Blair is a new Columbia student, but used to the pampered lifestyle of the Upper East Side, and the life that is more complete by her chosen parents, Thatcher Marsh and Kat Giabiconi. When she meets Thomas Quinn, it turns her life completely upside down. Blair has a secret, one that she doesn't delve too much into—she is a witch, and she has visions of things before they happen. She has seen Quinn in her dreams ever since she was a child, but never thought too much of it—until she met him at the nightclub.
Quinn doesn't love. That is the one thing he promised himself after the tragic death of his fiancé in the 1600s, killed by the hands of his own father for being different. That was until she walked into the club, with her face that looked exactly like Dove's. He would never be the same again, and he would ensure that she never would be the same, either. She would suffer, as he was suffering to not take every drop of her blood from her warm body.
But there is one thing that stops him. Just as there is one thing that pulls her closer to him and the yearning of his touch. They are soulmates, forever bound to one another by the eternal bond. How can you hurt the one thing that matters the most to you?
TOUCH
The man observed the dark ambience of the room, the atmosphere seething and swirling under the primal beat of the heady music that cast everyone in a frenzy about the room. Tonight would not be a night of forgiveness or fair gain. Squinting under his countenance at the throng of people, only the most worthy of people were even permitted in the doors. Swirling the amber liquid in the crystal wrought double old fashioned whiskey glass, he swiveled the liquid in as it sloshed back and forth for a few instances. He would only choose three people tonight for the trade, as the place was crawling with new faces, he didn't want to take any chances.
The thing about Quinn, he wasn't really a good man. He was a very nasty man, capable of much harm. And tonight would be no different. That was how he ensured that his club thrived, and how everyone who was anyone wanted in the most exclusive establishment past hours. The Black Rose was well known for its disappearances, but was always covered up in some way or another. It wasn't in the best place in Manhattan, and you had to be careful where you partied. One had to get through as a means of a secret handshake, which extended of a person knowing a person. And only the ones that wouldn't be missed would be allowed to be taken inside.
Quinn was a predator, a creature of the night. And he hadn't been human in a very, very long time. Long since abandoning all human emotion, his eyes begun the long search at the three he would select to disappear into the hours of midnight with him, never to be seen again. Being the Prince of the World of the Night held its devices. He was known to be the son of one of the most powerful beings of the Night World, and quite possibly even nastier. Hunter Blackthorn was not known for his random acts of kindness. He ruled at the helm of the Night Council, with Quinn and his two remaining daughters by his side.
There were only two now. And he didn't want to think about the third daughter. His dove, who had been taken from him by the hands of his own father out of his hatred for the vampire race. He had been a man of the cloth, and thought it to be in his power to obliterate the vampires. On the very night that Quinn had proposed to the youngest of the Blackthorn girls, Hunter Blackthorn had turned him as a means of being welcomed into the family. Of course, Quinn knew nothing about vampires or what it all had entailed. And he had been out of his mind, incapable of sanity. When he returned, he watched as his father staked Dove, his Dove, and then proceeded to stake him as he knew that his son was no longer his son any longer.
He had not gone by Thomas since that night, and he never would again. He was now known as Quinn. He was a black snake, a predator, and he only fed to kill. It wasn't a means to live or to survive, he hunted for sport and relied in it.
Shaking out of his dark reverie of his past, it was no longer 1600s colonial Boston. He was now in New York, in a different city and a different time. The constant ebb and flow of the Manhattan nightlife filled Quinn with great vigor, and this new world was his playground. Making his way down the series of lit stairs of the night club, he placed his drink on the counter and ordered a new Scotch, neat. The only thing he would ever drink, as it was the only thing worth drinking. Well, besides his obvious preference of blood from the lovely carotid arteries of his willing victims. What he hadn't expected was the singsong voice that sounded like a heavenly clattering of bells descending directly behind him.
"I'll take a glass of Dom 95, if you have it. And please don't be slow about it, I don't want to be here all night." The voice sounded right behind him, and he could only smile darkly at the thought of taking someone with a voice like that into the darkness, and to drink in her essence until there was nothing left. Slowly turning to his left as the girl seated herself, he instantly forgot how to breathe—as if he needed to.
