The Original Hybrid would not be the first fictional character from a fictional world Amanda Warren would discover was actually terrifyingly real. But when Klaus is snared by the same trap that first captured her, the two are thrown into a whirlwind...
"When you came to a crossroads, by definition, you had to pick a course, because going straight on the path you were on was no longer an option." – Jim Heron Covet, by J.R. Ward
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"Do you know the deepest desire of your heart?"
A boy asked me this, over cappuccino and almond cream éclairs at a chic café in the city.
I was sixteen and thinking back on that evening I found it telling how close he'd come to getting me into bed on the strength of a good line and my own inexperience. How terribly impressed I'd been by him. I thought it was love.
Two years later and I couldn't even tell you his name.
But I remembered the question.
Did I know – did I? . . . no.
I couldn't have known, then, the significance of that evening or that things – invisible, intangible, but still very real things had already been set in motion.
There were too many coincidences to allow for chance and in those periods of calm almost lost to me a new question would surface. Why?
Why me?
Why . . . him?
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White votive candles floated in crystal glass bowls.
Each flame a perfect little spade. Orange, fading to yellow and brilliant blue at the wick where they were hottest. I slid my fingers along the razor-edge lip of the bowl, temptingly close to upending the small centerpiece.
How my parents managed to score an invitation to the political fundraising dinner masquerading as a Christmas party was anyone's guess, but I'd bet I was the only guest wondering how close I could get to the fire before it burned me.
I'd done my part.
I danced with the mayor's son. Made conversation with the people at our table. Ate the catered turkey dinner . . .
. . . and did not embarrass my parents.
My parents, shameless social climbers, were not above using their only daughter to buy their way into those esteemed circles, of wealth and influence, and I was only nine years old the first time they brought me to a party.
Still too young to realize that I'd been blessed with my father's golden crown, my mother's sparkling turquoise eyes; I looked so much like an angel that it couldn't have been any more perfect if they'd designed me.
Their precious blue-eyed blonde.
I remembered that evening and how I had felt so grown up, so beautiful, in my brand new dress sparkling under the crystal lights of a hotel ballroom. Like a princess in a fairytale. To me it was magical and more than a little naughty, being allowed to stay up so far past my bedtime.
