In chapter twenty of Daughter of Deception Viola listens to a best of David Bowie cd while baking banana bread - which is, according to Duke, the perfect apology food. I missed yesterday's recipe posting, but I hope to have Viola's banana bread up this weekend.
In that chapter, Paul Duke mentions that this song reminds him of Viola. I think it works for the entire series.
Queen and David Bowie - what's not to love?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Viola, at the beginning of The Chaos Child
Viola’s trip to Connecticut at the beginning of The Chaos Child
At first Viola thought it was a jet-lag induced hallucination. Inclement weather at BWI had delayed the last leg of her flight from Houston to Hartford. She’d used the time stuck on the plane to e-mail a memo back to the office regarding the importance of nonstop flights. Ten minutes after sending the e-mail, she’d begged Duke to deliver lunch to the office as an apology for the profanity-laden message.
As the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot, though, it became clear that it wasn’t a hallucination. There really were three gold and red Ghost Grabbers vans parked in front of the Luz Hotel. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, she flung open the door and hopped out of the car. While he retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she dialed Becky’s number.
“I am scheduled to be at the Luz tonight, aren’t I?” she asked, cutting off her employees greeting.
“Yes, you are. I spoke with the manager, a Mr. Scott Farleigh, this morning to confirm your reservation in a non-smoking room.” Becky’s voice was cool. It was clear she hadn’t completely forgiven Viola for the e-mail. “I have also rebooked your return flight. I will e-mail the details to you shortly.”
“Thank you, Becky.” Viola made a mental note to send Becky flowers. “I am sorry about the e-mail. You know airline food makes me cranky, and I was stuck next to the most talkative person on the planet.”
Becky harrumphed. “Is there a problem with the hotel?”
Viola handed the driver a wad of bills in exchange for her suitcase. Gravel crunched under her sneakers as she marched towards the glass double doors. “There are Ghost Grabbers vans in the parking lot,” she hissed.
She normally didn’t bother wasting energy thinking about the multitude of paranormal investigators across the country. Most treated it as a hobby, and those who hunted demons in their spare time couldn’t throw stones. The Ghost Grabbers, however, had landed a syndicated television show and national attention. Their condescending attitude towards spirits, laughable techniques, and propensity to claim everything as paranormal had earned them Viola’s disdain.
Becky muttered an apology and hung up on Viola. Viola shook her head, slipped her phone in the front pocket of her green trousers. The foyer of the mid-sized independent hotel was dark and imposing. The glass in the skylights was frosted and electric wall sconces provided the only other light. She gave them points for creepiness.
Viola ignored the rail-thin blonde standing near a grouping of chairs in the lobby. She recognized the young woman as a member of the Ghost Grabbers. The thirty-ish black woman behind the front desk smiled politely at Viola, but her posture indicated she was uncomfortable.
“Hi, Viola Duke.” Viola forced herself to remain in control. It wasn’t the poor woman’s fault the manager was a PR-hungry ass. “I’d like to speak with Scott Farleigh. Now.”
As if she’d expected such a request, the woman, Adelle according to her name tag, escorted Viola to a small office on the other side of a black column. Adelle rapped once on the door before opening it. Three men, two wearing gold Ghost Grabbers polos, were already in the room.
“Mr. Farleigh, Mrs. Duke has arrived,” Adelle said before brushing past Viola and returning to the desk.
Viola left her suitcase outside the door. She slipped her balled fists into her pockets, leaned against the doorjamb, and fixed Scott Farleigh, a graying, middle-aged stout man, with an expectant stare. “If there was a miscommunication between your office and mine, I have no problem moving on to one of my other locations and rescheduling this evaluation.”
She didn’t care if it cost a potential business associate. Something about Farleigh rubbed her the wrong way, and in the end he would be the one to lose out on profits. There were five hotels in the Hartford area looking to work with Spirited Stays.
“No, no, Mrs. Duke. There is no misunderstanding.” Farleigh’s booming voice rattled the framed photos on the walls. “I was hoping we could kill two birds in one night, so to speak. You and these gentlemen are in the same line of work. Surely your… er… skills would be a perfect complement to their technical expertise.”
Anger swirled in her belly. Power flooded her veins, turned her eyes a dangerous, glittering black. “I am not a medium for hire,” she bit out, lips curled back in a snarl. “I do not appreciate you making arrangements like this without consulting me first.”
“What’s the matters, Mrs. Duke?” One of the Ghost Grabbers leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Afraid of the cameras?”
“Nope. I don’t want to waste my time working with a bunch of AV Club geeks who don’t know the difference between the hum of an air conditioner and an EVP.” Anger cooled steel resolve. She kicked off the doorjamb. “My expertise isn’t the one you should question, Mr. Farleigh. I’ve got mad skills.”
The spirit in the corner of the room hesitantly waved at Viola. She winked back at the shy, young man dressed in mid-nineteenth century clothing. It was clear he was less than impressed by the Ghost Grabbers, too.
“Now, it’s late and I’m tired, so I’m going to go back up to the desk and check in. I’m going to order something from room service for dinner, and in the morning I’ll pay for my stay and leave. You won’t contact my company, and I won’t tell everyone I know what a jerk you are.” She arched an eyebrow at the flabbergasted Farleigh. “Okay?”
“B-but, Mrs. Duke…”
“Oh, and by the way, your hotel isn’t haunted.”
The spirit followed Viola to the front desk. He loitered by her suitcase while she checked in and got a room service recommendation from Adelle. It wasn’t until she was in the elevator that she spoke to the ghost.
“I’m sorry about denying your presence earlier. Feel free to make a liar out of me, if you’d like.”
The ghost shook his head. “I have seen their work on the television. I do not care for their methods or their manner of speaking.” He extended his hand, thought twice about it, and settled for tipping an invisible hat. “I am Archibald Thorton, Mrs. Duke. It is a pleasure to meet someone with whom I can converse.”
“Viola, please.” She curtsied awkwardly. “Archibald? Can I call you Archie?”
“You may. It is a diminutive my dear sister often used.”
Archie walked with Viola to her room. She was pleased to have a corner room, until she opened the curtains across the wall-length picture window. She had a lovely view of… the hotel across the street. She let go of her suitcase and sank onto the edge of the bed.
“I hate Connecticut.”
After changing into sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt she’d stolen from Duke’s side of the closet, she read the one-sided room service menu aloud to Archie. There were four sharp knocks on her door. She grabbed the tranq gun out of her open suitcase and peered through the peephole before opening the door.
Farleigh and two of the Ghost Grabbers stood in the hallway. The blonde from the lobby had a black case in her hands. She shuffled her feet and shot Viola a hesitant, apologetic smile.
“Mrs. Duke, I am going to have to ask you to remain in your room for the duration of our investigation,” the male Ghost Grabber said. “Rainbow’s going to install a camera outside your door to ensure nothing contaminates our evidence. We’re going to need you to keep your television off, as well.”
Viola slammed the door in their faces. She briefly entertained thoughts of burning the building down or at least slashing the tires on the Ghost Grabber vans. The bacon cheeseburger she ordered from room service was bland and her fries were soggy. She made a mental note to forgo the complimentary breakfast.
She dragged the black upholstered chair to the window and stared out the window as she ate her chocolate lava cake. Fortunately, it had a rich flavor and the cake was moist. She regretted not ordering two and calling that dinner.
The hotel across the street had a charming, Victorian façade. It was smaller than the Luz, but looked brighter and cleaner. “What do you know about the Cantor Hotel?” she asked Archie.
“I am afraid I have not left this establishment since my death.”
As soon as she finished her dessert, Viola booted up her laptop. The Cantor’s website was simple but elegant. It only had 124 guest suites and one meeting room, but it also boasted a bar, dining room, lobby, and library. The décor managed to maintain an old world feel without compromising modern amenities.
She and Archie watched the virtual tour and clicked through the photos. Archie instantly fell in love with the Cantor. He sighed wistfully when they reached the pictures of the library.
“How attached to this hotel are you, Archie?”
“I do not know. I have not attempted to leave.” Archie faded from view. “Please pardon me.”
Viola responded to two of Becky’s e-mails. Halfway through her second game of solitaire, Archie returned. A wide smile split his boyish face.
“It is possible! I crossed the street and entered the Cantor. The library is divine!”
“How do you feel about moving?” She didn’t feel guilty in the least about stealing the Luz’s ghost. It was true that most of the hotels listed with Spirited Stays profited from being haunted, but none of them outright exploited the resident ghosts.
After hearing Viola’s proposal, Archie heartily agreed to moving to the Cantor if the proprietor agreed with the plan. They played four games of computer chess before Viola got tired of losing and shut down her laptop. The Ghost Grabbers weren’t bothering to be quiet. They could hear them stomping up and down the stairs and talking in the hallways. Viola bit back a laugh every time she heard a high-pitched exclamation. As the hotel’s only spirit was dozing in her room’s spare chair, it was doubtful they’d caught anything truly ghost-related.
She flicked off the bedside lamp and stretched out on the bed. Duke laughed when she used their link to tell him all about the Ghost Grabbers and Archie. He laughed even harder at her petulant exclamation of boredom.
“We could always…” he started.
“No,” she sighed. He made the same suggestion any time they were apart. “We are not using the link for that.”
“But I miss you.” His voice dipped lower, liquid heat her mind. “I could make it good, sugar.”
“I’m sure you could, but there’s a camera with audio right outside my door.”