This was not possible. Dove had died. Four hundred years ago. He had seen it firsthand, as his father drove the stake through her chest, connecting with her heart. Though she had been a vampire, she had been so gentle. She could have been a human if she hadn't been born as a predator. But there she was, all the same. The same full head of perfectly coiffed, chocolate locks with the softer caramel highlights that cast an ethereal red glow about her head, giving her a sort of halo. The same long, thick eyelashes that created heavy crescents against the tops of her cheeks when she closed them. When opened they were the same infinitely dark chocolate eyes as Dove's had, though Dove's eyes never had the hunting look in them, nor did they have the look of infinite mischief and scheme as this girl had. Dove's was much softer, as there had never been but a gentle bone in her perfect body. From the upturned cock of a smile from her perfect, glossy pink pout that made him think of adjectives such as ripe and moist, his lower half squirmed, and he could feel a growl trying to emanate from the surface at the back of his throat. Her body was long and slender, but with gentle curves. The way the black mini dress formed around her décolletage, and smoothed down her seamless body a good three inches above her knees.
That was some dress, and he never would have seen his Dove in something quite like… that. Following the line of her legs, her feet were encased in a pair of glossy, black patent leather spike heeled, triple strap Mary Jane pumps. This girl was obviously dressed to kill, and he couldn't help but have his bottomless eyes travel back up the dress to land upon the hollow of her neck. His hard member just beneath his trousers thrummed in need, and he knew that there would be no other two, not tonight. He wanted to bleed this girl dry, until she came apart in his bare hands. This girl didn't quite know what she was in for, coming in with a stolen face.
But at the same time, he wanted to protect her. But right now, all he wanted to do was have her body entrapped by his, his hands roaming along the sultry curves of the vixen. He wanted her back pressed up against his as he took her right there on the floor. To his horror he was staring, and he was so mercurial in his thoughts, that nothing much touched him anymore. But she was slowly turning in his direction, her doe eyes large and almost of an innocent display of expression as they landed on his immensely darker, bottomless black ones.
"Well if you are going to keep staring at me like that, you might as well pay for my drink. I am sure you got your money's worth." She chastised him, and never in his whole life had he ever allowed a woman to talk to him in such a fashion.
"You need to be reprimanded for that mouth. It could get you into trouble one day." He couldn't help but give the beauty a smoldering stare from his countenance. Oh yes, he found his victim, alright. And she would be delicious.
Giving the mirror one final onceover, the girl with the smoldering eyes and the secret smile moved delicately in front of the mirror. Today had been a decent day. She hadn't fought with her adoptive mother, not once while she made a quick in and out of the penthouse. She spent most of her time in Paris anyway, with her new husband and her new life that she was desperate to get back to. Blair had absolutely no real supervision, as her father was also in Paris, where he resided with his lover turned husband—that had been a shock and upset to her family, that had changed everything the summer before her junior year of high school. She had barely pulled it together, but she had with the help of her two parental figures, whom she considered her real mother and father. They sometimes found it hard to be in the room with one another, and bickered more than got along. But one thing that they did agree about, usually over the top of her head, was Blair Blackthorn.
Thatcher Marsh was an elusive man, dominant, and Katerina Giabiconi was not what you would consider perverse in being subtle and light. Carrying a commanding air of her own, it had probably been the primary reason they didn't always agree with one another, much less enter a room without the other making a smarmy retort, or throwing a glass at the other's head. She spent more time at the Thomas Carter Mansion than in her own penthouse, and she was happy for it. She would be alone at the penthouse. And there was always some new and interesting prospect going on at the mansion. Whether it be Thatcher and Remy, another family member, sparring back and forth. Or just accompanying Kat and her chosen brother Vinnie on her latest shopping field trip. But tonight she wouldn't be spending it with either her tall, blonde Victorian beauty of a mother or her overpowering, dark and magnetic father. They were on their own tonight, and would be on two opposite ends of the mansion, with their own families.
But of course there was more about their heritage and the past that she knew nothing about, and that was where they preferred to keep things; in the past. She didn't know all the details, but at one time Thatcher was very much a hated man. Blair had no insight to this though, and her relationship with them started when she was four years old. Ever the princess in demand of her tiara, Thatcher would make Kat go fetch it for her from her adoptive parent's penthouse, and he would be whispering evil toddler things for her to do and to get into while Kat was on Mission Impossible. When she had come back, Blair would be playing dress up in her closet, and attacking everything in her room with permanent marker. Needless to say, Thatcher had gotten a serious reprimand that night. Not that he cared, he went about his business after Blair had been put down to bed, and acted like he could do no wrong. Because he knew everything, everything about anything that needed knowing—and sometimes not knowing.
