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 Posted: Sun Jan 07, 2007 10:41 pm
~ WRITTEN WORKS ~
heart
1
Title: Christmas in Asgard
Relation to Gaia: A post story of VVSL.
Inspiration: Nikki and I decided to swap fics for Christmas. I have yet to finish mine, but the lemony goodness of the rest would probably get me banned from the site, anyways. Enjoy the G-rated part!
2
Title: Catch a Falling Star
Relation to Gaia: Another post story of VVSL
Inspiration: Sitara and Rhiannox are kindred spirits, and I just wanted to give their relationship some depth with a bit of history.
3
Title: A Single Mistake
Relation to Gaia: A scene from an RP we have yet to begin. Nikki and I get a little ahead of ourselves sometimes.
Inspiration: THE MOST DEPRESSING DREAM I EVER HAD!
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Posted: Sun Jan 07, 2007 10:45 pm
~ CHRISTMAS IN ASGARD ~
(1 of 3)
The Heir to Asgard paced impatiently in the shadows of the snow-covered courtyard as his fellow gods arrived sleigh after sleigh, most of them drawn by horses, some by swans, some by stags, one by a pair polar bears. He had made it clear to the grooms they were not – under any circumstances – to be put away with the other animals. Heaven forbid he be stuck with his relatives overnight too.
“Did the invitations not read 8 o’clock . . .?”
Rhiannox harrumphed without even turning to see who it was. “They did.”
Only his cousin Munin, the Goddess of Memory, could smell of roses in the midst of a winter so harsh none should have been able to survive. When he at last he looked he saw she was wearing a crown of pale pink ones in her half up half down hair, their hue a perfect match to her sparsely freckled cheeks, flushed bright by the whipping cold. She was barefoot in spite of the perilously low temperatures, and without a coat. Her silvery gown being both sleeveless and strapless, a mantle of dark chocolate waves was all that covered her white shoulders, the ends sweeping soundlessly across the snow along with the mist-like fabric of her train as she came to join him. Her first Millennium (one thousandth birthday) fast approaching, it was customary for her to grow it out to the same impractical length worn by the other greater gods, though by measurements of power she and her sister Nanne had long since surpassed all but the Heir himself.
But although he admired the style, he could not help but be reminded of his raven-haired Consort whom, for the umpteenth year in a row, would not be attending the Yule Time festivities.
“You must be freezing,” he said to keep from dwelling upon Lucifer’s absence.
The goddess shrugged dismissively, glittered skin incandescent in the dark wake of the castle. Storm-makers’ daughters were never cold. Your contrived discern will not dissuade me, said the look in her greener then spring eyes.
Damn.
“I certainly hope you did not abandon Nanne and me to the torturously dull company of the elder gods just to mourn that of your Darkness.”
He arched a brow, impressed, but nonetheless offended by her nerve. “Did you in turn abandon her just to remind that I am alone on what should be the most joyful eve of all the year . . . ?”
All at once she softened in stance, expression, and tone. “Quite the contrary, actually. I am here to sulk alongside you.”
He snorted – the embroidered silver satin of long coat whispering against itself as he folded his arms across the solid breadth of his chest.
“What? Lucifer is always such wicked fun. A number of us were hoping he might regale us with his presence this year,” she disclosed with reluctant smile, laughter parting her pretty lips further a moment later. “And besides, Nanne could not be rid of me fast enough.”
He dare not even ask what she meant by that . . .
From out front there suddenly came a splitting screech. It was immediately followed by a chorus of shouts, Old Norse and Elvin flying back and forth, and then more screeching. The Elves had arrived.
The god and goddess blew around the corner to find a handful of grooms attempting to evade the whip-like tongues of two moderate sized dragons, scales flashing like polished pieces of night with each swivel of their sharp, triangular heads.
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Posted: Sun Jan 07, 2007 10:48 pm
~ CHRISTMAS IN ASGARD ~
(2 of 3)
“All of you back off!” Rhiannox thundered as he and Munin came forward, echoed by a silkier voice from the inside of the shrouded black carriage the creatures had brought with them.