His chuckle was two-parts pure filth and one-part amusement. “You could try being quiet.”
“There’s also a ghost in my room. A ghost who blushed when he saw my ankles. I’m not going to traumatize the poor thing by engaging in… in that.”
“Ha,” Duke laughed. “Never mind, then. If you can’t say it, you can’t do it, sugar.”
Face flame red, she sent a wave of irritation through the link. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t sweetness.” Duke’s affection-warmed tone lulled her to sleep. “Just relax and think about all the things I’m going to do to you when you get home. I advise stretching first.”
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
The next morning, Archie was right beside her as she paid for her room and rolled her suitcase across the busy street. The inside of the Cantor was as inviting as it appeared on the website. Viola went directly to the front desk, introduced herself, asked for the manager.
Phillip Dickens, the general manager, greeted her with a smile and a breakfast invitation. Behind his back, Archie gave her an enthusiastic nod. She grinned back.
“Mr. Dickens, how would you like to be the manager of a haunted hotel?”
At first Viola thought it was a jet-lag induced hallucination. Inclement weather at BWI had delayed the last leg of her flight from Houston to Hartford. She’d used the time stuck on the plane to e-mail a memo back to the office regarding the importance of nonstop flights. Ten minutes after sending the e-mail, she’d begged Duke to deliver lunch to the office as an apology for the profanity-laden message.
As the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot, though, it became clear that it wasn’t a hallucination. There really were three gold and red Ghost Grabbers vans parked in front of the Luz Hotel. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, she flung open the door and hopped out of the car. While he retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she dialed Becky’s number.
“I am scheduled to be at the Luz tonight, aren’t I?” she asked, cutting off her employees greeting.
“Yes, you are. I spoke with the manager, a Mr. Scott Farleigh, this morning to confirm your reservation in a non-smoking room.” Becky’s voice was cool. It was clear she hadn’t completely forgiven Viola for the e-mail. “I have also rebooked your return flight. I will e-mail the details to you shortly.”
“Thank you, Becky.” Viola made a mental note to send Becky flowers. “I am sorry about the e-mail. You know airline food makes me cranky, and I was stuck next to the most talkative person on the planet.”
Becky harrumphed. “Is there a problem with the hotel?”
Viola handed the driver a wad of bills in exchange for her suitcase. Gravel crunched under her sneakers as she marched towards the glass double doors. “There are Ghost Grabbers vans in the parking lot,” she hissed.
She normally didn’t bother wasting energy thinking about the multitude of paranormal investigators across the country. Most treated it as a hobby, and those who hunted demons in their spare time couldn’t throw stones. The Ghost Grabbers, however, had landed a syndicated television show and national attention. Their condescending attitude towards spirits, laughable techniques, and propensity to claim everything as paranormal had earned them Viola’s disdain.
Becky muttered an apology and hung up on Viola. Viola shook her head, slipped her phone in the front pocket of her green trousers. The foyer of the mid-sized independent hotel was dark and imposing. The glass in the skylights was frosted and electric wall sconces provided the only other light. She gave them points for creepiness.
Viola ignored the rail-thin blonde standing near a grouping of chairs in the lobby. She recognized the young woman as a member of the Ghost Grabbers. The thirty-ish black woman behind the front desk smiled politely at Viola, but her posture indicated she was uncomfortable.
“Hi, Viola Duke.” Viola forced herself to remain in control. It wasn’t the poor woman’s fault the manager was a PR-hungry ass. “I’d like to speak with Scott Farleigh. Now.”
As if she’d expected such a request, the woman, Adelle according to her name tag, escorted Viola to a small office on the other side of a black column. Adelle rapped once on the door before opening it. Three men, two wearing gold Ghost Grabbers polos, were already in the room.
“Mr. Farleigh, Mrs. Duke has arrived,” Adelle said before brushing past Viola and returning to the desk.
Viola left her suitcase outside the door. She slipped her balled fists into her pockets, leaned against the doorjamb, and fixed Scott Farleigh, a graying, middle-aged stout man, with an expectant stare. “If there was a miscommunication between your office and mine, I have no problem moving on to one of my other locations and rescheduling this evaluation.”
She didn’t care if it cost a potential business associate. Something about Farleigh rubbed her the wrong way, and in the end he would be the one to lose out on profits. There were five hotels in the Hartford area looking to work with Spirited Stays.
“No, no, Mrs. Duke. There is no misunderstanding.” Farleigh’s booming voice rattled the framed photos on the walls. “I was hoping we could kill two birds in one night, so to speak. You and these gentlemen are in the same line of work. Surely your… er… skills would be a perfect complement to their technical expertise.”
Anger swirled in her belly. Power flooded her veins, turned her eyes a dangerous, glittering black. “I am not a medium for hire,” she bit out, lips curled back in a snarl. “I do not appreciate you making arrangements like this without consulting me first.”
“What’s the matters, Mrs. Duke?” One of the Ghost Grabbers leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Afraid of the cameras?”
“Nope. I don’t want to waste my time working with a bunch of AV Club geeks who don’t know the difference between the hum of an air conditioner and an EVP.” Anger cooled steel resolve. She kicked off the doorjamb. “My expertise isn’t the one you should question, Mr. Farleigh. I’ve got mad skills.”
The spirit in the corner of the room hesitantly waved at Viola. She winked back at the shy, young man dressed in mid-nineteenth century clothing. It was clear he was less than impressed by the Ghost Grabbers, too.
“Now, it’s late and I’m tired, so I’m going to go back up to the desk and check in. I’m going to order something from room service for dinner, and in the morning I’ll pay for my stay and leave. You won’t contact my company, and I won’t tell everyone I know what a jerk you are.” She arched an eyebrow at the flabbergasted Farleigh. “Okay?”
“B-but, Mrs. Duke…”
“Oh, and by the way, your hotel isn’t haunted.”
The spirit followed Viola to the front desk. He loitered by her suitcase while she checked in and got a room service recommendation from Adelle. It wasn’t until she was in the elevator that she spoke to the ghost.
“I’m sorry about denying your presence earlier. Feel free to make a liar out of me, if you’d like.”
The ghost shook his head. “I have seen their work on the television. I do not care for their methods or their manner of speaking.” He extended his hand, thought twice about it, and settled for tipping an invisible hat. “I am Archibald Thorton, Mrs. Duke. It is a pleasure to meet someone with whom I can converse.”
“Viola, please.” She curtsied awkwardly. “Archibald? Can I call you Archie?”
“You may. It is a diminutive my dear sister often used.”
Archie walked with Viola to her room. She was pleased to have a corner room, until she opened the curtains across the wall-length picture window. She had a lovely view of… the hotel across the street. She let go of her suitcase and sank onto the edge of the bed.
“I hate Connecticut.”
After changing into sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt she’d stolen from Duke’s side of the closet, she read the one-sided room service menu aloud to Archie. There were four sharp knocks on her door. She grabbed the tranq gun out of her open suitcase and peered through the peephole before opening the door.
Farleigh and two of the Ghost Grabbers stood in the hallway. The blonde from the lobby had a black case in her hands. She shuffled her feet and shot Viola a hesitant, apologetic smile.
“Mrs. Duke, I am going to have to ask you to remain in your room for the duration of our investigation,” the male Ghost Grabber said. “Rainbow’s going to install a camera outside your door to ensure nothing contaminates our evidence. We’re going to need you to keep your television off, as well.”
Viola slammed the door in their faces. She briefly entertained thoughts of burning the building down or at least slashing the tires on the Ghost Grabber vans. The bacon cheeseburger she ordered from room service was bland and her fries were soggy. She made a mental note to forgo the complimentary breakfast.
She dragged the black upholstered chair to the window and stared out the window as she ate her chocolate lava cake. Fortunately, it had a rich flavor and the cake was moist. She regretted not ordering two and calling that dinner.
The hotel across the street had a charming, Victorian façade. It was smaller than the Luz, but looked brighter and cleaner. “What do you know about the Cantor Hotel?” she asked Archie.
“I am afraid I have not left this establishment since my death.”
As soon as she finished her dessert, Viola booted up her laptop. The Cantor’s website was simple but elegant. It only had 124 guest suites and one meeting room, but it also boasted a bar, dining room, lobby, and library. The décor managed to maintain an old world feel without compromising modern amenities.
She and Archie watched the virtual tour and clicked through the photos. Archie instantly fell in love with the Cantor. He sighed wistfully when they reached the pictures of the library.
“How attached to this hotel are you, Archie?”
“I do not know. I have not attempted to leave.” Archie faded from view. “Please pardon me.”
Viola responded to two of Becky’s e-mails. Halfway through her second game of solitaire, Archie returned. A wide smile split his boyish face.
“It is possible! I crossed the street and entered the Cantor. The library is divine!”
“How do you feel about moving?” She didn’t feel guilty in the least about stealing the Luz’s ghost. It was true that most of the hotels listed with Spirited Stays profited from being haunted, but none of them outright exploited the resident ghosts.
After hearing Viola’s proposal, Archie heartily agreed to moving to the Cantor if the proprietor agreed with the plan. They played four games of computer chess before Viola got tired of losing and shut down her laptop. The Ghost Grabbers weren’t bothering to be quiet. They could hear them stomping up and down the stairs and talking in the hallways. Viola bit back a laugh every time she heard a high-pitched exclamation. As the hotel’s only spirit was dozing in her room’s spare chair, it was doubtful they’d caught anything truly ghost-related.
