The Devil’s Feather (Symphony of Scars #1)

1. Measuring life in coffee spoons

MEASURING LIFE IN COFFEE SPOONS

“And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts

To every ticklish reader! Set them down

For sluttish spoils of opportunity

And daughters of the game.”

-William Shakespeare, “Troilus and Cressida,” Act IV, Scene 5

Anxiety twisted my gut into a snake eating its own tail. No, I could do this. I’d already driven all the way to San Francisco from Mountain View. I forced myself to breathe, thumping my fists down the sides of my arms and shaking out my hands.

Raymundo Alvarez, the manager of Applecore Books, had given me permission to sign their copies of my books. He’d even offered to host a formal signing event, but I couldn’t stand the thought of that much socializing, despite Deandra and Annie’s encouragement. Nope, no thanks.

I fluffed my bangs in the rearview mirror. They refused to fall in artful swoops since I’d been cutting them myself for at least six months, as evidenced by the amount of tinsel-streaked, dark roots in my faded pink layers. I gave up.

“Women pushing 40 have no business dying their hair ridiculous colors,” Mom had said, but she’d said that about every new hair color.

I scowled at myself. Six months wasn’t nearly long enough to avoid another conversation with that woman. When it was fresh, my hair had been a blazing hot pink. Maybe I’d redo it when my book took off.

I’d just run into the bookstore, sign however many copies of Dragonsoul were on the shelf, and duck out before anyone clocked me.

Not that anyone would. I didn’t have the readership for that kind of recognition.

Still, it felt like I was gearing up to commit petty larceny.

God, if no copies were out, I’d feel ridiculous.

I pinched my cheeks and grimaced at how ingrained that behavior was. Mom always told me to pinch my cheeks for color since I was so pale. Never mind that I was already wearing blush.

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Here we go.” I patted my little robin’s egg blue Fiat on the hood for moral support.

The scent of leather and binding glue welcomed me like an old friend.

Even though Applecore had a used paperback section and a rare book room, the bookstore never smelled like dust or mildew.

If they bottled their scent as a perfume, they’d never have to sell another book to make rent.

I slinked past the litfic and mystery to science fiction/fantasy.

There it was: a bright red dragon streaked across a stormy sky over a woman in armor fleeing the rain. My debut novel. I blessed whichever employee had set it facing cover out. With my trusty silver sharpie in hand, I flipped open the cover. And froze.

What was I doing? This was absurd. No one would care that these books were signed. Hardly anyone read them! My eyes stung. Don’t quit your day job, Elaine.

A tickle of a familiar refrain distracted me from the looming tears. Cellos and double bass rose, overtaking mournful violins. Uilleann pipes joined in. French horns and bass backup vocals wove through the background. No lyrics, just sensual, dark instrumentals. Where had I heard this song before?

The tempo picked up. Timpani boomed and swept me into the rhythm.

Oh, it was the main theme song from that art house horror movie, Blood Thaw.

Gruesome, weird, more than a little sad, and exactly my vibe.

I’d meant to add it to my writing playlist. I shimmied in place, mood buoyed by the rising swirl of music.

Floating on the song, I signed my name with a flourish as my hips swayed. I spun the book like a dance partner and snapped it closed—revealing a wall of man dressed in black. I cranked my neck up to meet a piercing, ice blue stare.

My face flared red enough to signal the space station. Almost as deep a red as the long waves of hair the giant wore pulled back into a low ponytail. I took an involuntary step back. Damn, his shoulders must be as wide as my entire 5’8” height!

“S-sorry, I just love this song.” I shoved my book haphazardly between two others on the shelf.

He blinked, and that severe expression relaxed. Something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

In a voice so deep it buzzed in my ribcage, the huge man said, “I did not mean to interrupt. It is rare to encounter anyone enjoying this kind of music with such abandon.” He spoke slowly and softly, with deliberate enunciation.

A slight accent underlined his words—maybe eastern European? God, I’d never heard such a deep voice. Velvety and resonant, like a double bass upright hitting the lowest notes.

“Have we met? I feel like I know you.” An itch I couldn’t scratch, that familiarity nagged at me.

One peaked brow rose. “Not to my knowledge.”

Right, silly. I’d definitely remember meeting a giant redhead. Where had I seen his face before? I recognized him somehow.

With an air of mild amusement, the man watched me squint up at him. And up. Jesus, he had to be at least 6’8”. No, taller! He had a record tucked under one burly arm; the soundtrack I’d danced to. A name printed at the bottom peeked out from just below his sleeve.

Wait. I looked at the name. I looked back up at his face. As surreptitiously as possible—which was not at all—I sidled around to examine his profile. The glint of amusement in his eyes sharpened.

“No fucking way.” Was it too late to melt through the floor? “You’re Rafael Nazim1? The composer?”

Not just any composer, but my favorite composer of all time. Rafael Nazim had won all kinds of awards for his movie and video game scores. And he’d just caught me flailing to his music. I squeezed my hands into fists, nails biting into the palms, to keep the abject humiliation from overtaking me.

“I am.” A slow, mocking smile crept across his face. “’Nah-zuhm,’ it is pronounced. Not ‘nah-ZEEM’.”

Oh no, he’s hot.

I echoed him in my head, Nah-zuhm, Nah-zuhm. “Sorry! I’ve never heard it spoken.”

God, how that smile transformed his looks! Unconventional, with the long red hair and black clothes, the Rafael Nazim was strikingly handsome in his own unique way. Something about his angular face spoke of a bygone era. Like an aristocrat from the Renaissance. Or the Devil himself.

Rafael Nazim was also famously reclusive.

I’d found only a handful of articles about him over the years.

He gave no interviews, and only a single black-and-white photo of his profile appeared in those articles.

