IN THE WORKS
Los Angeles, CA
Skye had dreamed of him again last night, a tall dark man clad in a long black leather coat. Hair the color of ebony fell to his waist, the perfect compliment to his copper-hued skin and deep blue eyes. His features were strong and beautifully masculine, from his fine straight brows to his high cheekbones and hawk-like nose.
It was the same dream she'd had every night since she'd gone to the Natural History Museum to photograph their Indians of North America exhibit three weeks ago.
Skye didn't know why she was dreaming about an Indian who had lived over a hundred and fifty years ago, or why, in her dreams, he wore faded blue jeans and a black tee shirt instead of the breechclout and feathers he wore in the museum's life-sized cut-out. A placard stated that his name had been Wolf Who Walks in the Wild Wind, and that he had been a man of some importance in his tribe.
Skye blew out a sigh. Perhaps she dreamed of him simply because his image had captured her imagination, so much so that she had spent the last thirty minutes standing in the museum staring at his picture, thinking it was a shame that men like Wolf Who Walks in the Wild Wind didn't exist any more. Of course, it was probably just as well. Most of today's women wouldn't know what to do with a strong, independent, alpha male. They wanted men who were caring and sensitive, men who were willing to help with the dishes and change the baby's diaper.
Today's women didn't want to be taken care of. They wanted to go out into the world and earn a living and be treated as equals. They didn't want to stay home and raise children. They wanted to prove they could do anything a man could do, and do it better.
Kick-ass heroines, that was what the women of the world wanted to be these days. A part of her wanted to be a woman like that – strong-willed and confident, able to fight her own battles, dependent on no one, and yet another part of her couldn't help thinking it might be exciting to live with the kind of man who took what he wanted, a man strong enough to defend her honor, or her life, if need be. A man who would climb the highest mountains, cross the deepest rivers, or slay a fire-breathing dragon to save her. Not that there was much call for that kind of thing these days, she thought with a grin. Still, it would be nice to have a man like that, a combination of Superman and Mick St. John, with a dash of Tom Cruise, and a smidgen of a young Clark Gable added for good measure.
Skye sighed as she gazed at the Indian's face again.
And had the oddest sensation that he was looking back at her.
Wolf rested his foot on the bar rail, one hand curled around a glass of rye whiskey. Standing there, he found himself thinking of the woman in the museum again. She had been much in his mind since he had first seen her in Los Angeles three weeks earlier - a petite, slender woman with an abundance of wavy chestnut hair and beautiful, honey-brown eyes. She had been standing in front of a life-sized cut-out that been blown up from a picture some Western photographer had taken of him back in the late 1800s.
Keeping out of sight, Wolf had watched her as she studied the cut-out from every possible angle. It was an amazing likeness, if he did say so himself.
Curious to know more about her, he had followed her out of the museum. She had gone shopping at Nordstrom's, taken in a movie, had dinner with a tall, blond young man who had driven her home and kissed her goodnight at her door step. Wolf had been surprised by the sharp stab of jealousy he had experienced while he watched the two of them embrace.
Wolf had lingered in the shadows outside her house long after she had gone inside, bemused by his jealousy over a woman he didn't know. Later, after he had dined on a succulent brunette, he had returned to this place, safe from the hunters and the bleeders, but determined to see her again.
Wolf glanced around the Ten Spot Saloon. The occupants were a rough lot, untutored cowhands in stovepipe chaps and cowhide vests; ruthless gamblers wearing white linen shirts and fancy cravats; drummers clad in striped suits and bowler hats; blue-clad troopers from the nearby fort. And flitting among them like colorful butterflies were the soiled doves, cooing and wooing, enticing the men to the cribs upstairs. The air was rank with the stink of cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and unwashed bodies. The painting behind the long mahogany bar featured a buxom, red-haired nude reclining on a bearskin rug.
Wolf blew out a sigh. He much preferred the more refined haunts of the future, but these days it was dangerous to linger there for too long. Vampyres, once accepted by humankind, were now hunted relentlessly by the Hunter-Slayers who had sworn to wipe the Undead from the face of the earth. Then there were the Bleeders -- humans who hunted Vampyres for their blood and sold it on the black market for its alleged aphrodisiac powers.
And so Wolf traveled back and forth from the past to the present, feeding in the future, hiding in the past. Although, with his obvious Lakota heritage, it wasn't always safe in the past, either.
He grinned ruefully. It seemed that no matter what century he resided in, someone was out to kill him.
This one is really IN THE WORKS, since I've started it three times!!!!! Since I havent found a name for my hero yet, he is just xx
He hadn't always been a monster. There had been a time when he was an ordinary man, gifted with horses and cards and always a favorite of the ladies. Ah, the ladies. How he had loved them – rich ones, poor ones, fat or thin, ugly or fair, he had delighted in them all. He had pleasured them by night or by day and even when he tired of this one or that one and moved on, they forgave his perfidy with a smile.
Perhaps it had been Lady Fate who sent him into a London tavern that night and into the arms of a woman unlike any other he had ever known. Her hair had been the color of fire which had only served to make her fair skin seem all the more pale. Her delicate brows had risen like the wings of a graceful sparrow about to take flight, her lips had been moist, as red as summer roses.
She had smiled at him, a beguiling smile meant to tempt him, but it had been her eyes that captivated him. Green and slanted like a cat's, they seemed to hold all the secrets of the world.
He didn't remember moving, but he was suddenly standing beside her, drowning in the depths of those mesmerizing emerald-green eyes.
"Come along," she had said, her voice smooth as silk. "You'll do nicely."
He had followed her out of the tavern without question.
Spent a night of heaven in her arms.
And woke alone and in hell the night after. He shuddered as the memory of that night came back to him….
Pain such as he had never known tore through him, like knives slicing through his insides.
He had glanced wildly around him, with no memory of where he was or how he had gotten there. He stumbled outside, filled with mindless rage and a thirst unlike anything he had ever known.
He had lifted his head as he caught the scent of blood on the air. Warm, fresh blood. He'd followed it blindly until he found the source – a dying man with a knife in his chest. But all he saw was the bright red blood and the sudden awareness that the blood was what he craved.
Falling to his knees, he ripped the knife from the man's chest and lapped up the blood oozing from the wound like a hungry kitten who'd just found a bowl of cream.
He sighed as the pain was replaced by a sense of power and euphoria. Sitting back on his ankles, he stared at the body and wondered why he wasn't repulsed by what he'd done.
He sat there a long time, staring at the world around him, seeing it as if for the first time. Although it was pitch black where he was, he saw everything as clearly as if it was midday. He heard distant voices, the sounds of the city he could hear but couldn't see, a child sobbing, the sound of coach wheels on cobblestones. The scents of earth and foliage teased his nostrils.
He rose effortlessly and began to run. Exhilaration filled him as he ran effortlessly for miles, his feet hardly touching the ground. He easily covered miles without breaking a sweat.
What the hell had happened to him? Had someone slipped a drug of some kind into his ale?
He had slowed to a stop as his memory of the night before came back in bits and pieces. The tavern where he had stopped for a drink. The woman who had joined him at the bar, her glorious red hair framing the face of a temptress. He had looked deep into her mesmerizing green eyes and, like a sheep being led to slaughter, he had followed her out into the night…and into a new life….