Blood Tint ~ Part 12

{Start with Part 1}

Blood Tint ~ Part 12

Cyrano’s was dark wood, clove, tobacco, and hash smoke, and loud jazz; quite the assault to walk into off the street. Both Daci and I paused a moment at the threshold, mentally bracing. Neave caught us doing it and gave us a concerned look before we waved her in and followed. Being so full of her was quite a high, and there were resources to spare for the sensory flood.

Stepping into the space, full of artists and hangers on, I picked up tastes, tiny bits of people’s emotions; a state of receptivity I don’t usually achieve, though one that Daci lives with almost constantly. The whole place was tipsy and happy, proud and horny. It was easy to flow into it all.

“Neave! Neave Flynn, you harlot!”

Poul, the guest of honor, sat at a set of conjoined tables festooned with empty and half-drunk beer and wine glasses with a dozen other people, some of whom I recognized from the opening. He was tall, thin to the point of gauntness, and pale. He looked far more classically vampiric than I, in fact, down to the noble’s peak in his shock of black hair and pointed, predatory face.

After rising to give Neave a kiss on each cheek, he turned that face to me in a frankly assessing look. He was a head taller than I, with a casually intimidating stance.

“Cambodia?”

“Thailand,” I replied. He fairly oozed Shiraz, which made reading him difficult. The way he looked between Neave and I…

“No, that’s not it.”

Belligerence was easily explained by alcohol, but I found myself bridling a little anyway. Ayutthaya _was_ part of what became Thailand. I shrugged it off as Neave put a hand on each of our shoulders.

“This is Alak, Poul,” she said, concern mixed with curiosity at our reactions to each other, “He’s okay.” She did not clarify who that was meant for.

“I’m sure,” he said, wearing a calculating look. I swear I was just not reading him well! Daci was so much better at this. Poul was either naturally libidinous or flirting before we arrived – his desire was easy to detect, but its direction was not. And there was something about the way he turned his body: presenting a shoulder as if to wedge it between Neave and I, that made me want to knock him flying across the room…

Where had that impulse come from? I’d encountered jealous lovers dozens of time before – both as interloper and object of desire. Why was this one, however haughty, getting under my skin? Or… was
_I_ feeling the tinge of jealousy in myself? It surprised me and I almost missed it when Poul offered me a hand. I shook it warily, somehow finding the offer and grip additionally agitating. Neave looked between the two of us, uncertain what was going on and whether it needed stopping.

“Please introduce me as well to your friend, Neave?”

Daci’s voice cut through the tension – highlighting just how much had built up in such short a time, but Neave hastily complied, Daci dismissing her apologetic tone with a peck on the cheek. Poul’s eyes, and then his body turned towards Daciana, his entire expression lightening, and then narrowing into something entirely wolfish.

“Ahh, Neave’s new ‘secretary’, I presume,” He said, taking Daci’s hand to his lips.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about,” Daci said, laying on her home accent thickly. Poul’s eyebrows rose from his kiss.

“Hmmm… Hungary. No- Romania!”

Daci beamed and nodded, looking flattered at his ability to place her origin.

“How long have you been in the states? Visiting?”

“For a few months, yes. New York is such an exciting city!” And with that Daci was the Eastern European ingénue, impressed by the sophisticated Modern Artist.

It took mere moments, for Poul to seem like he’d forgotten Neave, or I, or anyone else was nearby, much less that this was his party. He’d locked focus on Daciana, whose little smile I recognized as his arm snaked around her shoulder to turn her into a more private conversation.

The transformation was so rapid it startled Neave, who turned to me, concerned.

“Did she cast some kind of spell on him?”

I chuckled, “No, though he may have done so to himself.”

“Do I need to be worried about either of them?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” She might well have saved Poul – and me – from something fairly unfortunate. I smiled at her and offered my arm. “Will you introduce me to some more of your friends?”

“You!” A short, red faced, and clearly pleasantly inebriated woman shouted and pointed at me just then, “Guernica or Bardia?”

{Continued in Part 13}