Blair had exchanged her skirt suit and kitten heeled pumps for a very dominant Herve Leger bondage wrap dress in the most flattering color for someone of porcelain skin and dark, nearly raven colored locks and smoldering chocolate brown eyes framed by feather duster lashes. Black. Choosing a pair of black suede shoes in which the straps wrapped around her ankles and up her calves, they accentuated her gorgeous gams. Spritzing on a dab of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle that her play mother had gotten for her, she was complete with her hair coiffed and silken down the perimeter of her back in absolute sleekness—no curls tonight. Grabbing her black leather jacket which only was fitting with the kind of dress she had decided on, she was definitely set for mischief. Then again, when was she not? Pulling one of Thatcher's black vintage Maserati Granturismo coupes out of the circular drive of the mansion, she gave herself one final glance in the rearview mirror, and was quite satisfied with herself. Glossy lips, rosy cheeks, and quite the smoldering eye. She wanted a night out on the town, at least once before resuming her studies at Columbia in a few weeks. One night wasn't going to hurt anything. It wasn't like anything interesting would happen, anyway. She was too aloof and out of everyone's reach for anything remotely malapropos to happen.
She was supposed to be meeting Soraya Harman at a club she had overheard from her parents as being dangerous, and no way, no how would they ever let Soraya anywhere near it. That was precisely why she was here. She was supposed to meet up with Soraya for drinks a little after nine, and it was only nearing eight now. Soraya bored her to tears half the time about one crisis of her life after another, and she needed a good start with her alcohol if she was going to manage through another one of those conversations. Parking in front of the building and shimmying out of her leather jacket, Blair threw it into the heated leather passenger seat, forgotten. Her cell phone would be fine inside the car, she really didn't care to call anyone over the bustle of the music. And that was exactly what she wanted—one night, to herself, letting the world slip away.
Walking into the beautiful black shining nightclub, she came across a bouncer that eyed her up and down appreciatively, and she rolled her eyes in a most harassed manner. Clearly not affected by tall, cat-like types with ash blonde hair and ever-changing eyes, she wasn't about to let him gawk at her all night.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" his mouth oozed the disdain of utter filth, and she knew that he would be just as smarmy as he eluded with his almond shaped eyes that were just now that dashing blue color of Nordic fjords.
"Blair Blackthorn."
She spoke fluently, and with much vigor and power behind her voice. She had more of the voice of a sixteenth century queen, commanding and prevailing wherever she went. It could be a voice that would ring throughout the room, and would invoke fear into those that would cross her. Instantly allowing her access into the building, he touched the back of her arm lightly, and whispered into the hollow of her ear.
"Have a good time. Some of the members here like to bite. You look like a girl that can take care of herself." He winked, and straightened back up as if he had said nothing at all. What a creep.
Walking into the room, she was livid. She already wanted a drink. The house music was already rocking some primal, earthy beat as it cast throughout the room as well as the one above it. She let the lewd comment of the smarmy bouncer roll off of her shoulders, though the air was still thick with tension. She didn't want to regret coming here, she had set out for this place for a reason; it was dangerous, yet it was inviting and intoxicating all on its own. It exuded a commanding presence of its own as it willfully was nestled between a bank and a luxury hotel, yet it towered over the both of them with pressing confidence. But its architectural design was not why Blair was here. She was here because when people told her no, her perfect answer and solution would always radiate as a profound yes.
Sashaying up to the bar in her expensive dress and even more expensive Christian Louboutin heels, she practically had snapped at the bartender. She usually wasn't so rude, but the door man had really gotten under her skin. She wanted to unseemly gouge his eyes out, and the feeling emanated throughout the room, causing a few onlookers to turn their heads, casting their own eyes about her in dark appreciation. What was it, 'Read My Mind, Asshole Day?' If it was, they would be getting a mindful soon enough. Blair had known coming to the club that this was not a club for ordinary humans. Just as there were sex clubs and gay clubs, there were also clubs for different supernatural species. Witches, werewolves, vampires and shifters were all predominant in the Night World. And she was no ordinary human, herself. She was what was considered an Old Soul. She had dreams of people of the past, and when she touched certain things, sometimes those memories would be brought to life. And her premonitions were very physical, very real. There was a lot of witch in her.