She flicked off the bedside lamp and stretched out on the bed. Duke laughed when she used their link to tell him all about the Ghost Grabbers and Archie. He laughed even harder at her petulant exclamation of boredom.
“We could always…” he started.
“No,” she sighed. He made the same suggestion any time they were apart. “We are not using the link for that.”
“But I miss you.” His voice dipped lower, liquid heat her mind. “I could make it good, sugar.”
“I’m sure you could, but there’s a camera with audio right outside my door.”
His chuckle was two-parts pure filth and one-part amusement. “You could try being quiet.”
“There’s also a ghost in my room. A ghost who blushed when he saw my ankles. I’m not going to traumatize the poor thing by engaging in… in that.”
“Ha,” Duke laughed. “Never mind, then. If you can’t say it, you can’t do it, sugar.”
Face flame red, she sent a wave of irritation through the link. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t sweetness.” Duke’s affection-warmed tone lulled her to sleep. “Just relax and think about all the things I’m going to do to you when you get home. I advise stretching first.”
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
The next morning, Archie was right beside her as she paid for her room and rolled her suitcase across the busy street. The inside of the Cantor was as inviting as it appeared on the website. Viola went directly to the front desk, introduced herself, asked for the manager.
Phillip Dickens, the general manager, greeted her with a smile and a breakfast invitation. Behind his back, Archie gave her an enthusiastic nod. She grinned back.
“Mr. Dickens, how would you like to be the manager of a haunted hotel?”
Friday, April 22, 2011
Soundtrack Fridays... "Slow Down Sister"
Now, this next song is on my "Duke" playlist, but it's not necessarily one he would like. He's more of the rowdier, Texas country music type of guy. The song, however, reminded me a lot of how he felt at the beginning of Daughter of Deception.
"Slow Down Sister" by Lady Antebellum
So what are you listening to today?
"Slow Down Sister" by Lady Antebellum
So what are you listening to today?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tasty Thursdays - Paul Duke’s Slow Braised Beef or Pork Roast
I had planned on showcasing recipes actually in the series, but this one I already had pictures of. Paul Duke was a single father for ten years, and his mama wouldn't have let him feed Toby nothing but fast food. This is one of his favorite meals.
From The Duke Family Cookbook
Paul Duke’s Slow Braised Beef or Pork Roast
From The Duke Family Cookbook
Paul Duke’s Slow Braised Beef or Pork Roast 1 - Pork shoulder butt roast or beef pot roast, preferably bone-in (approx 3 to 4 pounds)
1 - Medium red or yellow onion (peeled and quartered)
2 - Large carrots (scrubbed and cut in thirds or quarters)
2 - Large celery ribs (scrubbed and cut same size as carrots)
12 oz - Salsa (heat level to suit you – use your favorite)
12 oz – Shiner Bock (or your favorite full-flavored (not light) beer)
Salt Pepper Onion Power Garlic Powder to taste
2 Med or 1 Large Bay Leaf (optional)
Directions:
Put carrots, onion, and celery in the bottom of the crock pot.
Trim excess fat from meat. Season with salt, pepper, onion powder, and garlic powder on all sides. Stick it in crock pot on top of vegetables.
*** Aggie Duke Note:If pork is marbled well enough, you can brown it in a Dutch oven without oil (medium heat). For beef (or if pork seems very lean) use about 2 tbsp of oil (not olive, but peanut, sunflower or the like) on medium heat. Sear the meat on all sides while allowing it to brown on the large flat sides. This gives it a good flavor, makes the meat look appetizing, and by searing all side ensures a juicy roast at the end. Use tongs to turn your meat as it cooks. Fork holes in it defeat the purpose of searing and sealing. ***
Dump salsa in crock pot. Add 2/3 (8 oz) of the beer to the salsa jar and stir it well to clean the jar. Pour in crock pot and stir (beer will foam). Toss in bay leaves. Cover. Set on low and allow to cook for 4 – 6 hours. Use an instant read thermometer after 4 hours to gauge meat temperature and adjust cooking time accordingly.
Shut off crock pot 20 minutes before the meat is completely done. Let rest for ½ hour. Trash veggies and bay leaf.
Slice and serve with side dishes of your choice. Or shred, dump back in the juice, and put in tortillas or rolls.
(served here with mashed potatoes and green beans)
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Duke, post TCC
A glimpse inside Duke's head post-The Chaos Child. Minor, minor spoilers.
I will get back to work on Mistress of Malice and Mercy soon. Ish.
The residents of Burkeholt treat Viola like a goddess. They fall over themselves rushing to fulfill her every whim and vie for the opportunity to touch her hand or brush against the sleeve of her jacket. Duke thinks that if they could, they would spread rose petals on the ground for her to walk on or carry her around on a padded chair.
Many of the women from Duke’s past would have exploited the demons. They would have soaked up the attention like a sponge and wished aloud for every petty thing they desired: trinkets, exotic foods, anything the demons had that caught the eye. They would have transformed themselves into their version of a goddess – beautiful, elegant, and wholly self-centered.
When it comes to being a goddess Viola, however, is just plain awkward. Duke can’t help but sit back and watch. It’s the most entertainment he’s had in years.
She listens to the outpouring of effusive compliments until her ears are a bright red, and Duke can practically see the steam pouring out of them. She’s never been one for flattery. When the frustration reaches its boiling point, she snaps at the nearest demons. Tells them to stop calling her Lady Viola, Most Benevolent Savior, Glorious Liberator, or whatever ridiculous title they’ve strung together.
Of course, the demons cower in the face of her anger. Duke bites his tongue to hold back his laughter. They think that’s bad? They should’ve seen her after Sebastian broke her favorite bow her junior year of high school. No one had been spared her wrath then. He has a scar on the back of his left knee from where a dinner plate shard had hit him. Her little tirade on false gods and brown-nosing is nothing.
The demons don’t know better, though. All they know is that they’ve angered their goddess. They prostrate themselves in front of her, beg for mercy. A few of the braver ones fall at her feet and tug on her jeans. There are tears, wails and, buried beneath it all, Duke’s muffled laughter.
Under Viola’s sarcastic, waspish bitter coating, is a heart as soft and squishy as a bean bag chair. When faced with crying, desperate demons, she melts. She forgives them in an instant, begs them to ignore her outburst, and allows them to continue. The cycle begins again.
At Burkeholt, Duke is mostly forgotten. He’s okay with that. He likes staying in the background and observing. Well, he likes watching Viola, at least.
He finds it hilarious that Viola is their Virtuous Queen of Victory. Watching her shift uncomfortably as a Xilarian bard sings (Duke’d rather listen to one of those damn auto-tuned pop songs, but his earplugs are in the truck and they rode in her SUV) her praises, all he can see is his Viola. The girl who shot herself in the foot when she was a kid. Who threw tantrums, skipped school, drove her siblings insane, and got into more trouble than he’d like to remember. She has the curiosity of a cat and fortunately, or unfortunately if you’re on the wrong side of that curiosity, the lives to go with it. She has horrible taste in music, no appreciation for his authority, and an acid-dipped tongue. Five days out of ten, he’d like nothing more than to wrap his hands around her neck and choke the stubbornness out of her.
In the middle of his musings, a scuffle breaks out in the crowd surrounding Viola. Someone starts shoving his way towards her and someone else shoves back and, like all the riot videos Duke’s seen, pandemonium ensues. He tenses, ready to jump in the fray to protect his wife, when she dissolves the tension with a single quiet but firm word.
“Stop.”
Miraculously they do. They freeze in place. Viola scoops up the tiny, blue-skinned Crean they’d trampled and cuddles it to her chest. She glares the offenders into giving apologies. They bow their heads in shame, she immediately pardons them, and peace once again fills the sanctuary. The Crean wraps its long, spindly arms around Viola’s neck and stares at her with complete adoration.
Yeah. Duke knows that look. He’s certain it’s been on his face more than once. He gets it. Gets how they can mistake her for a goddess. How many times has she stopped him from making a drunken, stupid mistake? How often has she lifted him from depression or teased him out of self-destruction? She thanks him for keeping her from losing control, but she’s the one who saved his sanity first.
Over the Crean’s head, she flashes Duke a bright, slightly nervous smile. She glows so brilliantly inside and out, that he has to look away. For all her demonic ties and potential for destruction, he’s the one who feels unworthy. He’s struck dumb by the need to wrap her up in his arms and hide her from the rest of the world. Keep all that brilliance to himself. He’s always been the greedy sort.
He wonders if the demons know what they’re asking of her. Defeating Elrachaim won’t be simple. It could cost her every ounce of power she possesses. Could cost her life. She’d do it in a heartbeat because she’s weighed down with guilt. Hell, even if the guilt factor wasn’t an issue, she’d do it. That’s just who she is.
He hates it. They see her as their goddess, but gods fall and can be replaced by someone else with flashing eyes and superpowers. He knows too much about the true Viola to put her on a pedestal or place a crown on her head, but she’s… everything. They need her to save them from her father, but they’ve never asked him if he’s willing to sacrifice her for their freedom. He’s not quite sure what his answer would be if they did.
He thinks maybe he’d say no.
I will get back to work on Mistress of Malice and Mercy soon. Ish.
The residents of Burkeholt treat Viola like a goddess. They fall over themselves rushing to fulfill her every whim and vie for the opportunity to touch her hand or brush against the sleeve of her jacket. Duke thinks that if they could, they would spread rose petals on the ground for her to walk on or carry her around on a padded chair.