The door swung open and out stepped the Dark Elf Lord – long scarlet robes and ebon tresses billowing into the wind as he uttered something else to the unruly Rhakshaa in his lilting native tongue. They stilled much to the relief of the grooms, whom until now had never had to deal with anything fiercer then the polar bears. And at least they looked cuddling. These things were nightmares with attitude.
“Tell me again,” Lucian queried while reaching back inside the compartment, “why we could not simply Apparate from the Ninth Circle.”
No one answered him as he drew out his Mate; her dainty, deadly claws clasped lovingly his gloved hand. Some traditions, though wearisome and impractical, were too charming to fight whole-heartedly.
“Ah, Rosebud, you look lovely.”
The Lightning Maker thought he saw the she-elf go red behind the teased poinsettia tresses as he also lent a hand. Even weighed down by the layers of her gown – a rose blooming upside down from the voluptuous stem that was her bodiced waist – she needed neither. Ever poised, ever proud, she was.
“Lovely? Just lovely?”
“Ravishing,” he amended quickly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. A formal gesture, one he intended to be benevolent, but was inevitably more. His lips lingered, his breath seen as it rolled across her warm cheeks. So he had seen her blush. The relationship between Prime and Consort had become ever so complicated since his death; since he had come to be with Lucifer in the Ninth Circle almost full-time, ruling Asgard vicariously through Memory and Grace, visiting Sitara and Xy’ran in Shangri La via his summons.
Let is be said that they learned to share Lucifer only by appreciating what qualities he found desirable in the other.
“Ahem.”
Rhiannox straightened and glared icicles at the culprit – his incorrigible cousin – whom evaded them with a blithe giggle before also greeting Orum-Fae with a kiss. Incorrigible and crazy. Then another sleigh jingled up. Yes, jingled, his very own Bellerophon in the bell-adorned harness. The grooms wisely maintained their distance. They had all heard stories of the great white stallion only the Heir had ever ridden. What a night the poor boys were in for.
“Happy Yule!” the Necromancer at the reins crowed, warranting a shake of the head from the fur-wrapped Guardian on the bench seat bedside him. Amused or mortified, it was difficult to say as the sleigh slowed to a stop just behind the carriage, ending the tuneless but nonetheless pretty noise of the silver chorus.
All the others gathered round as the two dismounted, the men exchanging handshakes and jovial hugs, the women kisses and compliments.
The fur discarded, a sheath of white chiffon gave Sitara’s five foot seven frame the illusion of a few extra inches, the neckline of her dress and especially the back of it dipping precariously low to properly showcase the snowy expanse of uninterrupted skin. The permanent loss of her wings had not damaged her self-esteem in the least. Her eyelashes may as well have been feathers, anyways, tripled in volume and length and then turned white, as had her eyebrows and bangs. They alone framed her face, the rest of her hair at the base of her neck in an intricate knot, diamond pins and earring flashing in fierce competiton with its beryl sheen.
Dressed to match in stylish white trousers and tapered tunic – his own hair loosely but neatly braided for once – the Necromancer gestured towards the entrance was a theatrical sweep of his arm.
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Posted: Sun Jan 07, 2007 10:50 pm
~ CHRISTMAS IN ASGARD ~
(3 of 3)
“Shall we then . . . ?”
“Tis’ not as if everyone is waiting just for us,” the Grey King hastened sarcastically, eager to have the Yule Ball on and over with as soon as possible. They all shirked the comment with a chuckle, a roll of the eyes or shoulder, accustomed to his humbugging by now.
It was always the same old story . . .
They filed up the torch-lined pathway, the elves in front, Sitara and Xy’ran in the middle, with Munin and Rhiannox grumpily bringing up rear were they observed him not so innocently trailing a finger along her exposed spine.
Newlyweds. Their shameless flirting only served to remind him that he walking with his cousin and not his Consort. His cousin! How utterly lame . . .
