Prologue
It was hard to find an all-powerful, mythical being in a crowd of thirty thousand.
Or at least it was in theory.
At the yearly Dragon*Con science fiction convention in Atlanta, Georgia, however, it was another story entirely. There were two Yodas and a Dragon Rider from Pern checking in at the hotelâs front desk while a full regiment of Storm Troopers walked by. There were gods and goddesses, all manner of aliens, warriors, and ladies gathered there. Pandora had even seen the Wicked Witch of the West cruise by on her motorized broomstick.
Since sheâd sat down ten minutes ago, Pandora had counted nine Gandalfs, and if she didnât miss her guess, there were at least two dozen elves, fairies, orcs, goblins, and assorted others gathered around, talking on cell phones, or smoking just outside the hotel doors.
And one mustnât forget the entire cabal of vampires and demons walking around handing out fliers for people to come to their room for a âblood partyâ and Buffy film fest.
Not to mention sheâd already been invited twice to the Klingon Homeworld in Room 316 at the Hyatt Regency across the street. Meanwhile a group of supposedly androgynous Borg men had tried to âassimilateâ her as soon as she entered the lobby of the Marriott Marquis.
This had to be the strangest gathering sheâd ever seen, and when given the fact that she was a Were-Panther who up until three days ago had lived solely among her own preternatural kind, that said something.
âIâm never going to find him,â she murmured to herself as an extremely tall, gorgeous Goth man stopped in front of her.
Good glory, the man was sinfully delectable!
And he was the last thing she needed to be staring at, yet she couldnât seem to help herself. He was utterly compelling.
He wore a pair of dark sunglasses even inside the hotel while he scanned the motley crowd as if looking for someone. Something about the man commanded attention and respect. Of course, it didnât help that her hormones were currently elevated by the change going on inside her as she came into full womanhood. Her entire body was humming from hormonal overload which, up until his appearance, sheâd been keeping under very careful control.
Now she sizzled for a taste of him and it was all she could do to stay seated.
He had to be at least seven feet tall, augmented by the flame biker boots that added at least three inches to his height. He had long black hair that flowed around his broad shoulders, and wore an old, faded motorcycle jacket with a skull and crossbones painted on the back. The worst part was that he wore nothing underneath that jacket and every time he moved, she glimpsed more of his tanned, ripped body.
His black leather pants hugged a perfect bottom that would rival any of her Were brethren. Every part of her wanted to stand up, cross the small distance between them, and pull his tall, lean body against hers until the vicious, needful hunger in her blood was fully sated. But even as she felt that primal sexual hunger, the animal part of herself sensed an air of lethal danger from him.
He wasnât the kind of man a woman approached without an invitation.
âAkri!â
The man turned as a woman around his age came running up to him. Cute as she could be, she was dressed like a demon, complete with a set of black wings that looked spookily real as they twitched and flapped. Her skin was red and black, and her hair matched his. She even sported a pair of glowing red horns on her head. Her short purple skirt was flared and she wore a black leather bustier with three large silver buckles on the front. Black and purple striped leggings and a pair of six-inch platform combat boots completed her odd outfit.
The tall âdemonâ handed the man a credit card. âItâs broke again, akri, â she said, pouting around a pair of vampirelike fangs. âThe man downstairs done said that the
It was hard to find an all-powerful, mythical being in a crowd of thirty thousand.
Or at least it was in theory.
At the yearly Dragon*Con science fiction convention in Atlanta, Georgia, however, it was another story entirely. There were two Yodas and a Dragon Rider from Pern checking in at the hotelâs front desk while a full regiment of Storm Troopers walked by. There were gods and goddesses, all manner of aliens, warriors, and ladies gathered there. Pandora had even seen the Wicked Witch of the West cruise by on her motorized broomstick.
Since sheâd sat down ten minutes ago, Pandora had counted nine Gandalfs, and if she didnât miss her guess, there were at least two dozen elves, fairies, orcs, goblins, and assorted others gathered around, talking on cell phones, or smoking just outside the hotel doors.
And one mustnât forget the entire cabal of vampires and demons walking around handing out fliers for people to come to their room for a âblood partyâ and Buffy film fest.
Not to mention sheâd already been invited twice to the Klingon Homeworld in Room 316 at the Hyatt Regency across the street. Meanwhile a group of supposedly androgynous Borg men had tried to âassimilateâ her as soon as she entered the lobby of the Marriott Marquis.
This had to be the strangest gathering sheâd ever seen, and when given the fact that she was a Were-Panther who up until three days ago had lived solely among her own preternatural kind, that said something.
âIâm never going to find him,â she murmured to herself as an extremely tall, gorgeous Goth man stopped in front of her.
Good glory, the man was sinfully delectable!
And he was the last thing she needed to be staring at, yet she couldnât seem to help herself. He was utterly compelling.
He wore a pair of dark sunglasses even inside the hotel while he scanned the motley crowd as if looking for someone. Something about the man commanded attention and respect. Of course, it didnât help that her hormones were currently elevated by the change going on inside her as she came into full womanhood. Her entire body was humming from hormonal overload which, up until his appearance, sheâd been keeping under very careful control.
Now she sizzled for a taste of him and it was all she could do to stay seated.
He had to be at least seven feet tall, augmented by the flame biker boots that added at least three inches to his height. He had long black hair that flowed around his broad shoulders, and wore an old, faded motorcycle jacket with a skull and crossbones painted on the back. The worst part was that he wore nothing underneath that jacket and every time he moved, she glimpsed more of his tanned, ripped body.
His black leather pants hugged a perfect bottom that would rival any of her Were brethren. Every part of her wanted to stand up, cross the small distance between them, and pull his tall, lean body against hers until the vicious, needful hunger in her blood was fully sated. But even as she felt that primal sexual hunger, the animal part of herself sensed an air of lethal danger from him.
He wasnât the kind of man a woman approached without an invitation.
âAkri!â
The man turned as a woman around his age came running up to him. Cute as she could be, she was dressed like a demon, complete with a set of black wings that looked spookily real as they twitched and flapped. Her skin was red and black, and her hair matched his. She even sported a pair of glowing red horns on her head. Her short purple skirt was flared and she wore a black leather bustier with three large silver buckles on the front. Black and purple striped leggings and a pair of six-inch platform combat boots completed her odd outfit.
The tall âdemonâ handed the man a credit card. âItâs broke again, akri, â she said, pouting around a pair of vampirelike fangs. âThe man downstairs done said that the
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