Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [81]
She was beautiful in a tall, slender, graceful fashion, like a model, but she was a discordant note, as if she belonged to a different theme. She showed us to a table that was in the very front with a view dead center of the temple. There was a woman at the table, who stood and offered us her hand as we sat down. Her handshake was firm, and her hand was about my size. It takes practice to have a firm handshake with hands this small.
Professor Dallas, call me Dallas, was shorter than I was, and so petite that in the right clothes she’d have looked prepubescent. She wore tan Docker pants, a white polo shirt, with a tweed jacket complete with leather elbow patches, as if she’d read the dress code for college professors and was trying to conform. Her hair was shoulder length, a baby fine, medium brown. Her face was small and triangular and as pale and perfect as God had intended it to be. Her glasses were gold wire frames and too large for the small face. If this was her idea of party clothes, someone needed to take her shopping. But somehow I didn’t think the good doctor gave a shit. I like that in a woman.
A man stepped out of the odd-shaped door at the top of the temple. The moment he stepped out, silence fell in rings around him, spreading out and out into the murmuring audience until it was so quiet I could hear the pulse of my own blood. I’d never heard a crowd this large go so quiet so quickly. I’d have said it was magic, but it wasn’t, not exactly. But this man’s presence was a sort of magic. He could have worn jeans and a T-shirt and he’d still have commanded your attention. Of course, what he was wearing was pretty eye-catching all on its own.
His crown was a mass of thin, long feathers, a strange greenish, bluish, goldish color, so that as he moved they shifted color like a trapped greenish rainbow hovering in a fan of colors above his forehead. His cape hung nearly to his knees and seemed to be formed of the same feathers as his headdress, so that he moved in a wave of iridescence. The body that showed was strong, square, and dark. I was sitting close enough to tell if he was handsome or not, but staring at him, I wasn’t sure. It was impossible to separate his face from that presence, and so the face didn’t matter much. He was attractive, not because of the length of a nose or the turn of a chin, but just because.
I found myself sitting up a little straighter in my seat, as if coming to attention. The moment I did it, I knew that even if it wasn’t magic, it was something. I had to fight to tear my gaze from him and look at the others at the table.
Bernardo was gazing at him, as was Doctor Dallas. Edward was gazing out over the hushed crowd. Olaf was studying the doctor. He watched her, not as a man watches a woman, but as a cat watches a bird through cage bars. If Dallas noticed, she ignored it, but somehow I think she didn’t notice. I think even with the man’s presence filling the room, his rich voice riding the air, I’d have felt Olaf’s gaze like a cold wind down my spine. That Dallas was oblivious to it made me worry about her, just a little, and made me very sure that I never wanted Olaf alone with her. Her survival instincts just weren’t up to it.
The man, king or high priest, talked in rich tones. I caught part of it. Something about the month of Toxcatal, and a chosen one. I could not concentrate on his voice, any more than I could gaze upon him because to give him too much of my attention meant I was caught up