Down a dirt road that might have been a relic of Cortez, Seraphina fled her past. She was not often afraid, and never without reason. But someone in her position could trust no one-not even the sublime stranger she met on her way. The Comte St. Germain had been beautiful. Lucifer had been, too.
No, Serephina could ill afford to trust. When the dark man had found her in Paris, she had been someone else, and she bartered her soul not realizing the manner of its collection. All good things come to an end, and she had spent centuries on the run. She and her cat had ended here: Mexico - an arid land of tequila, ancient rites and vampires; and in the arms of a man with a past more bizarre than her own, a man whose eyes vowed joyous oblivion. It would be madness to trust, to accept, to believe in an union for the ages, but she had only moments to decide: leave or take the ride Fate offered. She had always been one for the ride.
No, Serephina could ill afford to trust. When the dark man had found her in Paris, she had been someone else, and she bartered her soul not realizing the manner of its collection. All good things come to an end, and she had spent centuries on the run. She and her cat had ended here: Mexico - an arid land of tequila, ancient rites and vampires; and in the arms of a man with a past more bizarre than her own, a man whose eyes vowed joyous oblivion. It would be madness to trust, to accept, to believe in an union for the ages, but she had only moments to decide: leave or take the ride Fate offered. She had always been one for the ride.
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