The two men a few stools away were regulars here. They drank whiskey and water and smoked filterless cigarettes. The one closest to him was complaining that his wife had left him. Of course, he didn’t mention that he’d beaten her for years before she’d finally worked up the nerve to go.
The woman at the end of the bar wore cheap perfume and an abundance of AquaNet. She was waiting for someone—a lover. Rhys could practically taste the craving radiating from her. Although Rhys couldn’t quite tell if the lust was for the man or for the drugs he would also provide.
The four men playing pool were friends and deep in their cups, celebrating. Not the holiday season but the fact that the one with the boyish face, which disguised a soul that was extremely dark, had just been released from prison. Out on good behavior, and looking to undo all that proper conduct.
These were the types that were in seedy bars on Christmas Eve—people without families or love or lives. The lost, the hungry, the violent.
And then there was him. So full of hunger, it almost crippled him.
He polished off the remainder of his drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill.
Drinking numbed him. Alcohol didn’t affect him as it did normal people, but it did insulate him. It anesthetized his feelings and made him capable of living in his own skin. But ultimately, the liquor never did what he wanted it to do. It never killed that raging hunger—the hunger that constantly ate away at him. No, only one thing appeased that, and even then, it was nothing but a quick fix. A brief reprieve from the gnawing in his soul.
He nearly snorted out loud. His soul? Yeah, right, he’d lost that a long time ago.
The bartender returned with another drink. Rhys took a long swallow, closing his eyes to savor the smoky flavor, when a prickling danced over the back of his neck.
He shifted on the barstool, searching for the being that managed to so abruptly shift the foul hopelessness of the room.
She stood in the doorway, looking every inch of her five feet out of place. A tiny woman with pixielike, dark hair and huge eyes. Even in the distorting neon glow of the room, Rhys could tell they were green—a true green.
An innocent fey creature lost in a harsh, cold land. Rhys raised an eyebrow at his thoughts. There must be something in the air tonight; he was never so fanciful. Besides, he thought bitterly, he was the only otherworldly creature here.
He took another deep swallow of his drink, still watching her over the rim of his glass. The small woman glanced around, nervousness clear on her face. Then, to his surprise, she straightened her shoulders and headed to the bar.
She climbed onto the stool next to his and waited for the bartender to come take her order. Still, when he did, she took a moment to consider what she wanted.
Again she surprised Rhys by asking for a tequila shot, although there was a faint rise at the end of her request as though she wasn’t quite sure if a tequila shot was a real drink.
Rhys pretended to focus on his scotch, but he continued to center his attention on her. Not only was she nervous, but she was miserable, filled with hurt and anger and…despair. But all those strong emotions couldn’t overshadow her natural scent. She smelled fresh and sweet like flowers warmed by sunshine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smelled a mortal that untainted, that pure. Not an adult mortal anyway.
All too quickly, her fresh scent was overwhelmed by another smell, which couldn’t be masked by the strong odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It swirled around each of the people like spun sugar—enticing, yet sickening to Rhys because of its sweet intensity.
He swallowed and concentrated on the woman’s wholesomeness. He could suppress his reaction to the other scent, the smell of blood. He did all the time, but it was harder than usual tonight. It always was once he’d made up his mind that he would feed.
But he’d do that later—picking from the worst of the lot. It wouldn’t be difficult tonight—many of the patrons here were so bad they were completely lost. Lost to redemption—just like him.
And then there was this woman. Why was she here? She certainly didn’t belong here, but he didn’t need preternatural abilities to tell that. She was dressed in a green wool skirt with matching blazer. The white blouse she wore underneath was simple and plain. Her leather pumps were sensible.
The outfit was modest and practical, but she looked far from dowdy. The skirt displayed her well-shaped calves and gave brief flashes of a little thigh. But it was her face that captivated Rhys. Not a classically beautiful face, but she had sweetness to her features, full lips, a small pert nose and those huge eyes. Her eyes alone were enough to hold him spellbound.
He frowned. No mortal in his two hundred years had held so much interest for him. He supposed it must be the fact that she was so obviously out of place that intrigued him. Or maybe because she reminded him of the place where he’d once come from—where people were good and kind and loved one another.
The bartender returned to her with the shot, a slice of lime in another shot glass and a shaker of salt.
The pixie stared at the objects with obvious confusion. She glanced around, her eyes stopping on him for a moment. She immediately looked away.
After another moment, she took the lime from the glass. She frowned at the segment, then started to squeeze it into the shot of liquor.
A masculine hand clasped hers, stopping her.
“Hi there,” the boyish-faced ex-convict said. “Want me to show you how to do that?”
The pixie hesitated again, and Rhys sensed her wariness. Smart girl. But then she straightened and nodded. “Yes. Please.”
The ex-convict raised a hand and called to the bartender for a shot for himself.
Rhys watched as the ex-convict demonstrated the proper way to do the shot. Lick, salt, lick, shot, then lime. The pixie mimicked him, except she sputtered and coughed around her slice of lime.
“Not bad,” the man told her, once she’d stopped gagging. His eyes roamed over her, and Rhys could tell that the comment was as much about the woman herself as her drinking style.
The ex-convict’s eyes lingered on her legs, and that suggestion of lovely thigh. Lust mixed with violence quivered just under the surface of his friendly good looks.
Rhys suppressed a wave of irritation—aimed as much toward the woman as the convict. Why was she here? She should be with her family in front of a twinkling Christmas tree, singing carols. Hell, what he wouldn’t give to be with his family one more time.
The ex-convict snapped his fingers and requested two more shots.
Rhys shifted on his seat. He should step in. Instead he sipped his own drink. He remembered the prostitutes. He’d done his good deed for this year. With a few days to spare, even.
“Hey, Joey, you gonna spend the night scammin’ on chicks, or are you going to hang with your boys?”
Joey gave the pixie a sheepish look. He was as deceptive and dangerous as any of Rhys’s kind. “Sorry, I’ve got money on this game.”
The woman nodded. “That’s fine. Thanks for the instruction.”
Joey’s smile deepened; arousal laced with a cruelty flashed in his eyes. “No problem. And who knows, maybe you can show me a trick or two yourself sometime?”
“Okay,” she agreed, completely missing the innuendo in his words.
Joey returned to his buddies, and Rhys made up his mind that the ex-convict would be his Christmas dinner.
The bartender arrived with the two shots Joey had ordered, placing them before the pixie.
She opened her mouth as if she was going to tell him to take the drinks back, but instead she sighed and then, almost reluctantly, licked