their bitterness was etched into their skin, where his was deceptively hidden, eating at his insides.
Rhys’s hand stilled for a moment, but then he did pull out his money. He supposed he deserved to pay for feeling sympathy for these two. It must be that it was the season. He wouldn’t let his hard-learned lessons slip his mind again.
He withdrew two bills. “Find a warm place to stay tonight.”
The one near him snatched the money from his hand. Her eyes widened as she noted the denomination. “Thanks, mister.” She immediately walked back to her coworker. “Come on, girlfriend. Let’s go party!”
The two clacked away on worn high heels. Now that their need was satisfied, Rhys was forgotten.
Again, just like his kind, he thought tiredly. Getting what they crave, then moving on.
He entered the bar, and the door slammed shut behind him. He was immediately enfolded in a hazy, surreal glow of blue and red neon. He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a scotch, neat.
“You want to run a tab, mister?”
Rhys nodded and took a deep swallow of the fiery liquor. Setting the glass down, he twisted, his back to the bar, to survey the room. The small place was quite busy. On Christmas Eve, no less.
He twisted back to his drink, staring into the amber liquid. He appeared oblivious to the rest of the room, but if anything, he was more aware of what was going on around him than when he’d been glancing around.
The two men a few stools away were regulars here. They drank whiskey and water and smoked filterless cigarettes. The one closest to him was complaining that his wife had left him. Of course, he didn’t mention that he’d beaten her for years before she’d finally worked up the nerve to go.
The woman at the end of the bar wore cheap perfume and an abundance of AquaNet. She was waiting for someone—a lover. Rhys could practically taste the craving radiating from her. Although Rhys couldn’t quite tell if the lust was for the man or for the drugs he would also provide.
The four men playing pool were friends and deep in their cups, celebrating. Not the holiday season but the fact that the one with the boyish face, which disguised a soul that was extremely dark, had just been released from prison. Out on good behavior, and looking to undo all that proper conduct.
These were the types that were in seedy bars on Christmas Eve—people without families or love or lives. The lost, the hungry, the violent.
And then there was him. So full of hunger, it almost crippled him.
He polished off the remainder of his drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill.
Drinking numbed him. Alcohol didn’t affect him as it did normal people, but it did insulate him. It anesthetized his feelings and made him capable of living in his own skin. But ultimately, the liquor never did what he wanted it to do. It never killed that raging hunger—the hunger that constantly ate away at him. No, only one thing appeased that, and even then, it was nothing but a quick fix. A brief reprieve from the gnawing in his soul.
He nearly snorted out loud. His soul? Yeah, right, he’d lost that a long time ago.
The bartender returned with another drink. Rhys took a long swallow, closing his eyes to savor the smoky flavor, when a prickling danced over the back of his neck.
He shifted on the barstool, searching for the being that managed to so abruptly shift the foul hopelessness of the room.
She stood in the doorway, looking every inch of her five feet out of place. A tiny woman with pixielike, dark hair and huge eyes. Even in the distorting neon glow of the room, Rhys could tell they were green—a true green.
An innocent fey creature lost in a harsh, cold land. Rhys raised an eyebrow at his thoughts. There must be something in the air tonight; he was never so fanciful. Besides, he thought bitterly, he was the only otherworldly creature here.
He took another deep swallow of his drink, still watching her over the rim of his glass. The small woman glanced around, nervousness clear on her face. Then, to his surprise, she straightened her shoulders and headed to the bar.
She climbed onto the stool next to his and waited for the bartender to come take her order. Still, when he did, she took a moment to consider what she wanted.
Again she surprised Rhys by asking for a tequila shot, although there was a faint rise at the end of her request as though she wasn’t quite sure if a tequila shot was a real drink.
Rhys pretended to focus on his scotch, but he continued to center his attention on her. Not only was she nervous, but she was miserable, filled with hurt and anger and…despair. But all those strong emotions couldn’t overshadow her natural scent. She smelled fresh and sweet like flowers warmed by sunshine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smelled a mortal that untainted, that pure. Not an adult mortal anyway.
All too quickly, her fresh scent was overwhelmed by another smell, which couldn’t be masked by the strong odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It swirled around each of the people like spun sugar—enticing, yet sickening to Rhys because of its sweet intensity.
He swallowed and concentrated on the woman’s wholesomeness. He could suppress his reaction to the other scent, the smell of blood. He did all the time, but it was harder than usual tonight. It always was once he’d made up his mind that he would feed.
But he’d do that later—picking from the worst of the lot. It wouldn’t be difficult tonight—many of the patrons here were so bad they were completely lost. Lost to redemption—just like him.
And then there was this woman. Why was she here? She certainly didn’t belong here, but he didn’t need preternatural abilities to tell that. She was dressed in a green wool skirt with matching blazer. The white blouse she wore underneath was simple and plain. Her leather pumps were sensible.
The outfit was modest and practical, but she looked far from dowdy. The skirt displayed her well-shaped calves and gave brief flashes of a little thigh. But it was her face that captivated Rhys. Not a classically beautiful face, but she had sweetness to her features, full lips, a small pert nose and those huge eyes. Her eyes alone were enough to hold him spellbound.
He frowned. No mortal in his two hundred years had held so much interest for him. He supposed it must be the fact that she was so obviously out of place that intrigued him. Or maybe because she reminded him of the place where he’d once come from—where people were good and kind and loved one another.
The bartender returned to her with the shot, a slice of lime in another shot glass and a shaker of salt.
The pixie stared at the objects with obvious confusion. She glanced around, her eyes stopping on him for a moment. She immediately looked away.
After another moment, she took the lime from the glass. She frowned at the segment, then started to squeeze it into the shot of liquor.
A masculine hand clasped hers, stopping her.
“Hi there,” the boyish-faced ex-convict said. “Want me to show you how to do that?”
The pixie hesitated again, and Rhys sensed her wariness. Smart girl. But then she straightened and nodded. “Yes. Please.”
The