Through the arched stone entrance of the castle they went – the merry noise of the party inside bubbling briefly into the night as the massive doors opened and closed themselves for the last of the guests. Those inside quieted as they appeared at the top of the stairs, rapt by their foreign beauty, whispering excitedly as all but Rhiannox descended to the main floor.
An infinite number of candles floated above all their heads like tame fire flies, flecks of light cast carelessly about vast room by the chandelier in the center of the painted ceiling, a tiered feat of gold and dangling crystal. The one long table that skirted three sides of the room was piled high end to end with every edible delicacy one could imagine, fruits of every size, origin and color, whole loafs of bread, bottles of champagne, foaming pitchers of ale, beasts roasted whole and fancy desserts that were almost to pretty to eat. Almost. Munanne, as he sometimes called the sister goddesses, would no doubt decimate those dishes first.
And then there was the tree – the evergreen giant he had personally selected from the surrounding wood and conjured there to spare it the edge of an axe. It seemed a crime to cut down something almost as old as he was for the sake of decoration. But what a sight it was to behold now, thick boughs embellished with tinsel, velvet ribbons, and glittering trinkets of all sorts.
He wanted Lucifer to see it. He wanted Lucifer to be standing there with him as he addressed the throng of gods, goddesses, and other assorted beings. So much for Yuletide wishes coming true.
“Family, friends, comrades and honored guests,” he began, forcing a smile only a handful of them would be able to see through, “welcome to Asgard, and thank you for humoring me year after year.”
His bitterness was interpreted as humor by the majority, however, resulting in a gracious ripple of laughter. He ground his teeth behind that false face as he waited for it to die down.
“Without any further delay, let the celebration begin!”
There arose a cheer and so it did, the feasting, the dancing, and of course the drinking, which is what he from his seat for most the evening. His friends took turns keeping him company, Sitara, Orum-fae, Munin and Nanne all making a point to dance with him a time or two each, Lucian chatting with him about this and that and Xy’ran telling crude jokes while stealing sips of his brandy. The lad was a hilarious drunk. Even his new wife – who never had more then half a glass of anything – seemed to think so as he pulled her into his lap and began whispering dirty things into her ear, fondling her swan fair neck as if no one were watching. He was. And it turned his stomach as violently as if he had been punched.
“Excuse me,” he growled, snatching back his half empty tumbler and downing it at he stood.
“Hey!” The intoxicated Necromancer lunged for it too late, Sitara squeaking as she was spilled to the floor and then fallen upon, her will to chastise him sapped by the heady scent of liquor upon his breath as they kissed and rolled beneath the tablecloth where their could be as indecent as they liked.
The Thunder God had already lost himself in the twirling crowd . . .
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Posted: Sun Mar 18, 2007 1:06 pm
~ CATCH A FALLING STAR ~
(1 of ?)
“MURDER! MURDER!”
The runaway Heir of Asgard looked up from his still twitching kill – a sleek silver stag that even his fleeting mount Bellerophon had not been able to catch. One of his arrows had, though, felling the handsome animal at edge of a field blooming pink and white and now red. It had almost made it to the safety of the shadows of the trees . . .
“MURDER! MURDER!”
In Shangri La . . . ?
Paradise . . . ?
Doubtful, but the screams were too frantic to just ignore. Bellerophon shifted uneasily at the escalating clamor and flicking blood unremorsefully from his hunting knife, Rhiannox Lightning Maker rose to quiet him.
“Hush, my beauty.” He was a brusque man with gentle moments, smiling as he cupped the tall white stallion’s velvety muzzle in wind-chapped hands. His whiskers tickled.
“Shall we go see what all the fuss is about then . . . ?”
He skinned and butchered the rest of the stag in record time, rolling up the choice portions of meat in the hide and hanging the dripping bundle from his saddle horn before mounting up. The barest pressure of his heels and Bellerophon wheeled towards the screaming and leapt into a full-blown gallop. Rhiannox did not rein him into a safer gait because he too had a sudden sense of urgency.