Many of the women from Duke’s past would have exploited the demons. They would have soaked up the attention like a sponge and wished aloud for every petty thing they desired: trinkets, exotic foods, anything the demons had that caught the eye. They would have transformed themselves into their version of a goddess – beautiful, elegant, and wholly self-centered.
When it comes to being a goddess Viola, however, is just plain awkward. Duke can’t help but sit back and watch. It’s the most entertainment he’s had in years.
She listens to the outpouring of effusive compliments until her ears are a bright red, and Duke can practically see the steam pouring out of them. She’s never been one for flattery. When the frustration reaches its boiling point, she snaps at the nearest demons. Tells them to stop calling her Lady Viola, Most Benevolent Savior, Glorious Liberator, or whatever ridiculous title they’ve strung together.
Of course, the demons cower in the face of her anger. Duke bites his tongue to hold back his laughter. They think that’s bad? They should’ve seen her after Sebastian broke her favorite bow her junior year of high school. No one had been spared her wrath then. He has a scar on the back of his left knee from where a dinner plate shard had hit him. Her little tirade on false gods and brown-nosing is nothing.
The demons don’t know better, though. All they know is that they’ve angered their goddess. They prostrate themselves in front of her, beg for mercy. A few of the braver ones fall at her feet and tug on her jeans. There are tears, wails and, buried beneath it all, Duke’s muffled laughter.
Under Viola’s sarcastic, waspish bitter coating, is a heart as soft and squishy as a bean bag chair. When faced with crying, desperate demons, she melts. She forgives them in an instant, begs them to ignore her outburst, and allows them to continue. The cycle begins again.
At Burkeholt, Duke is mostly forgotten. He’s okay with that. He likes staying in the background and observing. Well, he likes watching Viola, at least.
He finds it hilarious that Viola is their Virtuous Queen of Victory. Watching her shift uncomfortably as a Xilarian bard sings (Duke’d rather listen to one of those damn auto-tuned pop songs, but his earplugs are in the truck and they rode in her SUV) her praises, all he can see is his Viola. The girl who shot herself in the foot when she was a kid. Who threw tantrums, skipped school, drove her siblings insane, and got into more trouble than he’d like to remember. She has the curiosity of a cat and fortunately, or unfortunately if you’re on the wrong side of that curiosity, the lives to go with it. She has horrible taste in music, no appreciation for his authority, and an acid-dipped tongue. Five days out of ten, he’d like nothing more than to wrap his hands around her neck and choke the stubbornness out of her.
In the middle of his musings, a scuffle breaks out in the crowd surrounding Viola. Someone starts shoving his way towards her and someone else shoves back and, like all the riot videos Duke’s seen, pandemonium ensues. He tenses, ready to jump in the fray to protect his wife, when she dissolves the tension with a single quiet but firm word.
“Stop.”
Miraculously they do. They freeze in place. Viola scoops up the tiny, blue-skinned Crean they’d trampled and cuddles it to her chest. She glares the offenders into giving apologies. They bow their heads in shame, she immediately pardons them, and peace once again fills the sanctuary. The Crean wraps its long, spindly arms around Viola’s neck and stares at her with complete adoration.
Yeah. Duke knows that look. He’s certain it’s been on his face more than once. He gets it. Gets how they can mistake her for a goddess. How many times has she stopped him from making a drunken, stupid mistake? How often has she lifted him from depression or teased him out of self-destruction? She thanks him for keeping her from losing control, but she’s the one who saved his sanity first.
Over the Crean’s head, she flashes Duke a bright, slightly nervous smile. She glows so brilliantly inside and out, that he has to look away. For all her demonic ties and potential for destruction, he’s the one who feels unworthy. He’s struck dumb by the need to wrap her up in his arms and hide her from the rest of the world. Keep all that brilliance to himself. He’s always been the greedy sort.
He wonders if the demons know what they’re asking of her. Defeating Elrachaim won’t be simple. It could cost her every ounce of power she possesses. Could cost her life. She’d do it in a heartbeat because she’s weighed down with guilt. Hell, even if the guilt factor wasn’t an issue, she’d do it. That’s just who she is.
He hates it. They see her as their goddess, but gods fall and can be replaced by someone else with flashing eyes and superpowers. He knows too much about the true Viola to put her on a pedestal or place a crown on her head, but she’s… everything. They need her to save them from her father, but they’ve never asked him if he’s willing to sacrifice her for their freedom. He’s not quite sure what his answer would be if they did.
He thinks maybe he’d say no.
Friday, April 15, 2011
On Music... Soundtrack Fridays
I love music. No, really, I do. If the sound of my voice didn't make small children cry and dogs howl, my career path might have gone a completely different way. I'm crap at the piano, but I could still play a few songs on the flute if asked. I always have the radio playing at work, in the car, anywhere I can.
As I've said on a few writing sites, I don't create playlists for books, really. I create them for characters. They can contain what I think would be the character's favorite songs as well as songs that describe the character. These playlists are amazing when it comes time to writing from that character's perspective. There's just something about music that puts you in a certain mood.
I mention music quite a bit in the Family Lies series. Viola is a music junkie and Duke has his favorite bands. For the next couple of months or so I'm going to put up a few songs from my personal soundtracks on Fridays and explain why I chose them or where they pop up in the book.
In The Chaos Child, Viola hums a song while going through her father's diaries. Many of you have guessed the song correctly, but a few weren't sure. Well... here you go, enjoy a little flashback:
Now, I said I make character playlists, but every now and then I find a song that speaks for the whole book. In this case, I think the song works for the whole series.
What song are you listening to?
As I've said on a few writing sites, I don't create playlists for books, really. I create them for characters. They can contain what I think would be the character's favorite songs as well as songs that describe the character. These playlists are amazing when it comes time to writing from that character's perspective. There's just something about music that puts you in a certain mood.
I mention music quite a bit in the Family Lies series. Viola is a music junkie and Duke has his favorite bands. For the next couple of months or so I'm going to put up a few songs from my personal soundtracks on Fridays and explain why I chose them or where they pop up in the book.
In The Chaos Child, Viola hums a song while going through her father's diaries. Many of you have guessed the song correctly, but a few weren't sure. Well... here you go, enjoy a little flashback:
Now, I said I make character playlists, but every now and then I find a song that speaks for the whole book. In this case, I think the song works for the whole series.
What song are you listening to?
Monday, April 4, 2011
WOTD 4-4-11 (Duke/Viola May 1992)
dapple \DAP-uhl\, noun:
1. A small contrasting spot or blotch.
2. A mottled appearance, especially of the coat of an animal (as a horse).
transitive verb:
1. To mark with patches of a color or shade; to spot.
intransitive verb:
1. To become dappled.
adjective:
1. Marked with contrasting patches or spots; dappled.
Dapple derives from Old Norse depill, "a spot."
May 1992
Toby flinched at the sound of rubber soles on wet grass. Ever since his dad had started training him to recognize footsteps and different sounds, he’d grown more aware of his surroundings. He knew who those footsteps belonged to; only one person he knew skipped everywhere she went.
“Hiya Toby!”
He didn’t acknowledge the cheerful greeting. He carefully filled in the lines on his sketch of the demon his father had brought home earlier. If he got the drawing right, his dad was going to let him do all the autopsy sketches. He was taking advantage of the light summer breeze and sunshine, plus his father had burned the meatloaf again and the house stank.
Undaunted, Viola sidled closer to Toby. She bumped his elbow, peered over his hunched shoulder. “What’cha doin’?”
“Drawing. Don’t you have someone else to annoy, brat?”
“Nope.” Grape-stained lips pulled back to reveal two rows of even, purple teeth. “Livy and Mom are makin’ dinner, and I dunno where Bas went.”
Toby growled under his breath when she bumped his arm again. He shoved her away and went back to work shading in the Dundalk’s dark fur coat. If he was lucky, Viola would go away when she didn’t get the attention she wanted.
“You’re doin’ it wrong.”
His head drooped forward. Long, blond bangs fell into his eyes. He brushed them off his forehead and glared. Viola merely shrugged and stood on the toes of her pink tennis shoes. She leaned over his arm to point at the picture. Her long, auburn ponytail tickled his nose. He tugged on the neon pink rubber band in retaliation.
“Hey!” She swatted his hands, stuck out her purple tongue.
“I am not doing it wrong, brat.”
“Yes you are.”
“Am not.”
“Are, too.”
“Am. Not.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are, too.”
“I. Am. Not.” His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed as he contemplated dipping inside her mind. A quick change of her thoughts would send her back inside the house and out of his hair.
“Are, too. Are, too. Are, too.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Are, too to infinity!”
He snorted. Was that really supposed to work? Remembering his grandmother’s constant admonitions to be nicer to little kids, he resisted the temptation to alter her thoughts. “It’s fine the way it is, Vi.”
“Nah-huh.” She shook her head. The end of her ponytail lashed his cheek. He slapped two hands on her cheeks to keep her from doing it again.
“What’s wrong with it, then?”
“It’s supposed to have spots. You know, like the horses. White and black spots.”
“Like the horses.” Toby released her face and plopped back on his chair. He didn’t believe Viola, but to humor her he grabbed the book by his feet. With her staring at him intently, he flipped to the correct page.
“See, I told you!” She jabbed a short, pale finger at the picture of a Dundalk before twirling away.