The man towering over me was definitely Nazim—no mistaking that long, hooked nose and those cheekbones—but the nature of the portrait omitted the unusual shade of his hair, his light bronzy-brown skin, and his impossible height.

Not to mention those muscles. How did a man in his 40s still have that much bulk? I never would have guessed from that narrow, almost gaunt face that he would be so huge. This man could snap me in half with one hand.

“Why are you here?” I blurted. “Sorry, that sounds accusatory. Let me try again. What brings, uh—” I flapped internally in my panic. What do you say to your heroes when they sneak up on you while you’re being cringey?

“Relax. I will not bite you for being awkward.” Rafael laughed in a low rumble like distant thunder.

Frissons rippled across my arms. This was not happening.

He wasn’t eastern European; I remembered that much. Naturally, I couldn’t recall where he was from otherwise. My brain spun like a hamster wheel trying to place the accent.

He waved the record he was holding. “I was told the sleeve for this album had a misprint. I wanted to see it for myself, and this place has an excellent vinyl selection.”

“At the risk of sounding awkward again, don’t you have copies at home?”

Rafael’s mouth quirked. “My turn to be awkward—caught buying my own fucking album. This is a second pressing of the vinyl and I never received the proof. Even more awkward, the employees always play my music when I come in here just to be annoying.”

I laughed and stuck my hand out. “Glad you did.”

Rafael stared at my hand, tilting his head slightly as if considering whether to strike at it.

It added to his hawkish appearance. Or rather, gryphonic appearance, considering that mane of his.

He blinked only once, as distinct and deliberate as his speech.

Just before I withdrew in a fit of nerves, he accepted the handshake.

His hand completely enveloped mine. It was so warm.

Haha, I’m in danger.

He caught my eye. “You know my name…”

“Pfft it’s like we’re playing awkward tennis, and I’m winning 30-15.

” I shook his massive hand once and let it go.

Reluctantly. God, those biceps. Maybe he tore instruments in half instead of playing them.

“Don’t worry, you still can still make a comeback.

I’m Elaine Parham and yes, I’m always like this.

” Might as well set the expectations low.

Assuming I ever ran into a famous composer again.

“People tell me I am off-putting and strange, so we are playing to our strengths, yes?” His peaked brows rose. “What brings you here, Ms. Parham, other than dancing with the books?”

Oh god. Was it too late to phase through the floor? “Um, I just wanted to signcopiesofmybook and run before anyone noticed.” I spat it out like a cartoon character spraying watermelon seeds across the carpet. “Mission failed, I guess.”

Rafael’s intense blue eyes lit up. “You are an author? Which books?”

I waved his words away, hoping none would land on me and stick. “D-Dragonsoul. It’s my debut.” Don’t tell him his score for the last Wicked Souls game helped inspire it. Do NOT!

The giant composer reached past me and grabbed the copy I’d shoved back into the wrong spot.

“I like the cover.” He hefted it. “Trade you a record for a book?” A frown plucked at his mouth. “Assuming you have a record player.”

“I’d love to, and my housemate has one, but you don’t have to do that!

My book, um…has a lot of spicy scenes.” How red could my face turn before blood shot out of my eyes like a horned lizard?

I needed a rock to hide under to go eat my ants in peace, safe from this apex carnivore.

“Spicy means smutty, if you aren’t perpetually online like me. ” Elaine, stop talking!

Rafael grinned wickedly. “I like smut.”

Fuck. That was dangerous. He could retire in luxury just from growling, “Good girl,” repeatedly into a microphone.

My brain tripped over the timbre of his voice, lagging in processing the actual words. “You read romance?”

“Do not look so shocked. I read everything. Jacqueline Carey gave me an appreciation for the smutty side of fantasy some twenty years ago. Among others.”

Was it too soon to ask a complete stranger to marry me? I clasped my hands together over my chest in an overdone display of glee. Hopefully it hid the rabbity heartbeat kicking at my sternum.

Rafael’s eyes glittered with secret mischief. Something told me he was thinking of much, much more depraved writing. Popular dark romances, maybe, or something like Anne Rice’s infamous “Sleeping Beauty” books. Possibly the Marquis de Sade…

“Sir, please. There are children present. You can’t just say things like that and expect an author not to swoon.” I laughed to soften the joke. “Seriously, Carey is a major inspiration.”

“Excellent.” His mouth curled into a closed grin.

“I will pay for these, then we can trade.” He hesitated, and something vulnerable flashed across his face, so quickly I might have imagined it.

“May I also buy you a coffee? There is a very good café a few blocks up the street if you do not mind walking. Telve, it is called.”

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. “Well, I never say no to coffee.” Smooth.

The corners of Rafael’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. Fuck me, why was that so attractive?

He snagged another copy of the record, and I floated after him in a daze.

That gorgeous hair fell just past his mid-back.

Loose, it might even reach his waist. Hell, on me it would probably reach my ankles.

Renaissance hair, for sure. My hands itched to touch it.

I dug my fingernails safely into my palms again.

Rafael paused to greet the store’s resident tabby. To my surprise, the normally antisocial cat head-butted his hand and he gave it a chin scratch. My attraction increased tenfold.

Two booksellers batted their eyelashes at him—not that I blamed them—and ushered him to a register, jumping the short line.

One customer, a woman styled like a suburban mom, glared at him and muttered something.

Rafael turned his raptorial glare on her, and she quailed.

Woof, I would not want that look spearing me. He had to know how intimidating he was.

And I’d just blithely agreed to skip off to a second location with a gigantic stranger. If I lived, Deandra was going to kill me. Hopefully, Rafael really was more Aslan than White Witch.

1 “Look to Windward” by Sleep Token