Something was very, very wrong. The lush tangle of greens that was the Many Forests seemed to part for horse and rider and then suddenly there they were at the edge of the Lake of Birth where a menagerie of creatures had gathered around one, a bloody, broken mess of something.
“EVERYONE BACK!”
All the creatures jumped at the boom of thunder save the one, a lifeless heap in a spreading puddle of bright crimson and some blue, no, purple. He had only seen such a vibrant either or color amongst the plumage of rare exotic birds before, and because there was a sparse scattering of feathers, he assumed that was what it was. A bird.
Rhiannox touched down and a satyr kid skipped forward to take Bellerophon by the head. He did not consider himself an authority figure, but because he was powerful he was treated like one, and all the others bowed as he came forward to inspect the 'bird' more closely.
“Did anyone see it fall . . . ?”
“No, my Lord,” a nymph with weeping willow hair answered. Fynnia was her name. “I did not even hear a splash. I was drawn here.”
“Drawn here . . . ?”
She and the others nodded, all their eyes still riveted upon the 'bird' lying amidst them so stilly, as if willing it to stay alive. Suddenly it made a sound, a high, heart wrenching sound and all together they shuddered.
Such pain . . .
Such suffering . . .
Rhiannox felt it as well, and while he wondered why, how, he wanted most to put an end to it. To put it out of its misery. He drew his hunting knife, also drawing a gasp from the spectators, but no arguments. It had to be done. The poor thing was dying, but it could be hours still before it actually died. They lowered their gazes as he knelt in the blood, merciful death sharp and shining silver in one hand as the other reached out to peel back the blue-purple plastered to its upper body. He was looking for a vital point at which to slit or stab so it would be quicker then quick. Instantaneous.
He revealed its face and gasped. The others gasped again, echoed by the dropping of the knife. And then for a long, long time, all was silent as they stared.
The 'bird' was actually a she, and she was beautiful.
She was pale, so pale she was almost white, and when he touched her cheek he thought of rose petals. Her lips were that of a darker, fuller flower, and he imagined them pulled up into a perfect pout. His fingertips followed the lovely line of her jaw and he imagined that she was stubborn, too. No, he knew she was stubborn, and she was strong. Gods and Goddesses, was she strong! Magick of some nameless nature numbed his arm, but then all the rest of him was washed in the warmth of sunshine unlike that of the summer's day. This was different. This went deeper then just his skin. He was weightless, floating in it (whatever it was).
NO!
He jerked his hand back and reached for the knife again. If she was powerful enough to bespell him, a purebred god, as she was then she was too dangerous to let live. He raised the blade. It should have been easy, like cutting off the top of an iris, and yet he hesitated. The creatures behind him were holding their breaths, and even fidgety Bellerophon was still waiting for him to strike the killing blow.
And then she opened her eyes . . .
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Posted: Tue Apr 17, 2007 2:48 pm
~ A SINGLE MISTAKE ~
(1 of 4)
Funny how a single mistake can ruin an entire life . . . Or three.
But neither Orum-Fae Smirnov nor Sitara Mitsukai were expecting anything worse than heavy fines and possible probation for the assault and battery of a reporter who had ducked under the velvet rope at a charity event to get a comment from their employer and object of their affections, Lucifer DeVeau, owner and CEO of Ninth Circle Inc. It was, is, the most exclusive entertainment agency in all the United States. Europe, too, so soon as its reigning rock band Lightning Maker severed ties with its other agency and officially signed.
Said “other agency” was why the two bodyguards had been so tense that night on the red carpet at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Vittorio Marcello despised competition, and the Italian businessman had resorted to every rotten, ugly, underhanded, dirty trick in the book to keep the deal from going through, including the deadly. An explosive here, a poisoned glass of wine there, so no one could say Orum-Fae and Sitara had overreacted when their “victim” had reached into his jacket for something shiny. But because what looked like a knife was only a handheld voice recorder doing their job was suddenly considered assault and battery.
