I’m working, slowly and not too surely, on Roman’s story. Roman, the gargoyle Sentinel who was Sade’s protector as she grew up, is the Legate of New Orleans. As the Magicks’ representative in the haven city, he’s charged with keeping the peace. Too bad there’s a not-quite-human who has him unsettled. Here’s a first draft of a scene from ALL THAT ECHOES (the working title and very likely not the final title). I hope you enjoy. And please…find a bit of peace for yourself today.
Roman stood at the window, a dark silhouette if anyone below chanced to look up. Early-morning fog swirled through Jackson Square, leaving the granite blocks and wooden benches with a silvery sheen as the first fingers of dawn poked through the gray miasma. Roman refused to count the number of times he’d stood here, waiting, watching.
As a bright swirl of color coalesced through the murk, the constricting pressure in his chest eased, a feeling he chose to ignore.
She was early this morning, lugging her wagon with the folding chairs, market umbrella, rickety wooden table, and her satchel filled with the exotic paraphernalia of her trade. Her tousled curls were tamed today, severe in a long braid snaking over one shoulder. Fog swirled around her, lightened, leaving her poised like an island tinted by riotous hues.
He didn’t know her name but this young woman with haunted shadows in her eyes and the fragile sheen of magic clinging to her skin like glitter drew him as inexorably as that proverbial moth. Would she singe his wings if he got too close?
He’d found no peace since the first morning she appeared in front of the cathedral. Her smile tugged at his heart even as his senses warred with the knowledge of what—of who—she was. Rogue. Unaligned. Unknown. The Witches’ Council knew nothing of her. Disturbing. The witches guarded their bloodlines as closely as they did their Book of Shadows.
She called to someone, her voice as musical as the birds who sang dawn awake. Something deep inside him stirred, something that had slumbered for hundreds of years. The parchment envelope with its splash of blood-red wax marked by Le Vieil’s seal sat on his desk, a pale indictment of his dereliction of duty. He should have left the city days ago but he could not force himself to go. Not so long as the flame-haired temptress danced through his dreams.
Be sure to share your peaceful words!