Why Are All the Good Guys Total Monsters? Read Free

lithe, pale arms. From where I was
sitting, his bare forearms looked perfect, as if honed from snow quartz. Had he
stood still, he could have been mistaken for a flawless statue — except for one
thing — a scar, so fine I thought it was a strand of silver on his sculptured
cheekbone. But it was a scar, exquisite in its imperfection.
    His pale grey eyes sparkled as if someone had sprinkled
stardust in them, and he looked right at me, taking in my long, straight,
blonde hair that was the colour of his in shadow.
    ‘You sure this doesn’t belong to you?’ His subtle Scottish
accent had an international edge to it.
    ‘Yes. It looks like a charm off a bracelet. I don’t have a
charm bracelet.’
    ‘My mistake,’ he said, fixing me with a lingering gaze that
gave me goose bumps. ‘On holiday, are you?’
    ‘Eh . . . yes.’
    ‘The London accent,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Enjoy
your time in Edinburgh.’
    ‘I plan to, thanks.’
    Before I could think of anything interesting to say, instead
of blushing and feeling the need to fuss with my hair, he’d walked away. I
noticed that he stood out from the crowd and I studied him until he disappeared
into the sea of people. There was something about him. Something beautifully
untamed. Not just his pale, blond looks, but the way he moved, smooth,
athletic, like he was stronger than he should be and could run like the wind.
    I blinked back to reality. The heady thrill of being in the
city was obviously making me giddy and yet . . . I kept thinking about him for
the rest of the day. I couldn’t get him out of my thoughts. If I hadn’t known
better, I’d have said I’d been spellbound, but I didn’t believe in things like
that.
    A mellow afternoon sun eventually gave way to a long,
languid evening. By now I was relaxing in Orlaith’s back garden having zapped a
delicious dinner in the microwave. I’d poured myself a tall glass of iced fruit
juice, and then set up my camera to take a picture that I planned to email to
my friend, Lauren, back home in London, as proof that Edinburgh was brilliant.
    I emailed the photograph and got a, ‘Wow! Look at you!’
message back from her.
    I’d just settled down again outside when the sky darkened to
a threatening grey. Dark clouds seemed to press the breath right out of the day
and the scent of a storm filled the air. I’ve always been attuned to the
atmosphere, to nature, to scents, and since I was little I could tell when a
storm was on its way. It smelled like metal, salt and sulfur. And the fragrance
of the flowers was so strong. This was a definite sign of rain.
    Within minutes it was pouring down like it had a grudge
against something. I ran for shelter, not to the house but under the branches
of the big umbrella tree. I wanted to enjoy the energy and spectacle of it all.
I love rainstorms, always have.
    Then I saw lightning rip across the sky and realised that
the tree was not the ideal shelter.
    I was just about to run to the house when I saw the tall
figure of a young man, very pale, dark hair, soaking wet, long coat, standing
in the shadows near the house.
    I can fight like a tiger when cornered and have trained in
martial arts (jiu-jitsu) since I was ten years old. Thanks mum. However, the
sight of him standing there scared the wits out of me.
    ‘Vesper, don’t be scared. I just want to talk to you.’ His
voice was deep, resonating, and similar in accent to the blond guy who’d
approached me about the charm.
    ‘Who are you?’ I demanded, trying to sound braver than I
probably was and wondering how he knew my name.
    ‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
    ‘Sabastien?’ I murmured.
    ‘Yes. Trust me, I don’t mean you any harm. I came to warn
you.’
    ‘Warn me?’
    ‘Yes, you’re in danger.’
    ‘What type of danger?’
    He stepped out of the shadows, and the pale skin of his
hauntingly handsome face was highlighted in the rain. He pointed behind me.
‘From them.’
    I spun around to see faeries, no