"I'll take a glass of Dom 95, if you have it. And please don't be slow about it, I don't want to be here all night."
She spoke with clear derision, her voice exuding power and dark confidence all over again. Yes, that bouncer had really pissed her off. Watching as the bartender exchanged glances with the raven haired man in front of her, she rolled her eyes heavenward. Oh yes, tonight was getting off to a brilliant start. It clearly was Asshole Day in the Land of Oz. And she was Dorothy, and clearly out of her element.
It was clear that the man standing in front of her and slightly to her right was of some kind of importance here. For all she knew, he could be in a band or maybe the CEO or secret partner of a club like this. Or, coincidentally he could be the owner. But still, no man ever phased Blair. Not in all of her eighteen years had she met anyone that actually made her stop and think—wow, he actually has a brain. But maybe, just maybe…
Slowly he turned around, and her eyes fell from the top of his dark, chocolate brown hair that held dark streaks as well as light streaks radiating through it. It was natural, as there were no different colors of roots to show that his impressiveness resulted in a bad at-home dye job. His skin was nearly as light as her own, but it wasn't his hair nor his skin that stood out to her. It was his ENTIRE face. His face looked exactly like Thatcher's, and it was creepy as hell. But she knew for a fact that Thatcher was at home. And how she knew this was she had helped him pick out flowers for his very important date with his fiancé, Riley that night. He wouldn't have been drinking it up and three sheets to the wind in a dark and swanky club on the back end of Fifth Avenue.
He had the same smoldering eyes that looked as though he were up to absolutely no good at all. Dark and bottomless black, and framed with eyelashes that were impossibly long, it only added to his hunting appearance. She almost wondered if he was as old as Thatcher. Though Thatcher was not from this century or any century on Earth, and belonged to a different time altogether. Shaking out of her reverie, she noticed that he was immaculately dressed from top to bottom. A black leather jacket was placed over a button down, slate grey designer shirt that was loose on him, though she could tell by the broad shoulders and lean plane of his back that he was built. She didn't want to think too openly about his physique, as there were plenty of mind readers in the Night World. And this man, she could already tell was a vampire. Though she couldn't quite tell if he were lamia or made, that was the only question that radiated through her mind at that moment. Oh well, nothing to be too pressed about.
As her face reached back to his eyes, a blush stole through her cheeks, and her chest begun to heave slightly. The only reason that she had done this was because he was… staring. That was only putting it lightly. He was staring at her with that searching, predatory look, the kind of look a hunter would have before they zoom in on their prey. And adding in the fact that he was undressing her with his endlessly dark eyes was not helping matters. That was when her anger got the best of her, and she couldn't help it. She after all, wasn't known for her gentle disposition.
"Well if you are going to keep staring at me like that, you might as well pay for my drink. I am sure you got your money's worth."
She glared at him. Luckily the height difference wasn't that off, as long as she continued wearing her sky high stilettos. If she had to actually look up and into his eyes, that could cause problems. Quite possibly, even more heart failure than she already seemed to be having.
"You need to be reprimanded for that mouth. It could get you into trouble one day."
He gave her one of his dazzling, dark smirks, followed by a slight baring of his perfect white teeth. He looked like a predatory shark under all of these scaling, fluorescent lights. Oh, God. Why did he have to smile like that? Couldn't he have at least been less appealing to look at? It wouldn't have been as hard if she had to give him a kick in the seat of his pants later for being a complete pig. That, she was definitely used to. But she also had the feeling she knew him somewhere else. He obviously had not attended prep school in Manhattan, nor had he been a friend of Thatcher or Kat's. Oh, God. Thatcher would be pissed if he saw someone else wearing his face. The similarities were positively uncanny, and she wanted to poke his cheeks to see if the face were real. So much so, she had to cross her fingers and place them compliantly to her sides, winding them into the sides of her dress that already fit her body like a glove.
"Probably so, but when that time comes I hope I will be dead."