Honestly, though, the man was lucky to make it away with only a broken nose and shattered kneecap. Trained in as many martial arts and as knowledgable of all the ways of killing as the women were, it could have been much, much worse. If only the judge had the good sense to see it that way. If only their boyfriend did.
Yes, he signed their paychecks and shared their bed, but heaven forbid he should stand up for them in court so that the tabloids should suspect the latter . . .
Apparently, bad publicity was not good publicity in this case. Suave, debonair Lucifer DeVeau could not be tied to any women, let alone two on his payroll. After all, part of his public image was that he was single, he said. Attainable.
This hurt his bodyguards, his lovers, as he was about to find out . . .
Orum-Fae cursed as the limousine cruised over a bump, snapping her compact shut and stashing it and her lipstick into the compartment between her and Sitara, who was applying gloss like liquid glass to her own lips.
“I told you two when we were leaving, did I not . . . ?”
Rubies and sapphires shot looks just as hard and sharp across the cab towards the shadowy figure flipping through files upon the opposite bench seat.
“You did,” the slender twenty-three year old put away her makeup and scooted across the one they were sharing to help her partner fix hers, “and we would have been ready on time had you not made us change our clothes. Twice.”
“You were dressed for a club, not a courtroom.” Okay, so maybe they had worn those same dresses to Shangri La the night before, but since when was looking fabulous also a crime . . . ?
The redhead moved her mouth minimally as it was tenderly tidied up with a tissue by the other woman, but enough to ask another good question, and out loud.
“Why suddenly so concerned with how much we are or are not wearing . . . ?”
A very good question, actually. He never let what the public thought pull his strings and he sure as hell never told them to cover up. Not that even the third set of outfits they had tried on for him could be called modest . . .
Their pantsuits were of the same cut but of their respective colors, Orum-Fae’s crimson and Sitara’s navy, making the plunging triangles of pale skin all the more noticeable. The redhead was wearing steely stilettos, studs, and a choker of dark jewels to match the glimmering powder that made those garnet eyes of hers really pop. Burgundy tresses expertly teased – flared away from her face like flames – she looked positively sinful.
Her cooler counterpart was also wearing stilettos, but they were silvery and real sterling silver strand earrings spilled down her neck like twin streams, a third one of lapis lazuli down her back in a chic ponytail. It looked good on her because her eyes with the exact same shade of blue, absolutely striking, and rimmed with such full lashes that she needed no mascara. Her stare was enough to freeze any man or woman in his or her tracks.
Fire and ice, they were, as beautiful as they were dangerous and yet their boyfriend slash boss did not so much as raise his lovely lavender eyes up from the papers he had been perusing for most of the ride as he answered.
“Because you need to look like professionals, not arm candy.”
The redhead narrowed her gaze to a glare and the other straightened, turning that stare of hers on him full force. “Is that all we are to you . . . ?”
Well, that certainly got his attention, but before Lucifer could set the oh-so-important folders in his lap aside Orum-Fae was on the offensive again. “Not even, because to be arm candy we would actually have to be on your arm, and God knows you never let us lay so much as a finger on you or vice versa wherever there are cameras flashing.”
Lucifer started to say something but the younger bodyguard cut in right where the older (by a whopping two years) had left off with practiced precision. They were a team, and as many times as their synchronization had saved his life he cursed it now that it was working against him.
“If we are not your girlfriends and we are not your arm candy then the only other designation our situation brings to mind is ******** buddies.”
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Posted: Tue Apr 17, 2007 2:51 pm
~ A SINGLE MISTAKE ~
(2 of 4)
He stared at them. He had had not know they felt so strongly about being kept a secret. But then being their boyfriend (though his status as such was steadily slipping) perhaps the mogul should have.
“Dear ones,” Lucifer rose from his seat and relocated to theirs between the Russian and the door she purposefully position herself at for security reasons, “you know you are both very important to me – ”
“But not important enough to risk your reputation, right . . . ?”
