Chapter 3 Colette/Archer
Colette/Archer
What a day! I put on my softest sleeping shift, blow out the candle, and curl into bed.
My covers are thick as clouds, and I snuggle in happily.
The readers today were wonderful. The treats and the tea satisfied me in every way.
And I refuse to let that embarrassing kissing debacle ruin my memory of the faire.
Grabbing a fourth pillow from the floor, I arrange myself for maximum comfort, and soon I’m drifting to sleep.
The scent of something rich and deep fills my nose. A male’s cologne? A candle burning? A set of fangs pricks my throat. My heart pounds in my temples…
I wake, sweating.
A vision of red-brown eyes is burned into my mind. The inn’s walls shiver around me, and the inn lights my candle, the aroma of laundry soap washing away the memory of Archer’s scent.
“I’m fine,” I say to the inn. “It was just a bad dream.” I blow out the candle again and lie back down.
Maybe the dream was like some kind of weird guilt. Sexy fear guilt? I should send Archer an apology letter. I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, wishing I could cross out that kiss like a line in an early draft of a novel. But it’s no use trying to sleep; I have to do something about this guilt.
I get up and go to my roll top desk. Bending over a slip of parchment, I dip my purple quill in ink and write the vampire a note. I dust sand over the ink to dry it quickly, add some confetti from the author tea he missed, then fold it up.
Sprinkling some of Tully the witch’s magical notewater onto the parchment, I whisper, “Archer Darkheart.”
The note rises, magic sparkling around it in pops of purple and gold, and when I open my bedroom window, the note flies into the night. I dust confetti and notewater off my hands and jump back into bed.
“There. That should do it.”
Sleep comes quickly then, and I don’t have any more guilt dreams, thank the Blessed Stones.
Archer
My night walk is almost over. Rychell and Halvard’s house is just a few steps away.
Bats flap overhead and I give them an approving nod.
Most vampires have a bat familiar; it’s why many humans believe we have the ability to shift into a bat form.
But I haven’t been so lucky yet. Maybe when I hit full middle age, one will come to me.
I’ve never had a pet of any kind, but I wouldn’t mind having one to assuage my loneliness.
But it’s possible I won’t. I’m half goblin, so I am different from pure-blood vampires.
I don’t have their level of agility and grace or their ease at switching on their vampiric senses.
I also don’t Hunger as often as a full vampire.
Ah, I can’t wait until I’m home tomorrow and I can have a proper self-pitying wallow.
I love a good wallow. Sales have never been so bad.
I think it’s the content of my book causing issues, not necessarily my skill level.
Of course, I still have plenty of room for improvement, but the thing is, most people are frightened of deep emotion, and that’s exactly what I delve into.
The world isn’t into my type of delving, I suppose.
Yes, I’ll wallow with a rich, dark wine. Perfect.
A flying object, too light-colored to be a bat, comes at me. I try to duck, but it hits me square in the face, and confetti bursts around my head.
“What in the name of all hells?”
It’s a letter, bespelled with notewater, as is the custom in most villages. Each town or city’s strongest witch usually makes a batch and sells it so everyone in the area can send messages easily.
This letter grunts against my efforts to hold it and crack the seal.
The thing twists and turns and I have to use all of my strength to get the damned thing open.
The witch here—I’ve heard her name is Tully—must be quite powerful.
I rip the letter open at last, and yet more confetti explodes in my face.
“Damn it!”
I wipe the colored bits of old parchment from my cheeks and chin, then eye the looping lines of ink in the note.
The scent of sweet peppermint candy washes over me.
Heat rushes over my skin, and I frown at the unexpected bodily reaction to Colette’s scent.
Sometimes, biology is foolish. I could never have a relationship with Colette.
She seems like a good person, but we are opposites.
I think back to the book of hers I read before coming here.
It was well written, but it was full of jokes and silly situations.
That’s all fine and good, but it’s not me.
I don’t care to dance like a jester for everyone.
I want to make people think. Examine their deepest wants and fears.
To turn over rocks hiding the hurt inside them and expose it to the light.
I want authenticity. Truth. Not convenient situations that make people snicker.
It’s not that funny, happy books are bad.
They just aren’t what I want to write. And I couldn’t be with someone whose life is centered on topics that don’t really interest me. We wouldn’t mesh.
Plus, there’s Valeria. I wouldn’t drag anyone into the terrible mess of my betrothal.
At last, I look back at the letter and read it quickly.
Archer,
I’m so sorry again for kissing you. I mean, I can’t say I didn’t like it.
You’re very handsome. I’m sure you know that.
But I am very sorry. One shouldn’t kiss a person without asking.
I do know that. I think it was just my nerves.
I get like that before book events. Do you know what I mean?
I bet you get nervous too, right? Or maybe not.
You don’t really look the type to get nervous.
Anyway, sorry that you tripped and I stupidly thought it was like love at first sight. hahahahaha
Sorry!
Colette
Stones, but the woman talks incessantly—even in a letter! But… She liked the kiss? She believes I’m good-looking? I clear my throat and tuck the note into my cloak pocket, quietly entering Rychell and Halvard’s house. I push all thoughts of Colette from my mind.
All is quiet except for the sound of one large orc snoring upstairs. The couch is comfortable, but sleep refuses to come. I toss and turn until the sun creeps through the window hangings and paints the room in shades of bright pink. Even the sunrise is trying to get me to think of Colette.