He ignored the girl dancing merrily behind him. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she’d been right. Rather than a smooth, unmarked coat like he’d been drawing, the Dundalk’s coat was dappled. It was a good thing he’d done the sketch in pencil.
“I was right and you were wrong.” Viola spun around his chair, tugged on his ears. “I was right and you were wrong.”
“Yeah, but you’re still a brat.”
1. A small contrasting spot or blotch.
2. A mottled appearance, especially of the coat of an animal (as a horse).
transitive verb:
1. To mark with patches of a color or shade; to spot.
intransitive verb:
1. To become dappled.
adjective:
1. Marked with contrasting patches or spots; dappled.
Dapple derives from Old Norse depill, "a spot."
May 1992
Toby flinched at the sound of rubber soles on wet grass. Ever since his dad had started training him to recognize footsteps and different sounds, he’d grown more aware of his surroundings. He knew who those footsteps belonged to; only one person he knew skipped everywhere she went.
“Hiya Toby!”
He didn’t acknowledge the cheerful greeting. He carefully filled in the lines on his sketch of the demon his father had brought home earlier. If he got the drawing right, his dad was going to let him do all the autopsy sketches. He was taking advantage of the light summer breeze and sunshine, plus his father had burned the meatloaf again and the house stank.
Undaunted, Viola sidled closer to Toby. She bumped his elbow, peered over his hunched shoulder. “What’cha doin’?”
“Drawing. Don’t you have someone else to annoy, brat?”
“Nope.” Grape-stained lips pulled back to reveal two rows of even, purple teeth. “Livy and Mom are makin’ dinner, and I dunno where Bas went.”
Toby growled under his breath when she bumped his arm again. He shoved her away and went back to work shading in the Dundalk’s dark fur coat. If he was lucky, Viola would go away when she didn’t get the attention she wanted.
“You’re doin’ it wrong.”
His head drooped forward. Long, blond bangs fell into his eyes. He brushed them off his forehead and glared. Viola merely shrugged and stood on the toes of her pink tennis shoes. She leaned over his arm to point at the picture. Her long, auburn ponytail tickled his nose. He tugged on the neon pink rubber band in retaliation.
“Hey!” She swatted his hands, stuck out her purple tongue.
“I am not doing it wrong, brat.”
“Yes you are.”
“Am not.”
“Are, too.”
“Am. Not.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are, too.”
“I. Am. Not.” His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed as he contemplated dipping inside her mind. A quick change of her thoughts would send her back inside the house and out of his hair.
“Are, too. Are, too. Are, too.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Are, too to infinity!”
He snorted. Was that really supposed to work? Remembering his grandmother’s constant admonitions to be nicer to little kids, he resisted the temptation to alter her thoughts. “It’s fine the way it is, Vi.”
“Nah-huh.” She shook her head. The end of her ponytail lashed his cheek. He slapped two hands on her cheeks to keep her from doing it again.
“What’s wrong with it, then?”
“It’s supposed to have spots. You know, like the horses. White and black spots.”
“Like the horses.” Toby released her face and plopped back on his chair. He didn’t believe Viola, but to humor her he grabbed the book by his feet. With her staring at him intently, he flipped to the correct page.
“See, I told you!” She jabbed a short, pale finger at the picture of a Dundalk before twirling away.
He ignored the girl dancing merrily behind him. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she’d been right. Rather than a smooth, unmarked coat like he’d been drawing, the Dundalk’s coat was dappled. It was a good thing he’d done the sketch in pencil.
“I was right and you were wrong.” Viola spun around his chair, tugged on his ears. “I was right and you were wrong.”
“Yeah, but you’re still a brat.”
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
WOTD 3-30-11 (September 1997, Duke)
lucre \LOO-kuhr\, noun:
Monetary gain; profit; riches; money; -- often in a bad sense.
September 1997
Duke was screening his phone calls, but for the first time in years it wasn’t to avoid his mother. Hers was actually the one phone call he needed to answer. The five times he’d called her, he’d gotten the answering machine. He’d contemplated leaving a message but hadn’t been sure of the proper etiquette. How did you inform someone that her ex-husband, the man she verbally abused at every opportunity and accused of ruining lives, was dead? He’d had three days to figure it out, but still had nothing.
The house phone rang. Duke remained slumped in the chair. He’d let the machine get it. He was close enough that if it was his mother he could jump up to catch it before she hung up.
“Toby, this is Davey Harris from Fort Worth. Sad, sad news about your father. We’ll be in for the funeral, son. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask. This is a terrible loss for all of us.”
Duke snorted. He tilted his beer bottle back to drain the last few drops of amber liquid. He’d only met Davey Harris once; his father had hated the slimy bastard. There was nothing he needed from Davey Harris.
“Anyway, son, I was hoping to get a chance to talk you afterwards about a few things. Your father and I had talked about this piece of land he owns outside of McKinney. It’s a small patch, really, but…”
Duke threw his bottle at the answering machine. It slid off the counter and crashed to the floor. Davey Harris’ voice cut-off mid-sentence.
Disgusted with the bottomfeeders who’d come crawling out of the woodwork in search of the lucre that followed a sudden death. He’d had dozens of calls like Harris’. People who wanted his father’s truck, his weapons, and even an offer to buy the house. It made him sick.
The phone rang while he was rooting around in the fridge for another beer. He slammed the door shut with his foot and grabbed the cordless phone. A Florida phone number appeared on the display. His stomach sank. Showtime.
Monetary gain; profit; riches; money; -- often in a bad sense.
September 1997
Duke was screening his phone calls, but for the first time in years it wasn’t to avoid his mother. Hers was actually the one phone call he needed to answer. The five times he’d called her, he’d gotten the answering machine. He’d contemplated leaving a message but hadn’t been sure of the proper etiquette. How did you inform someone that her ex-husband, the man she verbally abused at every opportunity and accused of ruining lives, was dead? He’d had three days to figure it out, but still had nothing.
The house phone rang. Duke remained slumped in the chair. He’d let the machine get it. He was close enough that if it was his mother he could jump up to catch it before she hung up.
“Toby, this is Davey Harris from Fort Worth. Sad, sad news about your father. We’ll be in for the funeral, son. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask. This is a terrible loss for all of us.”
Duke snorted. He tilted his beer bottle back to drain the last few drops of amber liquid. He’d only met Davey Harris once; his father had hated the slimy bastard. There was nothing he needed from Davey Harris.
“Anyway, son, I was hoping to get a chance to talk you afterwards about a few things. Your father and I had talked about this piece of land he owns outside of McKinney. It’s a small patch, really, but…”
Duke threw his bottle at the answering machine. It slid off the counter and crashed to the floor. Davey Harris’ voice cut-off mid-sentence.
Disgusted with the bottomfeeders who’d come crawling out of the woodwork in search of the lucre that followed a sudden death. He’d had dozens of calls like Harris’. People who wanted his father’s truck, his weapons, and even an offer to buy the house. It made him sick.
The phone rang while he was rooting around in the fridge for another beer. He slammed the door shut with his foot and grabbed the cordless phone. A Florida phone number appeared on the display. His stomach sank. Showtime.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
WOTD - 3-29-11 (December 2000, D, V, O, S)
And you thought you'd seen the last word of the day. Silly reader. Now, I know these are generally short, but I was feeling wordy today.
And now... time for the fiction with a little bit of knowledge (it's like a word of the day calendar with a short story attached)
bedaub \bih-DOB\, transitive verb:
1. To smudge over; to besmear or soil with anything thick and dirty.
2. To overdecorate; to ornament showily or excessively.
Bedaub is from be-, "thoroughly" + daub, from Medieval French dauber, "to plaster," perhaps from Old French dauber, "to clothe in white, white-wash, plaster," from Latin dealbare, "to whitewash, to plaster," from de- (intensive prefix) + albus, "white."
December 2000
Olivia jerked when a warm hand unexpectedly brushed her arm. The smile she flashed her brother didn’t quite reach her eyes. She snuggled against his chest when he slung an arm across her shoulders. His sweatshirt absorbed the tears trickling down her cheeks.
“How long has she been like this?”
Olivia shrugged. She’d spent two days on campus finishing up an extra-credit project, and Sebastian had been busy with end-of-the-semester reports. Neither of them had paid too much attention to their little sister. There was no telling how long Viola had been holed up in her room.
“At least I don’t have to worry about a phone call from her counselor.” Sebastian sighed, ran his fingers through Olivia’s fine, blonde hair. Ever since their father’s disappearance a year earlier, Viola had made a nasty habit out of skipping school. He was on a first name basis with her counselor, principal, and most of her teachers. If she didn’t have to keep up her grades for track eligibility, he feared the problem would be exponentially worse.
“I should go in there.” Despite her declaration, Olivia didn’t move. “I’ll get her in the shower and we can take her out for dinner. I picked up one of those ice cream cakes she loves. I think we’ve got candles in a drawer somewhere. If not, we can run to Walgreens after dinner and…”
Sebastian chuckled, pressed a long finger across Olivia’s lips. “Breathe, Liv. It’ll be okay. I’m sure Vi wants to keep this birthday low-key, anyway.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Duke’s here. He’ll straighten her out.”
“Why is he here? You shouldn’t have called him, Bas. This is a family matter.”
“He got here the same time I did. He was supposed to take Vi out on rotation for her birthday, but she blew him off. He got worried.”
Olivia nodded. She was worried, too. Viola adored both Duke and Tracking. There was no way she’d simply forget about either.
