Dragon Storm
Page 32
The street outside the hotel wasn’t busy, it being one of the smaller off-the-beaten-path streets in an area given over mostly to folks who may not be strictly mortal, but I heard the low growl long before I saw its source.
I didn’t know what I expected other than, perhaps, one of those low-slung Italian sports cars, but when the growl—and Constantine—rounded the corner, I realized why he had inquired after my head.
“I brought this for you,” he said, handing me a glossy black helmet. I took it, pursing my lips in a silent whistle as I eyed the motorcycle that rumbled beneath him. It was mostly black, like the helmet, but had an intricate silver dragon painted on the body, starting with a tail that coiled over the rear tire, to iridescent flames that spewed out over the handlebars.
“That is a hell of a bike,” I said, pulling on the helmet without bothering to worry about how it would squash my hair.
“I enjoy riding it. I was seldom able to because I was never sure when I would run out of energy, but now…” He made an indefinable gesture. “Now that is not a concern.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ve lost some indefinable part of what makes you, you?” I asked, climbing on behind him when he gestured toward the rear. Without even asking permission, my body hugged his, my thighs sliding with apparent familiarity around his, my arms around his torso before I knew what they were doing.
“Being a spirit, you mean?” He gunned the engine, making the machine roar into life before it settled back to a low growl. “No. I am a wyvern. Wyverns do not disappear into nothing because they’ve run through their available energy. Allons-y!”
“Oooh, are you a Doctor Who fan, too?” I yelled when the bike leaped forward. Constantine, being all immortal and such, didn’t bother with a helmet, which just meant I could surreptitiously bury my face in his hair.
“A what fan?” he yelled back, not turning his head.
I bit back the urge to start an Abbott and Costello “Who’s on First” bit, and simply yelled back that it didn’t matter, and then settled down to enjoy the sensation of my arms around him, and his hair caressing my cheeks with little silken whips.
The combination of wind and his hair made my eyes stream, so I closed them and concentrated on trying to pinpoint just what his scent was. It reminded me of a walk through the woods, with pine needles crunching underfoot, and sunlight streaming through the branches to touch upon dark, rich earth. Pine, I decided, with a hint of moss, and just the faintest whiff of a rare, exotic spice as a top note.
I sucked in vast quantities of air, enjoying the smell from his hair, and was indulging in a little bit of fantasy wherein neither one of us had to deal with a demon lord, when he pulled up at a red light and turned his head to speak.
“Why are you snuffling in my ear? Are you trying to bite it?”
“Me?” I recoiled for a moment, almost lost my balance, and grabbed his belly again. “No! I would never do such a thing.”
“Then you must be excited about visiting the Curiosités Demonia shop. I do not blame you—the proprietor is most comprehensive in his range of merchandise.”
“I really don’t care about—”
A blast of a taxi horn interrupted my protestation, and given that Constantine had to swerve up onto the sidewalk (scattering the few people contained thereon) in order to avoid hitting the taxi, I decided that it would be better for him to focus on driving.
Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a small white stone annex to what looked like a miniature version of Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. “Mother of marmots, is that a church next to the sex shop?” I asked, nodding to the glorious white three-story building. It was all small domes and gorgeous stone columns, and detailed stonework that included fleur-de-lis, six-pointed stars, and various symbols of the moon.
“That? No. This way.” He opened the door to the annex building (uninspiring décor-wise compared to its compatriot), and ushered me through a jet-black curtain.
I’ve been in sex shops before, so I was expecting bright lights, tacky plastic packaging around items of all shapes, sizes, and colors, along with a rack of cheaply made costumes, and possibly even a back room where the whips and restraints were kept. What I found was something altogether different.
“Wow.” My voice was small and hushed as I looked around the open floor. Long, low umber benches sat before items displayed in recessed wall cases, the kind with tasteful lighting from above and below. Next to each recess was a discreet label that, upon closer inspection, gave the item name and price. “It’s like a museum, or a high-class art gallery.”
There were a few people in the shop, a couple of ladies who sat with their heads together in front of a red leather harness that was draped over what looked like a classical Greek marble statue. At the far end, a curved desk sat, with two tiny modernistic chairs, which were occupied by a male and female couple who reminded me of beatniks from the 1950s—they wore hipster sunglasses, were all in black, had long, straight hair, and the man sported a long amber cigarette holder that was (thankfully) empty of a cigarette.
“The tortoise-shaped nipple teasers are over here,” Constantine said, pulling me over to one of the lit mini-alcoves.
“Yes, indeed they are,” I agreed, trying not to raise my eyebrows at both the price (two hundred euros) and the subject matter (your basic nipple suction devices made out of tortoiseshell). “So, now that we’re here, I wonder if we could have a little chat.”
“Would you like a set?” Constantine didn’t wait for an answer; he turned and lifted his hand in the air. As if by magic, a small, dark man with black hair that was slicked back on his head glided out from behind a section of the wall that must have led to another room. “Ah, Balzac. I wondered if you were about.”
“Balzac? You’re kidding, right?” I asked softly, but had to school the disbelief off my face when the man stopped in front of Constantine. He made me a bow, then repeated it to Constantine, saying, “Monsieur Wyvern of Norka. The sight of you here, in my humble shop brings joy to my heart, and tears to my eyes. The Curiosités Demonia has missed your presence.”