She smiled sarcastically and upturned her mouth, and nodded her drink at him, crossing her legs and taking a seat at the bar. She didn't care to have his burning eyes scorching into her back all night, either. She hoped he would be leaving soon. The last thing she needed was a reminder of her father around her, making sure she stayed out of trouble. Oh, the hell with that. He would want to make sure he could stir up as much trouble as he could find. Blair couldn't help but to openly laugh out loud. The dark stranger had looked at her as if she had taken crazy pills or something, but it apparently had been infectious, because he continued to smirk at her, and took a seat on the entwining bar stood right next to hers. Oh, God. Please find somewhere else to sit. She had broadcast that thought a little too loud, and she instantly wanted to reprimand herself for it.
"That could be arranged." He bent in by her ear, and whispered. His eyes did the smiling for them, a twinkle in their black onyx depths. A person could fall into those eyes, and keep falling forever if that had been their intention.
"Oh, we think we are so smart." She grinned, and swigged the rest of her champagne from the glass flute, and set it down. The man signaled the bartender to get another of what she was having, and she eyed him surreptitiously. "I'm not sleeping with you, if that's what you are trying to get at. I am much too smart to be seduced by someone that looks like… well, you." She looked ahead at the bubbles dotting the inside of the glass, licking her lips at them pleasantly.
"And what is wrong with the way that I look? Do I bother you?" his words emphasized the word bother, as if it were the most important thing he had said. Or moreover, that it was apparently quite important that he did bother her in some way.
"If I didn't have as much alcohol running through my system, you might be surprised of my answer. But I will not be answering anything else you say, because I won't be in my right mind. Now, if you'll excuse me."
She smiled darkly and hotly, and got up out of her seat. She wanted to dance. She didn't know where the thought came from, but it had come from somewhere in her overly processed mind. Must be the lights messing with the chemical makeup of her body. Screw waiting on Soraya. She had better things to do, wanted to do. And this music was beyond captivating. Moving away from the bar, her arm was instantly seized by a large, very strong grip coming from her left. Turning her face up slightly and into the eyes of the man that she would end up having to murder later with her smart mouth and the sharp stiletto heel of her foot, she visibly tensed. It was him. Surprise, surprise. He was a terrorist.
"Oh, lovely. I get the pleasure of you grabbing me and making retorts at everything I say? What on earth did I do to deserve such a well thought surprise?" she grinned. She was on it tonight. Her inner voice did the lambada with the drapes of her mind, dancing around like a madwoman.
"No. No talking. I want you to dance with me. Just a dance is all I need." His eyes zeroed in on her own chocolate ones, and it was uncanny the kind of powerful effect they had on her. She didn't like it.
"Well, if I am keeping my sanity as well as my free will to choose a dance partner, I'll pass. You are a little too much for me…" she didn't even know his name. Why did that even MATTER? Her subconscious yelled at her, dropping the drapes and jumping up and down at her, crushing her mind and deflating her inside just a bit with a jolt.
"Oh, no. I am not the type that takes no for an answer. You are dancing with me right now."
He chastised her, and she was beginning to feel like she not only didn't have a problem with this, but she wanted to tear his shirt off right then and there, watching the buttons scatter to the ground as loud as pins. Whoa! Where did that come from? She thought to herself, and she knew that the kind of thoughts she were having were a little too dangerous for her own good.
"Well, since you sweet talked me into it, how can I say no to that charm and charisma?" she rolled her eyes as he pulled her in, and wound her around to where her back was facing him.
The beat was heady and primal, and the touch of his skin near hers made her tense with electromagnetic energy. The room was instantly a bit too bright, too electric for her own taste. Closing her eyes, she could still see colors fly through her mind. Jungle green, raven black, dove white, crimson red, magenta, aqua, cobalt, burnt sienna. The colors reminded her of something… reminded her of that bouncer's eyes. They were so capricious and mercurial, they could change at a beat. Much like her current dance partner. Searching for a name in her mind, she was suddenly overwhelmed with the name Quinn. She tried to not think too heavily as he pulled her taut against him, her back converged with his stomach as he gyrated his body with the curve of her hips. When he bent, she would bend. When he would run his hands down the line of her arms, she couldn't help but allow her head to rest against his chest a little more brazenly. Her eyes closed, she gave herself up to the beat of the music, its primal sound invigorating and acting as a pulse, pumping the ebb and flow of her blood soundlessly through her system. It was a kind of beat that got into your bloodstream, and submerged itself there, never to come out.