Both turned away from the doorway at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Duke, cradling a large black mug of steaming liquid, bobbed his head in greeting before barging into Viola’s bedroom. Olivia reluctantly followed Sebastian downstairs. She understood the need for privacy, but she wanted to know how Duke could pull Viola out of her funk when nothing else got through to her.
The bedroom was a disaster. Viola wasn’t a neat freak like Olivia, but the room was unusually messy. Duke shoved a stack of books onto the floor and set the mug on the newly-cleared section of desktop. He dragged a chair across the floor and sat beside her. When she didn’t bother acknowledging his presence, he flicked the tip of her nose.
“What do you want, Toby?”
“You can’t go skipping rotation whenever you feel like, Viola. Your partner counts on you to back him up.”
“You’re not my partner.” She didn’t look up from her notebook. “You didn’t even want me to go with you. You only asked because you felt sorry for me.”
“I think you overestimate how much I actually like you.”
“I think you overestimate how much I actually give a damn.” Viola blinked her gritty, dry eyes. She cradled her pen against her thumb and flexed her cramped fingers. “Thanks for the tea. You can leave now.”
Ignoring her profanity-laced protests, Duke lifted the notebook out from under her nose. His heart sank as he flipped through it. Viola’s handwriting was virtually unreadable. In her haste to write down every passing thought, she’d rendered the pages unreadable. She’d bedaubed the paper with ink and what smelled like chocolate.
“What are you working on, Shortcake?”
“Stuff.” Viola tried to snatch her notebook out of his hands. He held it just out of reach. Huffing, she flopped back in her chair and glared.
He was familiar with the desperation and grief swirling in her eyes. He’d felt the same way on the first anniversary of his father’s death. He knew Viola wouldn’t appreciate pity, but he couldn’t help the flash of sympathy. It was a sure bet she was researching her father’s disappearance. He needed to get her mind off her loss.
He leaned back in his chair and propped his ankles on her knee. “I got a call earlier about something eating dogs in Conroe.”
Viola’s pen fell to the desk. Intrigue softened her glare. “Big dogs or little dogs?”
“Two German Shepherds, a Lab, and a pit bull.”
Her nose crinkled. Poor dogs. “ Anything left behind?” She held up a hand when Duke opened his mouth. “Not of the dogs. I mean, any sign of a demon?”
“Dark green slime, or so the homeowners claim.”
“Smells like menthol?”
“Yeah.”
“Aetkc.”
He grinned. No other Tracker-in-training would have figured it out. “You should have heard Max bragging about you at the last meeting. You’d think he could take all the credit for your training.”
Viola rolled her eyes. “You, Granny, and D….” She swallowed, blinked back a flood of tears. “Dad taught me everything I know.”
“Yep, and as a special birthday bonus you get to help me take care of the Aetkc.” He stood up, wriggled his fingers. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here if I have to, Shortcake.”
“Fine.” She stood for the first time in hours. Her knees wobbled, her head spun. Once she regained her equilibrium, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and led the way into the hall. “Can I drive?”
“Don’t push it, sweetheart.”
And now... time for the fiction with a little bit of knowledge (it's like a word of the day calendar with a short story attached)
bedaub \bih-DOB\, transitive verb:
1. To smudge over; to besmear or soil with anything thick and dirty.
2. To overdecorate; to ornament showily or excessively.
Bedaub is from be-, "thoroughly" + daub, from Medieval French dauber, "to plaster," perhaps from Old French dauber, "to clothe in white, white-wash, plaster," from Latin dealbare, "to whitewash, to plaster," from de- (intensive prefix) + albus, "white."
December 2000
Olivia jerked when a warm hand unexpectedly brushed her arm. The smile she flashed her brother didn’t quite reach her eyes. She snuggled against his chest when he slung an arm across her shoulders. His sweatshirt absorbed the tears trickling down her cheeks.
“How long has she been like this?”
Olivia shrugged. She’d spent two days on campus finishing up an extra-credit project, and Sebastian had been busy with end-of-the-semester reports. Neither of them had paid too much attention to their little sister. There was no telling how long Viola had been holed up in her room.
“At least I don’t have to worry about a phone call from her counselor.” Sebastian sighed, ran his fingers through Olivia’s fine, blonde hair. Ever since their father’s disappearance a year earlier, Viola had made a nasty habit out of skipping school. He was on a first name basis with her counselor, principal, and most of her teachers. If she didn’t have to keep up her grades for track eligibility, he feared the problem would be exponentially worse.
“I should go in there.” Despite her declaration, Olivia didn’t move. “I’ll get her in the shower and we can take her out for dinner. I picked up one of those ice cream cakes she loves. I think we’ve got candles in a drawer somewhere. If not, we can run to Walgreens after dinner and…”
Sebastian chuckled, pressed a long finger across Olivia’s lips. “Breathe, Liv. It’ll be okay. I’m sure Vi wants to keep this birthday low-key, anyway.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Duke’s here. He’ll straighten her out.”
“Why is he here? You shouldn’t have called him, Bas. This is a family matter.”
“He got here the same time I did. He was supposed to take Vi out on rotation for her birthday, but she blew him off. He got worried.”
Olivia nodded. She was worried, too. Viola adored both Duke and Tracking. There was no way she’d simply forget about either.
Both turned away from the doorway at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Duke, cradling a large black mug of steaming liquid, bobbed his head in greeting before barging into Viola’s bedroom. Olivia reluctantly followed Sebastian downstairs. She understood the need for privacy, but she wanted to know how Duke could pull Viola out of her funk when nothing else got through to her.
The bedroom was a disaster. Viola wasn’t a neat freak like Olivia, but the room was unusually messy. Duke shoved a stack of books onto the floor and set the mug on the newly-cleared section of desktop. He dragged a chair across the floor and sat beside her. When she didn’t bother acknowledging his presence, he flicked the tip of her nose.
“What do you want, Toby?”
“You can’t go skipping rotation whenever you feel like, Viola. Your partner counts on you to back him up.”
“You’re not my partner.” She didn’t look up from her notebook. “You didn’t even want me to go with you. You only asked because you felt sorry for me.”
“I think you overestimate how much I actually like you.”
“I think you overestimate how much I actually give a damn.” Viola blinked her gritty, dry eyes. She cradled her pen against her thumb and flexed her cramped fingers. “Thanks for the tea. You can leave now.”
Ignoring her profanity-laced protests, Duke lifted the notebook out from under her nose. His heart sank as he flipped through it. Viola’s handwriting was virtually unreadable. In her haste to write down every passing thought, she’d rendered the pages unreadable. She’d bedaubed the paper with ink and what smelled like chocolate.
“What are you working on, Shortcake?”
“Stuff.” Viola tried to snatch her notebook out of his hands. He held it just out of reach. Huffing, she flopped back in her chair and glared.
He was familiar with the desperation and grief swirling in her eyes. He’d felt the same way on the first anniversary of his father’s death. He knew Viola wouldn’t appreciate pity, but he couldn’t help the flash of sympathy. It was a sure bet she was researching her father’s disappearance. He needed to get her mind off her loss.
He leaned back in his chair and propped his ankles on her knee. “I got a call earlier about something eating dogs in Conroe.”
Viola’s pen fell to the desk. Intrigue softened her glare. “Big dogs or little dogs?”
“Two German Shepherds, a Lab, and a pit bull.”
Her nose crinkled. Poor dogs. “ Anything left behind?” She held up a hand when Duke opened his mouth. “Not of the dogs. I mean, any sign of a demon?”
“Dark green slime, or so the homeowners claim.”
“Smells like menthol?”
“Yeah.”
“Aetkc.”
He grinned. No other Tracker-in-training would have figured it out. “You should have heard Max bragging about you at the last meeting. You’d think he could take all the credit for your training.”
Viola rolled her eyes. “You, Granny, and D….” She swallowed, blinked back a flood of tears. “Dad taught me everything I know.”
“Yep, and as a special birthday bonus you get to help me take care of the Aetkc.” He stood up, wriggled his fingers. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here if I have to, Shortcake.”
“Fine.” She stood for the first time in hours. Her knees wobbled, her head spun. Once she regained her equilibrium, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and led the way into the hall. “Can I drive?”
“Don’t push it, sweetheart.”
Friday, March 25, 2011
November 2004, Duke/Viola
What I should be doing is working on another chapter of Mistress of Malice and Mercy, but since Duke's mother Isabel makes an appearance in several chapters, I've been doing a lot of thinking about her. She's not a character I've focused too much on. All that thinking eventually turned out this backstory.
November 2004
The pounding on the motel room door would not stop. A sliver of unease prickled the back of Viola’s neck. There were only three people she knew in Boca Raton. Two of them were eating overpriced seafood in Miami and the third wasn’t aware she was in town.
Frowning, she grabbed the first item her hands hit and tiptoed towards the door. She tried to peer through the peephole, but the glass was so dirty she couldn’t make out anything but a blurred figure. After a mental count of three, she yanked the door open with one hand and held her book up with the other.
“You’re going to hit me with...,” Duke tilted his head back to read the title of the book hovering over his head. “Matrix Computations, Shortcake?”
Viola’s arm dropped limply to her side. She exhaled noisily as the rush of adrenaline faded. She scowled at her brother’s best friend. “What in the hell are you doing here, Tobias? I thought you were in New Orleans.”
Duke ignored Viola’s question and pushed his way into the room. He dropped onto the edge of the king size bed. He glanced around the bland, dim room. He recognized Viola’s overnight bag shoved against the wall between the dresser and the closet door, but didn’t see any other luggage.