He sighed and tried to turn her face towards him. His touch brought back memories of those skilled hands having their way with her curves, making her scream and writhe and shine with sweat from all three of their bodies, but she resisted and was relieved when it fell away. The blend of Eastern and Western blood on her other side was no more cooperative. He caressed her cheek but she flinched away from the slightest contact almost as if she had been burned.
Lucifer allowed something akin to hurt to enter his eyes, but only when Sitara turned hers up at him did he know what hurt truly was. They were swimming in salt and sorrow and something he had never seen in her eyes before but was sure he never wanted to see again. Hatred.
For whom, though . . . ?
Her and Orum-Fae for loving him, or him for not loving them back . . . ?
The capitalist thought he loved them, but he could not honestly say he knew for sure, and it was becoming an awkward issue. The fact that he had never acknowledged them in public might not be so painful if those three little words had escaped him even in private, or if he had ever done something as monumental as to imply that they meant more to him then sex or personal protection.
Of course they were wondering – any woman with some sense of her worth would.
But for the life of him he could not say it . . .
Not even when they needed to hear it most . . .
SMACK!
But his silence had said enough, it seemed, and Orum-Fae just snapped. The slap sent his head nearly spinning and Sitara jumped as the strident sound shattered the stillness of enclosed spaced. All their ears were ringing and his cheek no doubt stung, but Lucifer saw tears and predicted that the worst was still to come.
As usual, unfortunately, he was right . . .
The redhead swiped angrily at the tears streaking her perfect makeup and snuggled up to her partner who was hiding her own tears behind one of her many pairs of designer sunglasses, though because they were dripping onto her chest from her chin it was nonetheless heart wrenching to the man waiting for her reaction nearby.
“Good thing your reputation is worth so much,” she whispered finally with soft hiccup here and there, “because someday it is going to cost you a lot more then just us. Your ******** buddies.”
The impersonal CEO may have called her his Guardian Angel when they were all by themselves, but she spat that last sentence in his face as if it could injure him, on top of what the woman in her arms had already done. And, if only for a second, her words made him hate himself for the same reason they did.
But it was gone as soon as the limousine arrived at its destination and more reporters immediately swarmed the outside, much to the annoyance of those ignoring each other inside . . .
“Vultures,” the man that made millions on his balls and brass alone growled, smoothing the crisp creases of his black silk Armani suit habitually. The man who tolerated weeping women melted away and all that was left was the cold, calculating b*****d who was going to throw them under the bus to keep his stock sales up.
Lucifer addressed them just callously. “Enough, ladies. We cannot be late.”
“We already are late,” Sitara pointed out as she pretended to scan the swarm for the suits of the colleagues meeting them there – bodyguards that looked like bodyguards and not army candy – but even from behind her glasses he could feel her glare, and had he been a lesser man he would have shivered.
The door was opened for him, and with a flippant gesture of an elegant hand he slid out into the blaring light and noise, all pretty boy smiles that even though fake would certainly make great cover shots. This warranted a huff of disgust from both the affronted women. The whole song and dance had never bothered them that much before now, but then perhaps they had never really seen him before now, either . . .
From nothing he had built an empire everyone wanted a piece of but would not give an inch now that the entertainment world was his for the taking. Not even if that it meant so much to the two women who pleasured and protected him. Loved him with everything they were.
Why . . . ?
Because he was Lucifer DeVeau, and to get where he was one and to be untouchable, mind, body, heart and soul. Sitara punched the seat and this time it was Orum-Fae who jumped.
“How can he just turn it on and off like that . . . ?”
The older woman took the younger by the hand and kissed her knuckles with a sad, knowing smile. She was hurting, too, but they still had a job to do. They gave each other a squeeze then slid out of opposite doors, the redhead joining Lucifer and Julius and Alexander and her partner stepping out into the street where it was just as packed, but with cars instead of people. The driver stepped out as well, and as the parade of peons followed her lovers and colleagues towards the front of the courthouse she went to tell him when and where to pick them back up, and realized that her heart was pounding.