She could sense him lean his head down slightly, until she could feel his warm, sweet breath line the shell of her ear. Her mouth opened slightly of its own accord, and she couldn't help but be perplexed at what he would do next. He was already so close to her right now. Placing slight kisses on the column of her neck, she squeezed her eyes shut, giving herself up to the moment. She had wanted a moment unbarred, something out of the way and unfamiliar. She wanted something un-mundane. Well, she had gotten it, alright. He wasn't like anyone she had ever met. Usually she slapped away guys that got too overly close to her. But usually she didn't have to. Thatcher would take care of pests like that for her. But this man… no, he wasn't a pest. He was something else, entirely.
He was dangerous.
Those beautiful silky lips kept darting down her neck, and then back up again. She could feel his hands slide down the curve of her arms to her waist, and he kept travelling his hands down the line of her hips, and dipping lower, pulling lightly at the hem of her very expensive dress. She was now quite surprised she had allowed him to get this far. This was a feat that no man had ever surpassed with her. And no, not just because she was a virgin. But because she had class. The next thing she knew, his teeth were grazing her neck, and she felt the sharp render of pain at her throat, and it was tearing into her flesh, followed by the vein of her carotid artery. Funny, there were still a massive throng of people, but yet they were moving around them as though they were an orbit of them. They never watched, never had the nerve to. But yet, the man was still going, still lapping at her precious blood that was flowing out from the vein he had just punctured with his very sharp, intricately pointed canines. Closing her eyes as the sensual lapping of his brazen tongue stole away to instant pleasure, she could have died on the spot. Her vision swam slightly, and she allowed him to do this for a few instances more. She was going to pull away anytime now, anytime, really…
"Blair Anastasia Blackthorn!" someone at the side of the dance floor reprimanded, and her eyes enlarged in mock horror at the sound of her entire name being called. She really hated the sound of her full name on the lips of someone else. It was okay to see it written down on paper, but she hated being reprimanded in public.
Wait... what had she been doing a second ago? Oh, that's right. The stranger. And he had been holding her, and they had been dancing. And then his teeth… and she really couldn't remember much else. She stood upright but just barely as her chest heaved, and she looked toward the voice that had called out to her. The stranger nowhere to be found, he very well could have been a figment of her very overactive imagination. Because he sure as hell wasn't there with her anymore.
Meeting the golden hair and ice blue eyes of one of her friends with a multitude of problems that never ceased to end, she strode to her, and kissed the air beside her cheek, just as she had done to her. Concern was marred in the gentleness of her eyes, and she couldn't help but wonder exactly what she had seen. But she had had enough for tonight. She wanted to just go home, but she knew that Soraya was going to be chewing her ear for at least another half hour. Lovely.
"And just what were you doing out there?" Soraya scolded, folding her arms across her chest as though Blair was a wayward child.
"What in the hell are you going on about? It's called dancing, Soraya. You might want to try it sometime. It makes for good exercise." She glared icily at her, and threw the long fall of her silken hair behind her shoulder.
"Well if you call that dancing, then dancing got a lot more sexual since the last time I had seen anything like it." She gave her a questioning look. "Who was the guy? The last time I checked, you don't date." She grimaced.
"Oh my fucking god, Soraya. It was a dance. Yes, maybe I had a bit too much Dom. But don't go on and on about it. You are already annoying the ever-loving piss out of me." She scolded.
"Well, I am so sorry to be concerned about you! Fine, just leave it. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep." She glowered slightly, softening as Blair hugged her goodnight.
"Goodnight, Soraya. I'll text you in the morning." She smiled, and made her way out into the beckoning night.
The whole time she had been with her friend, as well as making her departure out into the cool night air, she had had the feeling she had been watched. And it did not relent the whole time on the drive home, following her every step of the way. Parking the car on the street right outside her fifth avenue penthouse apartment, she took the elevator all the way to the very top, and crashed right there on the couch, not even bothering to take off her expensive shoes or the jewelry that adorned her still glowing body, her short dress riding up her shapely legs. This was the last time she would ever go drinking by herself again. What a weird fucking night. Nearby, a raven sat perched outside the large ginkgo tree that bordered the balcony. The French doors had been left fully open, fluttering in the faint October breeze. Her hair on one side of her neck, the two twin holes showed an angry, vigorous crimson against the snow white pallor at the soft skin of her throat. The one eye of the ominous hunting bird looked hungrily at the twin holes, and the greedy talons clutched at the slate balcony railing of the penthouse, making its perch there. Just watching. And waiting.