“You’ve got your own room?”
Viola shut the door, locked it. She dumped her textbook on the rickety metal dinette table and perched on top of the long, low dresser. “Yep. Liv and Bas have been bitching at each other for the past three days. I told them if I didn’t get some space I was going to hitchhike back to Houston.”
“It’s not like they couldn’t track you down,” he said, gesturing to the wide leather band strapped to her left wrist. The pewter runes fixed to the band acted like GPS locator. He had designed it to replace the tracking bracelet she’d lost a year earlier. “It’s how I found you.”
She flicked at the chunky silver clasp. “It’s removable.” She was flattered, undeniably so, that he’d bothered to track her, but couldn’t understand why he needed to do so in the first place. “What do you want, Tobias?”
“For you to stop calling me that.”
“Not likely.”
“I didn’t think so.” He leaned back on his elbows, crossed his ankles. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Viola ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair and tried to mask her irritation. She adored Duke, had since she was a kid, but had never been able to make him see her as more than Bas’ little sister or the annoying brat he couldn’t wait to be rid of. Loving him didn’t mean she was going to waste time listening to the same old insults. Her Ashwood pride wouldn’t allow that.
“Yeah, we’ve had this conversation about a hundred times, To-bias,” she said, purposely drawing out his name. “If you’re waiting for Liv or Bas, you might as well do it in your car. I don’t have time for the same old arguments. I really do need to study.”
“You’re…” Duke slowly sat up. Confusion clouded his eyes. “You’re kicking me out?”
“I know this isn’t usually what happens when you’re with a girl in a hotel room, but try not to die of shock. There has a first time for everything. Think of it as a learning experience.”
“I actually came here for a reason, Vi. I need your help.”
She arched an eyebrow but did not respond. She didn’t expect it to be demon-related. Duke took the Network very seriously and would have gotten straight to the point as soon as she answered the door. Besides, the demon population in the Miami area was relatively small. It was one of the reasons people who hated demons, like Duke’s mother…
Viola groaned, squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t put the pieces together before. Duke was in Boca Raton. Florida wasn’t part of his region, and it wasn’t the season for a sunny vacation. He was in town to see his Network-despising mother. The same woman whose phone calls never failed to send him into a drunken stupor or depression. Or, if Viola was really unlucky, both.
“Do you still have your fake?”
Her eyes popped open. They narrowed as she considered the consequences of giving a truthful response. “That’s a trick question, isn’t it? I'm going to have to plead the fifth this time around.”
Duke waved a hand nonchalantly. “Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” Diving into Viola’s mind to find the answer took only a second. Her defenses were good, but he was better. “Good, you’ve got it. I need you to go to a gallery thing with me tonight.”
“Gee, last minute much, Tobias?” Her mouth snapped shut as she realized what he’d said. At least it explained his dress pants and shirt. “What does a gallery thing have to do with my fake id?”
He shot her a withering glare. “After spending a few hours with Mom, I’m going to need a drink or seven. I need you in the bar with me to keep me from doing something stupid like starting a fight.”
“Or going to a cheap motel with a hooker and getting gonorrhea.”
“Viola…”
She blinked owlishly, unfazed by his growl. A slow, sly smile spread across her face. “Yes, Tobias? You know,” she tapped her finger against her chin, “maybe you should go by yourself. I’m sure there are plenty of single women your mother is just dying to introduce to her only son.”
He shuddered.
She laughed. “Oh, calm down before that vein in your forehead bursts.” Stuck in a hotel room studying or a night out with Duke? Of course, she’d choose Duke. She jumped to her feet, glanced down at her flannel pajama pants and wrinkled her nose. “Guess I’d better change clothes.”
As she’d originally planned to go to dinner with Olivia and Bas before they’d gotten too annoying, Viola had a gallery-suitable outfit in her overnight bag. Her black lace pencil skirt and silver cashmere-blend tank top weren’t especially glamorous, but they packed well. After dressing, she hurriedly applied the barest amount of makeup and tied her curling hair back with a silver ribbon.
Back in the bedroom, she dumped her pajamas on the bed and slipped on a pair of silver snake-embossed leather ballet flats. Like most of her dressier clothes, they had been a gift from Olivia. She handed Duke her fake id, room key, and credit card.
“No pockets in the skirt and my purse doesn’t match,” she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. She yelped when his cold knuckles brushed the inside of her knee. She jumped backwards and slapped at his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Your skirt is way too short, Vi.”
She rolled her eyes. Sometimes he was worse than Sebastian. “No it’s not, you overgrown hypocrite. Now, let’s get this over with.”
She left a message on Olivia’s voicemail so her siblings wouldn’t freak out when they returned from the restaurant and found her gone. Any attempt she made at small talk on the drive to the gallery was met with one-word responses or distracted grunts. After a few minutes, she gave up and stared at the cloudless sky. It was going to be a long night.
At the art gallery, Duke reluctantly handed the keys to his precious truck to the valet and reached for Viola’s hand. The strength of his grip bordered on desperate. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering and moved closer to his side.
“I’m not going to abandon you, you big baby.”
The pressure on her hand eased marginally. She resigned herself to the loss of feeling in her hand for the duration of the evening. Both flinched when they stepped inside the gallery and were immediately assaulted by elevator music. Forced laughter and chuckles along with the clink of glass did little to cover up the music.
“You owe me,” she muttered as they weaved in and out of the crowd in search of Isabel Duke Carrington.
“Suck it up, Shortcake.”
She briefly considered slipping free from his grasp and letting the crowd swallow her up. His thumb twitched. She huffed. Stupid paranoid telepath.
“Toby!”
Duke froze. Viola’s nose slammed into his arm. She didn’t need to see Isabel. There was no mistaking the heavy rose-and-gardenia perfume the older woman used as her ‘signature’ scent. It burned the back of her throat and deadened her sense of smell.
“Hello, Mom,” Toby greeted politely. When his mother wrapped both arms around his neck, he didn’t relinquish his hold on Viola’s hand. The awkwardness of the embrace made it possible for him to break it sooner than his mother intended.
“Oh darling, you look wonderful.” Isabel patted his cheek. Tears sparkled in her pale blue eyes. The pastel pink gown that seemed to be nothing more than layers and layers of silk and chiffon reminded Duke of a tiered cake.
“You look great, too, Mom.” Floundering for something to say to keep the conversation going, he glanced around for his step-father. “Where is Pete?”
“I bent one of my wings. He’s off getting a replacement.” She giggled girlishly, swept an arm towards two watercolors on a nearby wall. “This is my fairy collection, so I chose to dress in character.” She patted the sparkly, diamond-studded tiara secured to her blonde head.
Viola popped up on her toes to reach Duke’s ear. “She knows fairies have fangs, right?”
“Oh?” Isabel gasped, pressed a hand to her heart theatrically. “Who’s this? You brought a date, Toby?”
“Mom, you remember Viola, don’t you?” Duke gave Viola a small shove in his mother’s direction.
“The Ashwood girl?” Isabel’s bright smile dimmed. She eyed Viola speculatively. “It is good to see you again, dear.”
“You too, Mrs. Carrington.”
“Toby, darling,” Isabel turned her attention back to her son, “whatever happened to that lovely Candace? I enjoyed our lunch together last spring.”
Viola snorted. She slapped a hand across her mouth to contain her laughter. Duke’s warning growl went ignored. “Candi? Fake tan, bleach blonde hair, blindingly white teeth?”
Isabel nodded dumbly.
"Candi!" Viola shook her head in disgust. “I can't believe you took a stripper to lunch with your mother.”
“Is that true, darling?” Isabel frowned. Viola was certain her forehead would have wrinkled had it not been recently Botoxed.
“I’m not seeing Candi any more Mom. It was a phase.” He squeezed Viola’s hand to keep her from giving anything else away. A plan sparked in his head. There was a way to get his mother off his back with a minimal amount of fuss. He smiled adoringly down at Viola. “I’ve moved on to better things.”
Viola was as confused as Isabel. Pretending to be a couple hadn’t been part of the plan. Before she could drag Duke aside to ask him what the hell he was doing, Isabel latched onto Viola’s free arm. Her smile was as false as half the breasts in the room.
“Oh, darling, I’m so glad that you’re settling down. Peter and I have been worried about you.” She tittered brightly. “Just remember that I’m too young for grandchildren.”
Viola paled. Duke kissed the top of her head. He’d have to alter his mother’s memory before he left the gallery, but it was a small price to pay for a night of peace. Fortunately, Viola was easily bribable.
“Come along, Viola, dear. I want to introduce you to a few of Peter’s associates and hear all about what you’ve been up to. How is your poor mother, by the way? Such a tragedy about your father. You know…”
Duke released Viola’s hand as his mother dragged her into the swarm of people. She craned her neck to glare fiercely at him. “You owe me for this, Tobias.”
He grinned, tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I know, sweetheart, I know.”
November 2004
The pounding on the motel room door would not stop. A sliver of unease prickled the back of Viola’s neck. There were only three people she knew in Boca Raton. Two of them were eating overpriced seafood in Miami and the third wasn’t aware she was in town.
Frowning, she grabbed the first item her hands hit and tiptoed towards the door. She tried to peer through the peephole, but the glass was so dirty she couldn’t make out anything but a blurred figure. After a mental count of three, she yanked the door open with one hand and held her book up with the other.
