SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (195 page)
Read SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits Online
Authors: Erin Quinn,Caridad Pineiro,Erin Kellison,Lisa Kessler,Chris Marie Green,Mary Leo,Maureen Child,Cassi Carver,Janet Wellington,Theresa Meyers,Sheri Whitefeather,Elisabeth Staab
Tags: #12 Tales of Shapeshifters, #Vampires & Sexy Spirits
About the Author: Janet Wellington
Forever Rose: Chapter One
Taylor Rose Martin walked through the tall stone archways and into the garden pavilion hoping to escape the sweltering California sun. She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the thousands of flowers on display in the spacious outbuilding, one of the most popular exhibits at the San Diego County Fair.
Removing her straw hat she fanned herself with it, sending an intoxicating floral breeze against her face. Her forehead was damp from the July heat, and she smoothed her short-cropped mahogany brown hair straight back, fingers ending at the nape of her slender neck where her hair curled in ringlets from the warmth and humidity.
In the immense indoor garden pavilion the temperature was at least ten degrees cooler and the air was refreshing—super oxygenated. She felt instantly rejuvenated.
When he’d been alive, her father and she had never missed the fair on the Fourth of July. It was a tradition she’d grown up with and it had become an important link to her past, one she continued annually and intended to do so forever.
When she was here, it was almost like he was still with her.
A grin curled up the corners of her mouth, remembering how her father had loved the huge county fair—more the size of a state fair—even more than she did, spending hours walking with her through the fragrant and colorful garden pavilion before wandering through the midway to watch the kids riding rides and trying to win giant stuffed animals at the games.
Strolling among the garden exhibits arm-in-arm, they would read the scientific labels of plants they had never seen before, stumbling over the Latin words, laughing at each other’s pronunciations. One of her father’s life passions had been gardening and she had grown up sharing that love. She always felt close to him when her fingers were in good, rich soil.
This was her eighth year without him, and, as usual, she looked forward to the comforting familiarity as she retraced the paths they had walked together through the years inside and outside the garden pavilion. Sure, the space had become more commercial over the years, with vendors selling home improvement products and the latest gizmos to the guaranteed crowds, but the flowers and the gardens were still the biggest draw. That and the latest deep-fried junk food she found she always had to try too. Who could resist deep-fried Kool-Aid balls or chicken-fried bacon? This year she had discovered the Krispy Kreme cheeseburger, not quite able to finish the triple-decker delight.
As she turned the corner at the end of the first aisle, an exhibit immediately captured her complete attention. Gradually, the ambient noise in the crowded pavilion faded, and the only sounds she heard were the beat of her own heart, slow and steady...and a whispering wind.
She walked toward the exhibit and surrendered to the allure of the picture perfect display—a Victorian era backyard with a table set for afternoon tea. It looked as though the people had just left, perhaps interrupted by someone...or something.
On either side of a round table on the fresh sod lawn were two well-worn wooden ladder-back chairs. A green leather-bound book was open on one, tarnished antique garden shears rested on the other. On the table an old-fashioned china tea set sat next to a plate of dark bread. A vase held an enormous bouquet of flowers that seemed recently picked, all the blooms vibrant and fresh. The flower beds that surrounded the exhibit burst with color, every square foot filled with flowering plants and rosebushes.
Such a peaceful, beautiful spot.
“Yes.”
Startled, Taylor took a quick sharp breath, her heart in her throat. Though positive she’d heard a voice next to her left ear, when she turned her head she saw at once that no one was there. She put her hand to her chest in an attempt to calm her racing heartbeat.
In the next instant she realized the voice had sounded very familiar, and, after a moment of confused concentration, it became clear why.
It was her father’s voice.
Since her father’s death, Taylor had experienced the unmistakable feeling of his presence. Sometimes a familiar song would bring a specific memory of him, or she’d almost sense him crouched next to her as she expertly pruned her miniature rose bushes, remembering his careful instruction to snip the stem at a forty-five degree angle above a bud in order to promote new growth. Sometimes she’d feel him so vividly it would seem as though she could almost step back in time and they could be together again. If wishes could come true, that would be her first one.
Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, trying to hold on to the feeling of him, she whispered, “Miss you, Dad.”
“I know. Miss you too, Taylor Rose. And…there’s a message coming....”
She took in a sharp breath at the very clear sound of his voice in her head her heart thumping madly. Then, in an instant, the feeling of her father’s presence was gone. Just like that.
Blinking back sudden tears she wished with all her heart that her father was with her again. She missed him terribly. Each and every day.
It still amazed her that, somehow, without his daily humor and encouragement, she had managed to finish nursing school, and then get her bachelor’s degree, just as they’d planned. She knew he would have been pleased she had settled on becoming a school nurse. He’d been an elementary school teacher, and had passed on to her his love of being surrounded by children. And being in a school system that had a traditional schedule gave her the summers off. She loved her job, but had quickly realized she needed the summer break as much as the kids.
She’d kept busy after her father’s death, finished school and eventually found a great job. Her hectic schedule had helped her get through the years without his support and companionship and though his absence still hurt, the pain had softened with time.
Taylor closed her eyes, desperate to recapture the fleeting feeling of his presence.
He called me Taylor Rose
.
He was the only one who ever had. At birth her father had chosen her mother’s name as her own middle name, so she would have a part of her mother with her forever, he had always said. Though she’d never known her mother, she had grown up hearing wonderful, romantic stories—how her mother and father fell in love with their first kiss, how they’d run away to be married because they simply couldn’t wait to plan the elaborate wedding her mom’s parents had expected…and how they’d dreamed of having a child to cherish, even though her mother’s age had made it a dangerous dream…and had resulted in her death at childbirth.
