Sherri and Nicole were yanking my chain about Victor in yesterday’s comments–spot on, by the way!!–which reminded me of this little piece I started and never finished…until last night. You know I like to do that “Every character is the star of his own story” interview…
Finally!” With a pleased smile, I hit the send button and another query went winging out into the internet. Without the Maya synopsis like an albatross about my neck, I could finally get to work on a story that I’d been looking forward to for a very long time. ”Gregar, ask Victor to come in.”
The Shadowed Blood sat down in the chair beside my desk.
Gregar winked at me. ”Here.”
After all these months slogging through Revision Xibalba, the last thing I wanted to do was sit around arguing with my mouthy Muse. ”No, he’s not.”
“A little bit of me is in all your characters, but Victor is most like me.”
Gregar spoke slowly, as though I might not understand if he talked too fast. Grrr. Now I knew how Shannari felt when he and Rhaekhar began lecturing her on Sha’Kae al’Dan custom. “You may be my Muse, but you’re not Victor.”
He arched a brow at me. ”How do you know?”
“For one, this is a contemporary story, not a fantasy. Victor isn’t an assassin, he doesn’t have waist-long hair, and he certainly doesn’t…”
My tirade stumbled to a halt, because before my very eyes, Gregar changed. The red memsha about his hips disappeared–immediately, damn it, without a single flash of inappropriate flesh–replaced by a conservative suit. With his sable hair pulled back tightly, his face was more angular. Sharper.
But it was still Gregar, so I finished, “dream about killing the woman he loves.”
“How do you know?” Even his voice sounded different. A hint of Texas drawl began to blur his words, but his eyes… His eyes were still Gregar’s, dark and full of Shadow. ”You haven’t asked me any questions yet.”
“Look, just because I originally envisioned Adrian Paul playing both you and Victor’s role, that doesn’t mean I can stand to see you sitting here. I keep waiting for you to bend over, flip up your memsha, and shout ‘kiss my arse!’”
“I did play college football. I’m sure there was some mooning somewhere in my past.”
I made a rude noise that usually came out of his mouth. ”Sorry, but Victor would never lower himself to such ridiculous behavior. He’s a businessman: calm, cool and collected.”
“Rather like your Shadowed Blood when he kills, yes?”
Damn it, Gregar wasn’t supposed to say “yes,” he was supposed to say “aye.” This was all wrong. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounded, and for some bizarre reason, I wanted to burst into tears. I snapped, “nay!”
Ignoring me, he reached inside the black suit coat. Like a magician, he pulled out something that shouldn’t have fit beneath the tight, sleek jacket.
Gregar would always carry an ivory rahke, but this man carried…a riding crop.
He held the wicked-looking implement on his lap and stroked the leather with his fingers. His dark eyes burned. Not cold like Gregar’s eyes when the Shadow of Death rode him hard.
How such black eyes could smolder…
In a low, rough voice he whispered, “I need to hurt somebody.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and opened up a new file. “Hello, Victor. Welcome to the page.”