“You’re going to hit me with...,” Duke tilted his head back to read the title of the book hovering over his head. “Matrix Computations, Shortcake?”
Viola’s arm dropped limply to her side. She exhaled noisily as the rush of adrenaline faded. She scowled at her brother’s best friend. “What in the hell are you doing here, Tobias? I thought you were in New Orleans.”
Duke ignored Viola’s question and pushed his way into the room. He dropped onto the edge of the king size bed. He glanced around the bland, dim room. He recognized Viola’s overnight bag shoved against the wall between the dresser and the closet door, but didn’t see any other luggage.
“You’ve got your own room?”
Viola shut the door, locked it. She dumped her textbook on the rickety metal dinette table and perched on top of the long, low dresser. “Yep. Liv and Bas have been bitching at each other for the past three days. I told them if I didn’t get some space I was going to hitchhike back to Houston.”
“It’s not like they couldn’t track you down,” he said, gesturing to the wide leather band strapped to her left wrist. The pewter runes fixed to the band acted like GPS locator. He had designed it to replace the tracking bracelet she’d lost a year earlier. “It’s how I found you.”
She flicked at the chunky silver clasp. “It’s removable.” She was flattered, undeniably so, that he’d bothered to track her, but couldn’t understand why he needed to do so in the first place. “What do you want, Tobias?”
“For you to stop calling me that.”
“Not likely.”
“I didn’t think so.” He leaned back on his elbows, crossed his ankles. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Viola ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair and tried to mask her irritation. She adored Duke, had since she was a kid, but had never been able to make him see her as more than Bas’ little sister or the annoying brat he couldn’t wait to be rid of. Loving him didn’t mean she was going to waste time listening to the same old insults. Her Ashwood pride wouldn’t allow that.
“Yeah, we’ve had this conversation about a hundred times, To-bias,” she said, purposely drawing out his name. “If you’re waiting for Liv or Bas, you might as well do it in your car. I don’t have time for the same old arguments. I really do need to study.”
“You’re…” Duke slowly sat up. Confusion clouded his eyes. “You’re kicking me out?”
“I know this isn’t usually what happens when you’re with a girl in a hotel room, but try not to die of shock. There has a first time for everything. Think of it as a learning experience.”
“I actually came here for a reason, Vi. I need your help.”
She arched an eyebrow but did not respond. She didn’t expect it to be demon-related. Duke took the Network very seriously and would have gotten straight to the point as soon as she answered the door. Besides, the demon population in the Miami area was relatively small. It was one of the reasons people who hated demons, like Duke’s mother…
Viola groaned, squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t put the pieces together before. Duke was in Boca Raton. Florida wasn’t part of his region, and it wasn’t the season for a sunny vacation. He was in town to see his Network-despising mother. The same woman whose phone calls never failed to send him into a drunken stupor or depression. Or, if Viola was really unlucky, both.
“Do you still have your fake?”
Her eyes popped open. They narrowed as she considered the consequences of giving a truthful response. “That’s a trick question, isn’t it? I'm going to have to plead the fifth this time around.”
Duke waved a hand nonchalantly. “Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” Diving into Viola’s mind to find the answer took only a second. Her defenses were good, but he was better. “Good, you’ve got it. I need you to go to a gallery thing with me tonight.”
“Gee, last minute much, Tobias?” Her mouth snapped shut as she realized what he’d said. At least it explained his dress pants and shirt. “What does a gallery thing have to do with my fake id?”
He shot her a withering glare. “After spending a few hours with Mom, I’m going to need a drink or seven. I need you in the bar with me to keep me from doing something stupid like starting a fight.”
“Or going to a cheap motel with a hooker and getting gonorrhea.”
“Viola…”
She blinked owlishly, unfazed by his growl. A slow, sly smile spread across her face. “Yes, Tobias? You know,” she tapped her finger against her chin, “maybe you should go by yourself. I’m sure there are plenty of single women your mother is just dying to introduce to her only son.”
He shuddered.
She laughed. “Oh, calm down before that vein in your forehead bursts.” Stuck in a hotel room studying or a night out with Duke? Of course, she’d choose Duke. She jumped to her feet, glanced down at her flannel pajama pants and wrinkled her nose. “Guess I’d better change clothes.”
As she’d originally planned to go to dinner with Olivia and Bas before they’d gotten too annoying, Viola had a gallery-suitable outfit in her overnight bag. Her black lace pencil skirt and silver cashmere-blend tank top weren’t especially glamorous, but they packed well. After dressing, she hurriedly applied the barest amount of makeup and tied her curling hair back with a silver ribbon.
Back in the bedroom, she dumped her pajamas on the bed and slipped on a pair of silver snake-embossed leather ballet flats. Like most of her dressier clothes, they had been a gift from Olivia. She handed Duke her fake id, room key, and credit card.
“No pockets in the skirt and my purse doesn’t match,” she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. She yelped when his cold knuckles brushed the inside of her knee. She jumped backwards and slapped at his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Your skirt is way too short, Vi.”
She rolled her eyes. Sometimes he was worse than Sebastian. “No it’s not, you overgrown hypocrite. Now, let’s get this over with.”
She left a message on Olivia’s voicemail so her siblings wouldn’t freak out when they returned from the restaurant and found her gone. Any attempt she made at small talk on the drive to the gallery was met with one-word responses or distracted grunts. After a few minutes, she gave up and stared at the cloudless sky. It was going to be a long night.
At the art gallery, Duke reluctantly handed the keys to his precious truck to the valet and reached for Viola’s hand. The strength of his grip bordered on desperate. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering and moved closer to his side.
“I’m not going to abandon you, you big baby.”
The pressure on her hand eased marginally. She resigned herself to the loss of feeling in her hand for the duration of the evening. Both flinched when they stepped inside the gallery and were immediately assaulted by elevator music. Forced laughter and chuckles along with the clink of glass did little to cover up the music.
“You owe me,” she muttered as they weaved in and out of the crowd in search of Isabel Duke Carrington.
“Suck it up, Shortcake.”
She briefly considered slipping free from his grasp and letting the crowd swallow her up. His thumb twitched. She huffed. Stupid paranoid telepath.
“Toby!”
Duke froze. Viola’s nose slammed into his arm. She didn’t need to see Isabel. There was no mistaking the heavy rose-and-gardenia perfume the older woman used as her ‘signature’ scent. It burned the back of her throat and deadened her sense of smell.
“Hello, Mom,” Toby greeted politely. When his mother wrapped both arms around his neck, he didn’t relinquish his hold on Viola’s hand. The awkwardness of the embrace made it possible for him to break it sooner than his mother intended.
“Oh darling, you look wonderful.” Isabel patted his cheek. Tears sparkled in her pale blue eyes. The pastel pink gown that seemed to be nothing more than layers and layers of silk and chiffon reminded Duke of a tiered cake.
“You look great, too, Mom.” Floundering for something to say to keep the conversation going, he glanced around for his step-father. “Where is Pete?”
“I bent one of my wings. He’s off getting a replacement.” She giggled girlishly, swept an arm towards two watercolors on a nearby wall. “This is my fairy collection, so I chose to dress in character.” She patted the sparkly, diamond-studded tiara secured to her blonde head.
Viola popped up on her toes to reach Duke’s ear. “She knows fairies have fangs, right?”
“Oh?” Isabel gasped, pressed a hand to her heart theatrically. “Who’s this? You brought a date, Toby?”
“Mom, you remember Viola, don’t you?” Duke gave Viola a small shove in his mother’s direction.
“The Ashwood girl?” Isabel’s bright smile dimmed. She eyed Viola speculatively. “It is good to see you again, dear.”
“You too, Mrs. Carrington.”
“Toby, darling,” Isabel turned her attention back to her son, “whatever happened to that lovely Candace? I enjoyed our lunch together last spring.”
Viola snorted. She slapped a hand across her mouth to contain her laughter. Duke’s warning growl went ignored. “Candi? Fake tan, bleach blonde hair, blindingly white teeth?”
Isabel nodded dumbly.
"Candi!" Viola shook her head in disgust. “I can't believe you took a stripper to lunch with your mother.”
“Is that true, darling?” Isabel frowned. Viola was certain her forehead would have wrinkled had it not been recently Botoxed.
“I’m not seeing Candi any more Mom. It was a phase.” He squeezed Viola’s hand to keep her from giving anything else away. A plan sparked in his head. There was a way to get his mother off his back with a minimal amount of fuss. He smiled adoringly down at Viola. “I’ve moved on to better things.”
Viola was as confused as Isabel. Pretending to be a couple hadn’t been part of the plan. Before she could drag Duke aside to ask him what the hell he was doing, Isabel latched onto Viola’s free arm. Her smile was as false as half the breasts in the room.
“Oh, darling, I’m so glad that you’re settling down. Peter and I have been worried about you.” She tittered brightly. “Just remember that I’m too young for grandchildren.”
Viola paled. Duke kissed the top of her head. He’d have to alter his mother’s memory before he left the gallery, but it was a small price to pay for a night of peace. Fortunately, Viola was easily bribable.
“Come along, Viola, dear. I want to introduce you to a few of Peter’s associates and hear all about what you’ve been up to. How is your poor mother, by the way? Such a tragedy about your father. You know…”
Duke released Viola’s hand as his mother dragged her into the swarm of people. She craned her neck to glare fiercely at him. “You owe me for this, Tobias.”
He grinned, tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I know, sweetheart, I know.”
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