff," she replied. "And while a cup of chamomile tea would not go amiss, the insight of the picture you mention makes me predisposed to respectfully decline."
Isaac smiled, already in love with her diction, the way she played with words when she was flustered. By reading her thoughts, he could tell that she was close to bolting, but seemed determined to give him the benefit of the doubt since he was trying to be so chivalrous. However, the "benefit of the doubt" did not mean she was going to act foolishly. Her courage and common sense warmed his heart as nothing had for centuries.
"Then may I escort you home?" he inquired.
"I'm afraid none my know the location of my fortress of solitude," she teased nervously. "But if it's a choice between one over the other, I'll take the tea."
Isaac had the sudden impulse to tell her a juke, just to hear her really laugh, but he had not found anything amusing in centuries so he contented himself to gently guide her to a nearby restaurant with outdoor tables. He waved at the waiter as if they were old friends, and indeed, with a small mental push, he made sure the waiter would provide the best service possible.
"Wow, this is nice," Sarina murmured as they were shown to a table under an outdoor heater. Isaac held the chair for her as she sat down. She seemed reluctant to let go of her mobile easel and art supplies, hugging them close as if they provided comfort. No sooner had Isaac taken his seat than the waiter served two large mugs of aromatic chamomile tea.
"Would you like to order anything?" the waiter inquired.
"No thank you," Sarina replied. "Tea is enough for me."
"Meine liebe, you are too thin. Please eat something," Isaac insisted.
"Whatever I eat now will just come up later, anyway," she reasoned. "No sense in wasting food on my flimsy stomach."
"I insist. Please bring her a fruit salad," he instructed the waiter.
"Small please!" she called after the waiter.
"Now, tell me about your illness," Isaac commanded softly.
"Just run of the mill cancer," she replied before she could stop herself. "My odds of living a full life are excellent since they were able to surgically remove the tumors before they metastasized into the blood stream."
Issac cursed himself for not finding and healing her sooner. That she had to undergo the savagery of surgery created a tangible ache of grief so powerful he almost missed her next words.
"It's my own fault," she continued. "I took on too many diseases when I visited the children's ward, one was bound to stick around."
"You 'took on' disease?" Isaac repeated. "May I ask how?"
"You may ask, but on that account I will not answer you," she replied firmly. "Scowl at me all you want but I'm not about to be fed to the gossip mill as a faith healer or worse, and I've told you too much already."
So she was a natural healer, with a soft spot for children. Her methods were unique, if he was reading between the lines correctly, in that she absorbed the miladies to fight them in her own body, rather than use a child's organs as a battlefield. She was remarkably courageous. His respect and awe for her was goring by the minute.
"I would never feed you to the gossip mill," he vowed softly.
"I am grateful for your discretion," she smiled and took a sip of her tea.
"You enchant me," Isaac sighed.
"You must be high," Sarina replied smoothly. "There is nothing remotely enchanting about me. I'm skinny and bony and pale as death, and the only way I can make a buck under the cover of night, when most people can't see how ghastly I really look."
"It is not about your physical appearance," he assured her. "Your heart and soul radiate light and compassion. Your beauty glows from the inside."
"Now you're making me blush," she accused. Fortunately, just then the waiter brought her fruit salad. Despite all her intentions to be demur, she hadn't had fresh berries in weeks, and she dug in with a will.
"Tell me. When you're not reading to sick children or drawing insightful fantasies, what do you do?" Isaac asked, partially memorized by watching bits of fruit lovingly enveloped by her luscious lips.
"I watch Russian ballet," she replied between bites. "I used to dance, but the chem-o has taken away most of my muscle tone."
His heart yearned to see her move with the graceful strength of a ballet dancer. He could tell she had the passionate yet subtle nature that could make her great.
"What is your favorite dance?"
"The Fire Bird," she sighed with a longing that tugged on his heart.
"A beautiful dance," he agreed.
"So enough about me. Tell me about yourself. What do you do that you can afford lavishing chamomile tea and fruit salad on common street peddlers?" she countered with a grin.
"I own significant shares in major businesses around the world. It takes little time to maintain them," he answered vaguely.
"What sort of businesses?" Sarina persisted.
"Technology and banking, mostly." Then he added, "Although most recently, I've invested in a foundation for psychic research."
Sarina went very still and set down her fork. "You wouldn't happen to be speaking for the Morrison Foundation, would you?"
"No, this is a newer establishment called the Dubrinsky Psychic Haven. It was actually founded to counter the atrocities perpetuated by the Morrison Foundation," he explained. "Apparently you are aware of their dark reputation."
"I occasionally meet a representative at the hospital. He always gives me the willies!" she shivered. "I've told the kids I work with not to even pretend they're psychic around him." She took another sip of tea to calm her nerves.
"Good advice," Isaac nodded.
"Well," she said with a tone of finality, "this has been lovely, but I have to get up early tomorrow morning."
"What are you doing tomorrow morning?" he asked, his voice interested and seductive at once.
"Something personal," she replied firmly as she collected her art studio.
Isaac probed her mind and frowned at the images he found. "You are going to the state penitentiary to meet an older man," he stated disapprovingly.
Sarina gasped in indignation. "How did you know that?"
"Were we not just talking about psychic research?" he reminded her with an arch of his eyebrow.
"So you can read my mind?" she cried, outraged. "Well, don't! I have no affinity for parlor tricks. And don't look so grouchy. You've known me all of thirty minutes—you certainly have no say in what I do on my own time—regardless of your Madam Cleo act."
"I did not mean to offend you." Isaac tried to placate her. He tried to investigate her feelings for the incarcerated man, but anger, betrayal, and fear warred in her mind, blocking him from reading deeper into her memories without alerting her to what he was doing.
"You did. You're no better than a common prowler or peeping tom. Good night, Mr. Leiderman," she declared haughtily before she stood and stormed away from the table.
Isaac couldn't help smiling at her temper. It had been an eternity since anyone had dared to tell him off, and he felt curiously guilty for invading her privacy without her consent. Still, she was his lifemate, there was no doubt. His first duty was to see to her safety, and a sickly woman walking home unescorted was certainly not safe.
He left a 20 on the table and dissipated into the night.