Why Are All the Good Guys Total Monsters? (3 page)

‘Phone if you need me. Phone if you don’t,’ she said, and
gave me a list of contact numbers before driving off.

The cat went with her, so I didn’t even have him for
company, but then the realisation that the whole city was just outside the
front door filled me with such enthusiasm that I grabbed my bag, secured the
house, and stepped out into the cobbled alley. It was in the heart of the city.
Nearby, there were lots of shops, cafes and restaurants bustling with activity.
The sun was already burning a hole in the bright blue sky, and the sense of
being there charged right through me.

I was so spoiled for choice about where to go and what to do
that I ended up going everywhere. I headed first to the shops in Princes Street, one of the main thoroughfares with everything from large department stores
to boutiques.

Hunger pangs finally made me slow down long enough to grab a
snack lunch which I enjoyed at an open air cafe, sitting watching the crowds go
by.

‘I think you dropped this,’ someone said.

I looked up to see a guy standing there. His tall, lean
build shaded the warmth from the sunshine, and his unruly blond hair was
silhouetted against the light. He was holding a small, metallic charm between
his fingers. It looked like a faerie charm, possibly made of silver or white
gold.

‘It’s not mine,’ I said, gazing up at him, feeling the
colour rise in my cheeks. He was gorgeous. Unusual but gorgeous. In fact, he
was the most unusual guy I’d ever seen. He was about the same age as me,
eighteen at most. His clothes were in varying shades of grey. The top he wore
was made from a fabric I’d never seen before, like silk–kissed cotton, and the
short sleeves exposed his strong but lithe, pale arms. From where I was
sitting, his bare forearms looked perfect, as if honed from snow quartz. Had he
stood still, he could have been mistaken for a flawless statue — except for one
thing — a scar, so fine I thought it was a strand of silver on his sculptured
cheekbone. But it was a scar, exquisite in its imperfection.

His pale grey eyes sparkled as if someone had sprinkled
stardust in them, and he looked right at me, taking in my long, straight,
blonde hair that was the colour of his in shadow.

‘You sure this doesn’t belong to you?’ His subtle Scottish
accent had an international edge to it.

‘Yes. It looks like a charm off a bracelet. I don’t have a
charm bracelet.’

‘My mistake,’ he said, fixing me with a lingering gaze that
gave me goose bumps. ‘On holiday, are you?’

‘Eh . . . yes.’

‘The London accent,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Enjoy
your time in Edinburgh.’

‘I plan to, thanks.’

Before I could think of anything interesting to say, instead
of blushing and feeling the need to fuss with my hair, he’d walked away. I
noticed that he stood out from the crowd and I studied him until he disappeared
into the sea of people. There was something about him. Something beautifully
untamed. Not just his pale, blond looks, but the way he moved, smooth,
athletic, like he was stronger than he should be and could run like the wind.

I blinked back to reality. The heady thrill of being in the
city was obviously making me giddy and yet . . . I kept thinking about him for
the rest of the day. I couldn’t get him out of my thoughts. If I hadn’t known
better, I’d have said I’d been spellbound, but I didn’t believe in things like
that.

A mellow afternoon sun eventually gave way to a long,
languid evening. By now I was relaxing in Orlaith’s back garden having zapped a
delicious dinner in the microwave. I’d poured myself a tall glass of iced fruit
juice, and then set up my camera to take a picture that I planned to email to
my friend, Lauren, back home in London, as proof that Edinburgh was brilliant.

I emailed the photograph and got a, ‘Wow! Look at you!’
message back from her.

I’d just settled down again outside when the sky darkened to
a threatening grey. Dark clouds seemed to press the breath right out of the day
and the scent of a storm filled the air. I’ve always been attuned to the
atmosphere, to nature, to scents, and since I was little I could tell when a
storm was on its way. It smelled like metal, salt and sulfur. And the fragrance
of the flowers was so strong. This was a definite sign of rain.

Within minutes it was pouring down like it had a grudge
against something. I ran for shelter, not to the house but under the branches
of the big umbrella tree. I wanted to enjoy the energy and spectacle of it all.
I love rainstorms, always have.

Then I saw lightning rip across the sky and realised that
the tree was not the ideal shelter.

I was just about to run to the house when I saw the tall
figure of a young man, very pale, dark hair, soaking wet, long coat, standing
in the shadows near the house.

I can fight like a tiger when cornered and have trained in
martial arts (jiu-jitsu) since I was ten years old. Thanks mum. However, the
sight of him standing there scared the wits out of me.

‘Vesper, don’t be scared. I just want to talk to you.’ His
voice was deep, resonating, and similar in accent to the blond guy who’d
approached me about the charm.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded, trying to sound braver than I
probably was and wondering how he knew my name.

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Sabastien?’ I murmured.

‘Yes. Trust me, I don’t mean you any harm. I came to warn
you.’

‘Warn me?’

‘Yes, you’re in danger.’

‘What type of danger?’

He stepped out of the shadows, and the pale skin of his
hauntingly handsome face was highlighted in the rain. He pointed behind me.
‘From them.’

I spun around to see faeries, no bigger than the Fairy moth,
flying through the branches of the umbrella tree, through the flowers and the
rain. Their faces were exquisite but dangerous, their wings translucent — and a
sense of menace singed the air.

I don’t remember how I managed to stand my ground, but I do
remember Sabastien throwing a handful of dust, like firelight, into the air.
The particles fell down around me, becoming sparkling white snowflakes in the
night.

He whispered something, not to me or to himself, but somehow
to the night itself. And the only word I understood was spellbound.

‘Leave her alone!’ a voice roared
through the storm.

The blond guy I’d met earlier was standing in the garden as
if he’d appeared from nowhere. Had he?

