12-02-2018, 12:37 AM
Spectra’s impatience grew to the point that she promised herself an abrupt departure if the Consul did not reveal himself by the time she finished her drink. Standing in the cold like a beggar dying for the glimpse of the celebrity turned a sour taste on her tongue despite the pelt of fur nestled at her neck. The cold seeped into her skin like blood oozing from soggy bandages. For all the glamour of Moscow’s pinnacle of celebrity heights, the winter was severe enough to almost drive her away.
In the end, it wasn’t the baritone of a rumbling voice that turned her attention. It was a warmth on the wind, like sunlight pulling the frigid petals of a flower toward its rays. When Spectra pivoted, it was on the toe of a wicked heel, her gaze fell first upon the homely shoulders of a sisterly channeler. The presence was always surprising when it came, but not necessarily unwelcome. She started to nod, assuming the sad, plain girl would find her equally as arousing.
Instead, the sisterly prick of a smile shared seized itself frozen. The back of the head bobbed familiarly. The broadness of his shoulders was unmatched. All doubt fled her mind upon recognition of the finery of his clothing.
She glanced at the bagel-peddler, but the old hack was too obvious to realize. Spectra knew him, though. He was sharing a table with the channeler that first drew her gaze. The familiarity between them rose her brows. A freshly washed head of hair and plain clothes on the woman, the tousled clothes on him. Blades edged across Spectra’s soul. The poor man had to stoop so low. So sad for him.
Luckily, Spectra was there to save him. She sauntered near, the slip of her leg peaking from the hem of furs that lain across her shoulders like a cloak. The sunglasses remained, but on Spectra, may have been a diadem for all the way they decorated her sculptural face. It was a toothy, wide smile that parted her mouth first. Finally followed by a sultry, single word: “Marcus?”
In the end, it wasn’t the baritone of a rumbling voice that turned her attention. It was a warmth on the wind, like sunlight pulling the frigid petals of a flower toward its rays. When Spectra pivoted, it was on the toe of a wicked heel, her gaze fell first upon the homely shoulders of a sisterly channeler. The presence was always surprising when it came, but not necessarily unwelcome. She started to nod, assuming the sad, plain girl would find her equally as arousing.
Instead, the sisterly prick of a smile shared seized itself frozen. The back of the head bobbed familiarly. The broadness of his shoulders was unmatched. All doubt fled her mind upon recognition of the finery of his clothing.
She glanced at the bagel-peddler, but the old hack was too obvious to realize. Spectra knew him, though. He was sharing a table with the channeler that first drew her gaze. The familiarity between them rose her brows. A freshly washed head of hair and plain clothes on the woman, the tousled clothes on him. Blades edged across Spectra’s soul. The poor man had to stoop so low. So sad for him.
Luckily, Spectra was there to save him. She sauntered near, the slip of her leg peaking from the hem of furs that lain across her shoulders like a cloak. The sunglasses remained, but on Spectra, may have been a diadem for all the way they decorated her sculptural face. It was a toothy, wide smile that parted her mouth first. Finally followed by a sultry, single word: “Marcus?”