ears, and before I can ask once again who “they” are, he brushes passed me, leaving me to stand there with my mouth wide open. I start following him a few steps later, keeping a good fifty feet behind him. My senses are on full alert, reaching out as far as they can go, searching for any signs of danger. Fortunately I sense no enemies except for the one I'm following—and strangely I don't sense any threat from him.
Odd. Very odd.
A couple of blocks later Phoenix enters Tony's Breakfast Bar. Nonchalantly I look around, then casually make my way across the street and enter the restaurant.
Once inside the eatery I scan the booths until I find the Viper. He's chosen the farthest booth in the back, which is a wise choice since most of the patrons have taken up the front booths. Walking slowly to the back my ears pick up on every noise in the busy restaurant—dishes and silverware banging together, obnoxious laughter, a cell phone ringing, the cook whistling, a toilet flushing. My head begins aching with all the ruckus that's part of everyday living. Seriously, having super hearing is not as fun as it sounds, especially if you're prone to migraines.
Sliding into the booth, I slip off my jacket and settle into the red-cushioned seat. He's staring at me, studying me, as if trying to peer into my brain. Which is never going to happen. Yes, he's powerful being a Night Viper, but he's not strong enough to read minds. Silver Mortals don't hold that power either, though we can sense feelings, and right now he's feeling anxiety and fear. His heart is fluttering wildly, and before he speaks I notice his hesitation. He's afraid the outcome of this conversation will not go too well. And that causes my already jittery nerves to explode into absolute distress.
“You hungry?” he questions, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“No,” I answer.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because they have the best omelets this side of—”
Losing my cool, I reach across the table and grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him halfway onto the table.
“Look,” I hiss, “I'm not hungry or thirsty or care about their stupid omelets. All I want is for you to start explaining yourself. If you don't start talking then you're wasting my time, and if you waste my time your chafing my nerves, prompting me to rip you a new one with my very long and very sharp knife.” I lean my head to the side, narrowing my eyes. “Is that what you want?” He stares calmly at me.
“I'm not your enemy,” he says softly. “I'll explain everything if you'll let me. Please. Let go.”
My eyes gaze down at my hands on his collar and it dawns on me that maybe I'm being a little too dramatic. Letting go of him, I slump back down in my seat. He does the same, straightening his shirt and running a hand through his disheveled hair. I feel bad for being so harsh, immediately regretting my overreaction, but not bad enough to apologize.
“Are you normally this irate?” he inquires, his eyes flashing across the restaurant.
I shrug my shoulders , slumping over as a weary feeling flits through my body . “Only when I'm sitting with the enemy.”
“Gracen, I'm not your enemy!” he exclaims, appearing flustered. His reaction brings a smile to my lips.
“Prove it,” I push relentlessly, adding, “Start talking or I'm gone.”
“Fine,” he replies through gritted teeth. “But promise me you'll keep an open mind about what I'm saying and listen to every word.”
“Sure, why not , ” I tell him, again shrugging my tired shoulders.
He shakes his head. “No, you've got to promise me.”
Rolling my eyes I concede with, “I promise.”
“Good. That's good.” He clears his throat. “First let me put this out there. I'm not like others of my kind. I'm not as evil and vicious as you think, and I'm telling you this because I know you're going to have a hard time believing what I tell you.” He pauses, looking directly in my eyes; I nod for him to continue. “I
Odd. Very odd.
A couple of blocks later Phoenix enters Tony's Breakfast Bar. Nonchalantly I look around, then casually make my way across the street and enter the restaurant.
Once inside the eatery I scan the booths until I find the Viper. He's chosen the farthest booth in the back, which is a wise choice since most of the patrons have taken up the front booths. Walking slowly to the back my ears pick up on every noise in the busy restaurant—dishes and silverware banging together, obnoxious laughter, a cell phone ringing, the cook whistling, a toilet flushing. My head begins aching with all the ruckus that's part of everyday living. Seriously, having super hearing is not as fun as it sounds, especially if you're prone to migraines.
Sliding into the booth, I slip off my jacket and settle into the red-cushioned seat. He's staring at me, studying me, as if trying to peer into my brain. Which is never going to happen. Yes, he's powerful being a Night Viper, but he's not strong enough to read minds. Silver Mortals don't hold that power either, though we can sense feelings, and right now he's feeling anxiety and fear. His heart is fluttering wildly, and before he speaks I notice his hesitation. He's afraid the outcome of this conversation will not go too well. And that causes my already jittery nerves to explode into absolute distress.
“You hungry?” he questions, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“No,” I answer.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because they have the best omelets this side of—”
Losing my cool, I reach across the table and grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him halfway onto the table.
“Look,” I hiss, “I'm not hungry or thirsty or care about their stupid omelets. All I want is for you to start explaining yourself. If you don't start talking then you're wasting my time, and if you waste my time your chafing my nerves, prompting me to rip you a new one with my very long and very sharp knife.” I lean my head to the side, narrowing my eyes. “Is that what you want?” He stares calmly at me.
“I'm not your enemy,” he says softly. “I'll explain everything if you'll let me. Please. Let go.”
My eyes gaze down at my hands on his collar and it dawns on me that maybe I'm being a little too dramatic. Letting go of him, I slump back down in my seat. He does the same, straightening his shirt and running a hand through his disheveled hair. I feel bad for being so harsh, immediately regretting my overreaction, but not bad enough to apologize.
“Are you normally this irate?” he inquires, his eyes flashing across the restaurant.
I shrug my shoulders , slumping over as a weary feeling flits through my body . “Only when I'm sitting with the enemy.”
“Gracen, I'm not your enemy!” he exclaims, appearing flustered. His reaction brings a smile to my lips.
“Prove it,” I push relentlessly, adding, “Start talking or I'm gone.”
“Fine,” he replies through gritted teeth. “But promise me you'll keep an open mind about what I'm saying and listen to every word.”
“Sure, why not , ” I tell him, again shrugging my tired shoulders.
He shakes his head. “No, you've got to promise me.”
Rolling my eyes I concede with, “I promise.”
“Good. That's good.” He clears his throat. “First let me put this out there. I'm not like others of my kind. I'm not as evil and vicious as you think, and I'm telling you this because I know you're going to have a hard time believing what I tell you.” He pauses, looking directly in my eyes; I nod for him to continue. “I
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