It was distant thunder in her ears, and her eyes began darting every which way looking for faces she recognized or for some reason just stood out as being dangerous. Instinct had always been the best weapon in her arsenal.
There.
Like before she saw something shiny in the crowd. Unlike before she got a good look as the man holding it made his way towards the center with clear purpose. To get a piece of the untouchable man, and no, not just a comment . . .
“GUN!”
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Posted: Tue Apr 17, 2007 5:16 pm
~ A SINGLE MISTAKE ~
(3 of 4)
Shouting turned out to be the best thing Sitara could have done. The gunman whirled, and with him two more men also holding weapons. Her eyes went wide, everything slowed down, and they opened fire.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
More shouting, and screaming too as everyone but the gunmen, their target and his three bodyguards hit the ground. Without the cover of the crowd it was just them against them. Good guys versus bad guys, the key difference (other then the obvious) being that Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest would not care if either one of their buddies got taken out . . .
Orum-Fae had seen her partner dive or drop behind the limousine now riddled with holes and spewing steam, but had no idea if she was alive, bleeding to death on the street or already dead. As much as the thought tore at her insides, Lucifer was alive, and she had to keep it that way. She moved between him and the hit men just as their weapons were coming back around, her hand going to the small of her back for hers. The grip was familiar and warm from being pressed up against her body, and she drew faster then they could pull their triggers even with guns cocked and ready.
But with Julius and Alexander manhandling their ward out of harm’s way, the odds were against her three to one . . .
The one shot she did get off counted, though, the bullet snapping the nearest thug’s head back before two others struck her in the shoulders. The impact was interesting, more like being hit with a pair of baseballs then a through and through sensation, and as the redhead reeled backwards she also heard her heart pounding in her ears but felt only a dull pain.
Being shot did not hurt as much as she expected it would . . .
“ORUM-FAE!”
Lucifer sounded so far away, she thought as she fell. She hit the concrete and she was still falling. He saw her eyes glaze over and called her name out again over the commotion.
“ORUM-FAE!”
There was a blur of unmistakable blue, and then his other lover was rolling across the ground with one of the unidentified men, the big one with all the scars. Those scars were a sign of how long he had been in the business and why she gone for him before his friend. Unlike the green gun just standing there, stunned stupid by the ambush, he would have kept shooting and made the kill . . .
He was formidable, but the woman had the advantage of surprise and snapped his neck with a wrench of her small frame before rolling onto her feet again. Her right arm was dripping red from a graze, but was working just fine, unfortunately for the green gun. She reached up her sleeve for one of the many blades she wore so discretely beneath the tailored pantsuit in a flash and then silver flew in both directions, one projectile silently, the other deafening.
They both hit their marks, but it was obvious who had the better aim as the third and last gunmen crumpled to the concrete with the handle of a throwing knife sticking straight up out if his mouth.
Lucifer was safe now.
Time resumed itself and Sitara hit her knees. Her life was spurting out of the side of her neck and no matter how hard she pressed she was powerless to hold it in. Her partner lay close by, also bleeding, also dying. She crawled, dragged herself over to the other woman, who was near the point of losing consciousness. Sitara collapsed by her side in the spreading pool, and they clasped hands. If they died, at least they would be together like always.
Rubies and sapphires locked on the wild lavender eyes of their lover half lidded, their feelings for him shining through the pain, their weak smiles through the blood.
“Get out of here, you stupid a**,” the redhead rasped.
“Go,” the other mouthed. With that tear in her throat she could hardly breathe, let alone speak loudly enough for him to hear all the way over there. Julius and Alexander had succeeded in dragging Lucifer a good ways, but at their gentle last urgings he struggled even harder then before, like a person possessed.
“NO!” he sobbed raggedly, and surged forward against the restraining hands back towards the broken beauties. The poetic part of him thought they looked like crushed flowers, their crimson and cerulean so bright compared to the boring shades of the city all around them. It was then, he realized, that they were the only things bright in his life.
And they were dying . . .
BLAM!
Lucifer staggered.
Orum-Fae screamed. Sitara did too, but there was no sound, just more blood and now tears.