Constantine inclined his head graciously, and waved a hand toward me. “This is Bee Dakar. She is interested in your nipple teasers.”
“No, really, I’m not—”
I didn’t know what I expected other than, perhaps, one of those low-slung Italian sports cars, but when the growl—and Constantine—rounded the corner, I realized why he had inquired after my head.
“I brought this for you,” he said, handing me a glossy black helmet. I took it, pursing my lips in a silent whistle as I eyed the motorcycle that rumbled beneath him. It was mostly black, like the helmet, but had an intricate silver dragon painted on the body, starting with a tail that coiled over the rear tire, to iridescent flames that spewed out over the handlebars.
“That is a hell of a bike,” I said, pulling on the helmet without bothering to worry about how it would squash my hair.
“I enjoy riding it. I was seldom able to because I was never sure when I would run out of energy, but now…” He made an indefinable gesture. “Now that is not a concern.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ve lost some indefinable part of what makes you, you?” I asked, climbing on behind him when he gestured toward the rear. Without even asking permission, my body hugged his, my thighs sliding with apparent familiarity around his, my arms around his torso before I knew what they were doing.
“Being a spirit, you mean?” He gunned the engine, making the machine roar into life before it settled back to a low growl. “No. I am a wyvern. Wyverns do not disappear into nothing because they’ve run through their available energy. Allons-y!”
“Oooh, are you a Doctor Who fan, too?” I yelled when the bike leaped forward. Constantine, being all immortal and such, didn’t bother with a helmet, which just meant I could surreptitiously bury my face in his hair.
“A what fan?” he yelled back, not turning his head.
I bit back the urge to start an Abbott and Costello “Who’s on First” bit, and simply yelled back that it didn’t matter, and then settled down to enjoy the sensation of my arms around him, and his hair caressing my cheeks with little silken whips.
The combination of wind and his hair made my eyes stream, so I closed them and concentrated on trying to pinpoint just what his scent was. It reminded me of a walk through the woods, with pine needles crunching underfoot, and sunlight streaming through the branches to touch upon dark, rich earth. Pine, I decided, with a hint of moss, and just the faintest whiff of a rare, exotic spice as a top note.
I sucked in vast quantities of air, enjoying the smell from his hair, and was indulging in a little bit of fantasy wherein neither one of us had to deal with a demon lord, when he pulled up at a red light and turned his head to speak.
“Why are you snuffling in my ear? Are you trying to bite it?”
“Me?” I recoiled for a moment, almost lost my balance, and grabbed his belly again. “No! I would never do such a thing.”
“Then you must be excited about visiting the Curiosités Demonia shop. I do not blame you—the proprietor is most comprehensive in his range of merchandise.”
“I really don’t care about—”
A blast of a taxi horn interrupted my protestation, and given that Constantine had to swerve up onto the sidewalk (scattering the few people contained thereon) in order to avoid hitting the taxi, I decided that it would be better for him to focus on driving.
Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a small white stone annex to what looked like a miniature version of Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. “Mother of marmots, is that a church next to the sex shop?” I asked, nodding to the glorious white three-story building. It was all small domes and gorgeous stone columns, and detailed stonework that included fleur-de-lis, six-pointed stars, and various symbols of the moon.
“That? No. This way.” He opened the door to the annex building (uninspiring décor-wise compared to its compatriot), and ushered me through a jet-black curtain.
I’ve been in sex shops before, so I was expecting bright lights, tacky plastic packaging around items of all shapes, sizes, and colors, along with a rack of cheaply made costumes, and possibly even a back room where the whips and restraints were kept. What I found was something altogether different.
“Wow.” My voice was small and hushed as I looked around the open floor. Long, low umber benches sat before items displayed in recessed wall cases, the kind with tasteful lighting from above and below. Next to each recess was a discreet label that, upon closer inspection, gave the item name and price. “It’s like a museum, or a high-class art gallery.”
There were a few people in the shop, a couple of ladies who sat with their heads together in front of a red leather harness that was draped over what looked like a classical Greek marble statue. At the far end, a curved desk sat, with two tiny modernistic chairs, which were occupied by a male and female couple who reminded me of beatniks from the 1950s—they wore hipster sunglasses, were all in black, had long, straight hair, and the man sported a long amber cigarette holder that was (thankfully) empty of a cigarette.
“The tortoise-shaped nipple teasers are over here,” Constantine said, pulling me over to one of the lit mini-alcoves.
“Yes, indeed they are,” I agreed, trying not to raise my eyebrows at both the price (two hundred euros) and the subject matter (your basic nipple suction devices made out of tortoiseshell). “So, now that we’re here, I wonder if we could have a little chat.”
“Would you like a set?” Constantine didn’t wait for an answer; he turned and lifted his hand in the air. As if by magic, a small, dark man with black hair that was slicked back on his head glided out from behind a section of the wall that must have led to another room. “Ah, Balzac. I wondered if you were about.”
“Balzac? You’re kidding, right?” I asked softly, but had to school the disbelief off my face when the man stopped in front of Constantine. He made me a bow, then repeated it to Constantine, saying, “Monsieur Wyvern of Norka. The sight of you here, in my humble shop brings joy to my heart, and tears to my eyes. The Curiosités Demonia has missed your presence.”
Constantine inclined his head graciously, and waved a hand toward me. “This is Bee Dakar. She is interested in your nipple teasers.”
“No, really, I’m not—”