When her father had finally explained what had happened—when she was old enough to understand—her interest in medicine had been born. She remembered the moment vividly. And it made perfect sense to her that she’d been drawn to nursing, too, instead of being a physician. She wanted to spend more time with her pint-sized patients.
Eventually, though, she had decided the neonatal ward didn’t have the same draw as school-aged children—something she’d learned during an internship in a neighborhood elementary school. Now she was happy to be fussing over bumps and bruises instead of serious illnesses and too often having watched grieving mothers and fathers if the outcome resulted in their greatest fears.
All her life her father had shared stories of her mother with her, and she had been grateful. She couldn’t imagine the grief he had gone through, and, lucky for her, he’d thrown himself into being the best dad for her, maybe as his way of coping.
Thankfully, he had chosen to talk about her mother tirelessly when he might have chosen to bury it all in his own grief and loss. And his tales of their adventures had been her favorite bedtime stories. Truth be told, theirs was the kind of fairy-tale romance she longed for, but couldn’t seem to find. To her, men these days just didn’t seem to be romantic, or as adventurous or as devoted. Often she wondered if her expectations were simply too high. Could any man compare to what she saw in her father and his deep love and devotion to her mother?
Her middle name had also manifested in a physical way. Throughout her childhood, roses had always played a part and she and her father had used the symbol of the rose for special messages. He hid a rose in Taylor’s school lunch every once in a while, pretending to be her secret pal, and during her teens, he’d trailed rose petals to the sink full of dirty dishes to remind her of an afternoon chore. In the end, they often used a rose to let each other know they were okay, that everything was all right between them.
Taylor opened her eyes, her heart warm from all the lovely memories…
Back to reality.
She pored over the perfect, peaceful garden for several moments, committing it to memory, wanting to be able to close her eyes and see it, to be able to associate it with the comforting feeling of her father’s presence. She wondered if she would hear his voice again. Logic said she’d imagined it, lost in nostalgia—from missing him in this magical place they’d shared.
Slowly her attention returned to the surrounding garden displays until her gaze finally rested on a nearby rose display—one of her favorite parts of the exhibition. Roses were her favorite. On the patio of her downtown San Diego condo containers of miniature roses and assorted flowers covered every available spot on her deck, and she was always on the lookout for a new variety of rose to try.
She strolled closer to the display.
Elegant single-stemmed roses of all sizes and colors were presented in clear glass vases. Each blossom was exquisite, and the fragrance in the small area was almost overpowering. She paused to study an array of crimson roses that had obviously been in a recent floral competition, and then leaned forward to examine a particularly dark red rose that was sporting a blue ribbon. It was unusually dark red, its edges almost black.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Taylor gasped at the sound of the voice. This time, though, at least it was real.
Only inches from her, a tiny elderly woman now stood—barely reaching her own shoulder in height. Oddly, she was entirely dressed in black on this warm summer day—her blouse and long skirt tailored to fit her slender form perfectly. In dramatic contrast, her snowy white hair was intricately twisted into an old-fashioned chignon.
The old woman spoke again, her voice low and silky, saying, “The color is quite remarkable, isn’t it? That one’s an heirloom variety. This rose has been in existence for a very long time—well over a hundred years. Isn’t that astonishing?”
Taylor swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “It certainly deserves first place.”
She couldn’t stop staring at her companion. The old woman’s face was dominated by dark eyes that gleamed like volcanic rock and her pallid skin magnified their inky blackness. Fine wrinkles extended out from the corners of her eyes, covering her face like a road map.
For a few seconds, each studied the other with curious intensity. And to Taylor, it almost seemed as though the woman was trying to decide if they’d met before. Her stare was analytical, questioning.
“Do you grow roses?” Her voice was breathless as she asked the only thing that came to mind.
“I used to...a long time ago. Now I find it satisfying to enjoy the efforts of others.” The old woman turned and strode toward the exit.
Her gaze followed the woman’s shadowy image as she walked away, and just as the tiny figure reached the two-story high arched doorway, the sun seemed to come out from behind a cloud with an almost blinding glare. Taylor blinked. When she could see again, the old woman had disappeared.
Feeling slightly dazed, she turned back to the roses. A business card now leaned against the vase of the dark red rose they had admired. Had it been there before and she just hadn’t noticed it? She reached out her hand and picked up the card:
Madame Rosalinda, Clairvoyant. Learn your past and future...if you dare.
The card was printed in an elaborate, old-fashioned script, and a drawing of a long-stemmed rose bordered the top edge.
At the bottom of the card was a sentence in fine print:
This card may be exchanged for a psychic reading, first twenty minutes free—tent located near the Ferris wheel.
So that’s what the old woman was up to—just trying to generate some business. Pretty clever, actually.
Tucking the card into the pocket of her jeans, an uncontrollable wave of apprehension swept through her, sending a shiver up her spine. She shuddered. Then a thought slammed into place in her head.
Was this the message?
Dad?
Taylor called out mentally to her father. No response. With trembling fingers, she removed the business card from the pocket of her jeans.
Madame Rosalinda...tent located near the Ferris wheel.
Nervously, she bit her lip, at least a little convinced this was what her father had meant—that she should visit the clairvoyant and have her fortune read.
It made sense.
Taylor turned away from the roses and walked briskly toward the nearest exit.
She had a Ferris wheel to find and a message to hear.