Anger burned across the ice cold features of his face, the
pale grey eyes two slivers of glistening intensity.

The menacing little faeries fled in terror, leaving the
three of us alone, with only the sound of the rain pouring off the leaves.

I stood there, frozen in fear, soaked to the skin, my flimsy
summer top and jeans dripping wet, rivulets of water running down my hair.

‘Come with me, Vesper,’ Sabastien said calmly, stepping
closer, putting himself in front of me like a shield against the other’s rage.
They were similar in age and height, both taller than me, well over six feet. I
barely came up to their shoulders.

I hesitated, my senses at odds, warning me, yet tempting me.
Up close Sabastien’s eyes were lilac. He was beautiful, with dark wet hair
swept back from his flawless face. When he held his hand out to me, I felt my
hand accept it.

‘No!’ the other guy shouted. ‘You cannot trust him. Step
away from him.’

I felt Sabastien’s grasp tighten around my hand, his strong,
smooth fingers urging me to side with him. ‘Who would you trust?’ he said to me
in a deep, velvety voice. ‘Daire, who frightens little faeries half to death,
or me, who tried to warn you of the dangers?’

Daire? Who was he anyway? What was he? And who was
Sabastien? My mind was in turmoil. I couldn’t think straight, could hardly
breathe, and then my own defiance kicked in, that stubborn trait in my nature,
giving me the impetus to break free from Sabastien’s grasp.

I hate being pressured, being cornered. I wanted to run, to
run away from both of them. Who did I trust? Neither of them. I just wanted out
of there, and pulled myself free of him.

But Sabastien wasn’t letting go. He reached out, grabbed my
wrist and pulled me back to him, so close I could see starlight in his eyes.
And then I felt myself falling . . . falling into their mesmerising depths. He
was so hard to resist, and yet my instincts were screaming at me to get a grip
of my senses and run.

I didn’t get a chance to run. Daire wrenched hold of
Sabastien, pulled him away from me and threw him to the ground with a
bone–jarring thud. The hem of Sabastien’s long, dark coat was edged with purple
thorns. They cut right through the stems of the Cupid’s darts, scattering the
flowers across the grass at my feet.

Before Sabastien regained his senses, Daire lifted me up and
carried me across the wet grass to the patio. His movements were elegant, and
the ease with which he lifted me confirmed my thoughts that he was far stronger
than he seemed.

My arm was around his shoulder, holding on, and I felt his
hair, which was long enough to touch the collar of his unusual grey jacket,
brush against my fingers. Even when wet, his hair felt like silk, and the
smooth texture of his skin tempted me to touch it to see if it was real — if he
was real.

His profile was perfection, and I saw his dazzling white
teeth through his parted lips as his breath poured like mist into the air.
Sabastien was beautiful, but Daire was something else. I wanted to know who he
was and why he looked at me as if it troubled him.

He put me down carefully, fixed me with a look, and then
turned back towards the garden, no doubt planning to finish the fight he’d
started with Sabastien. But Sabastien had disappeared.

Daire hurried to where he’d left him and searched around,
but there was no sign of him anywhere. Sabastien had gone, as mysteriously as
he’d arrived.

Daire walked back towards me, the soaking wet fabric of his
dark grey trousers clinging to the lithe muscles of his thighs. He moved like
an athlete, and I stood where I was in the partial shelter of the patio doors
watching him, admiring him, even though I knew I was being foolish to think
such things. Daire could be dangerous — gorgeous but dangerous. But I guess
there’s always been a part of me that’s drawn to this, like a moth to the
flame.

The rain ran down the broad shoulders of his grey leather
jacket. It was leather, wasn’t it? Maybe it wasn’t, I thought, studying it
closely. Flecks of silver sparkled here and there, and it had to be designer
quality, that deliberate well–worn look that was so expensive.

‘He’s gone,’ Daire said, towering above me, lit up by the
lanterns in the patio.

I was alone with him now — all alone with this intriguing
stranger.

The droplets of rain trickled down his face, tracing the
chiselled shape of his straight nose, high cheekbones, clean jaw line and
expressive lips. My skin was naturally fair, but his was far paler. He could’ve
been a model or a movie star, though I got the distinct impression that neither
of these professions would’ve interested him.

‘Who are you, Daire?’ I said, looking up at him. ‘This is
private property. You’ve no right to intrude. I should call the police.’

He didn’t answer me.

‘And what about the . . .’ I could hardly bring myself to
say the word, ‘faeries?’

‘I tried to warn you about Sabastien,’ he said. ‘He’s a
master of tricks and deceit.’

‘You’re saying he made me hallucinate that I was seeing
faeries?’

‘Something like that,’ he said.

‘So there weren’t any faeries?’

He gave me a look that I’d never seen before from anyone. It
was scorching, haunting, enticing. ‘Do you believe there were?’ he said.

I blinked and ran my hands through my wet hair, trying to
clear my thoughts.

‘Well, do you?’ he said.

‘I don’t believe in faeries. I never have.’

His expression turned to ice, and I sensed I’d said
something that had cut him to the bone. His eyes glared daggers at me. Right
now, I’d have said that Daire was the bad guy and taken my chances with
Sabastien.

‘What?’ I said, prompting him to tell me what was bugging
him.

He shook his head at me. ‘Nothing.’

‘What is it you want from me?’ I said. ‘What are you doing
here?’

His unfathomable eyes gave nothing away. ‘I had your
interests at heart, but I see I was wasting my time.’

Grrr! He answered questions without really answering them. I
felt he wanted to tell the truth, but needed to hide it for some odd reason,
and yet lying didn’t come easily to him. He was telling the truth, a version of
it that skimmed the facts without revealing anything. It was so frustrating.

‘Can’t you just give me a straight answer?’ I’m sure he
couldn’t miss the exasperation in my voice.