Then blackness . . .
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Posted: Sun Apr 22, 2007 10:58 am
~ A SINGLE MISTAKE ~
(4 of 4)
. . . bleep . . .
. . . bleep . . .
. . . bleep . . .
Sitara opened one blue eye and surveyed the sterile room around her with rising apprehension. She was in the hospital. She hated hospitals, but at least she was alive. The room was silent but for that damned bleeping, and dark but for the pale light pouring through a window to her left through which she could see the people packed hallway. There were plenty of familiar faces.
Their crisp white shirts covered in blood, some of it hers, Julius and Alexander were talking to a cop who was carefully writing down what they were saying as they where saying it on a notepad and nodding sympathetically. They looked like hell, and probably felt worse. The poor things . . .
Nearby the Nordskov twins and their boyfriends (all looking like they had slept there in their clothes) were sharing a not nearly big enough couch, Nanne sleeping on Gabriel’s shoulder and Xy pushing a cup of coffee into Munin’s hands. The infamously caffeine crazy brunette wrapped her fingers around its warmth but did not so much as take a sip, making him frown. He started to say something but everyone was on edge as it were, so he kept whatever it was to himself and kissed her temple before leaning back and letting her have her space. A smart move.
All their eyes, brown, blue, and two shades of green focused on something or someone out of the frame of the window. It was the third Nordskov who came running up, his clothes also rumpled and his so blonde they were almost silver curls partly undone from their ponytail. He only wore his hair down on stage or on dates with Lucian, she had noticed now that it was so wild. Short cuts being part of the dress code for men, it was more easily managed way back when they had both been bouncers at Shangri La.
Nowadays she and the girls partied there whenever he was headlining . . .
Orum-Fae . . .
She was in the bed next to Sitara, her body encased in bandages and every other inch of pale skin stuck with pads and needles and tubes. She was still beautiful, though, her expression peaceful and her red hair spread across the pillows around her head like rose petals. And her condition was stable, from what sense Sitara could make from the monitors on the other side.
She looked beyond them for another bed, for her other lover who was surely in better shape then they and probably perusing the paper for articles about the assassination attempt he survived, arrogant b*****d that he was.
Just another blank wall.
The bleeping quickened and the quiet of the room became less calming and more claustrophobic every excruciating second she did not were Lucifer was and whether he was alive or dead. She wanted to cry out but realized there was a breathing tube down her throat and stitches beneath the collar of bandages. She wanted to sit up but there were restraints around her wrists and ankles holding her to bed. All the distraught young woman could do was thrash, and thrash she did, so much that the stitches in her right arm ripped and her monitors started screaming.
Almost immediately doctors and nurses with more needles came running. The pounding of their footsteps added to the pounding of blood in her ears and then all their hands were on her trying to hold her down. It took all of them to sedate her as Rhi and the others watched, their eyes glossed over with tears. He put his palm against the glass and ice somehow found sapphires through all the surrounding bodies. There were tears in her eyes, too.
He had never seen her look so afraid . . .
“Maybe you should go in there,” Nanne suggested softly, pressed against Gabriel’s side as if he were the last solid thing on earth. Reality as they knew it did seem to be disintegrating rather rapidly.
“And tell her what . . . ?”
They both looked at Munin, who although still separated had reached over and taken Xy’s hand as she stared at the horrible scene. She was holding on so hard both their knuckles were white.
“That she and Orum-Fae will survive but Lucifer is in a coma and might never wake up . . . ?”
Point taken. That information would certainly succeed where the bullets had failed. They all silently agreed that keeping both women sedated was the kindest thing, but Rhi hated himself for not being in there to hold Sitara’s hand as those sapphires lost their light and slid shut.
Because if Lucifer never woke up neither would she nor Orum-Fae . . .
NO!
He could not think like that if he was going to stay strong for Lucian and everybody else. He had to be the rock they all gathered around now.
A single mistake, three lives at stake, many more that may be shattered and it was anything but funny . . .
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