The young Neph could not speak. He could only nod. He’d spent the last year mentally preparing himself for this and wanted to make his father proud.
“Very well,” said his father. “You’re going to love your job, son. I daresay it’s the best of the lot.” He leaned forward and grinned at Kaidan. “You’ve got all the makings of a superb Neph. You will be a powerful force. You will bring people to their knees with the desire they feel for you, and they will spend the rest of their lives wishing for another touch, searching for another man like you. But there is only one Kaidan Rowe, and you will be like smoke. Make-believe. They cannot hold you, because there is no one like you who exists in their world.”
Kaidan’s heart pounded in the wake of his father’s words. Then he heard several sets of footsteps coming down the hall toward their sitting room—toward him. He gripped the chair’s arms tighter and set his face in a bored expression to hide the fear and excitement exploding through him like indecipherable lyrics. It was time to set himself apart from the other boys. There was no room in his life for guilt or humanistic morals. He was born for this. He was determined to embrace it and finally earn his father’s approval, despite the sourness rising up in his throat.
Pharzuph leaned back in his chair, lifting an ankle across his knee, staring darkly at Kaidan. A knock sounded on the sitting room door and his father’s lips rose in a wicked grin. “And now, son, the fun begins.”
PART ONE
Sweet Evil
“Break Me” by Kaidan Rowe
I can see you, see you, see you, seeking me out.
You can sense me, sense me, and it’s freaking you out.
I make you thirsty, hungry, but you can’t stay away.
Your eyes are on my body ’cause you want it my way.
Your mind and soul are screaming,
Saying RUN from the danger.
You know that something ain’t right
But you’re a bee to my nectar.
Your mind and soul are screaming,
Warning, “He’s gonna break us,”
But your body is begging me
To feed your emptiness. . . .
CHORUS:
I want those eyes to push me
And those hands to pull me,
Need those hips to break me,
Baby, break me, break me.
It’s gonna hurt tomorrow
When you’re sayonara,
But for now, for now, baby, break me,
Break me.
You ignored all the signs
From your heart and your mind
Now your body is spent,
Baby, broken, broken.
You had a taste of the good life,
Sweet and salt from the high dive.
Now your tongue is left craving.
Baby, craving, craving.
You and me, we were doomed.
Now you’re licking your wounds.
And I’m gone, baby, gone
On the winds of the dawn.
CHORUS
CHAPTER ONE
Before
“Like a big bad wolf I’m born to be bad and bad to the bone.
If you fall for me I’m only gonna tear you apart.”
—“Break Your Heart” by Taio Cruz
“I’m never gonna fall, but I’m never hard to catch . . .
My heart will never break, I’m just here to break a sweat.”
—“Casual Sex” by My Darkest Days
I’m the last of the band to walk into the party after our gig. I feel the eyes on me before I see them—the energy of auras blasting orange and red—excited whispers of “Oh my God, it’s Kaidan Rowe” carried along sublime waves of music at high wattage. Guardian angels float above their charges, wary when they see me.
I take my time entering the room behind our lead singer, Michael, who makes a grand entrance of throwing his arms up in the air as if to say, “These are my people!” Everyone cheers. Nobody seems to mind that he’s a cheeky bastard.
I’ve been in America less than a year this March and not much has changed from when I lived in London. My life is still a blur of drums, sex, and food—the Kaifecta—the only things worth living for in this fucked-up world.
My fingers are in the pockets of my black denim jeans and the front of my hair covers one of my eyes, but I can still see through the strands of brown. In one quick moment I scan the room and find three girls from the gig with red-hot auras, eyes glued to me. In half a minute I’m able to gather all I need from their auras, their body language, and the whispered conversations they’re having, which I hear clearly with my Nephilim senses.
“I am all over that. . . .”
“. . . heard he’s amazing . . .”
“. . . probably a jerk. He’s way too hot. . . .”
That last one is far more innocent than the others, and she is the one I choose. A cute brunette. I send her a nod. When she stares and slowly blushes, I look away. Then I turn and follow my mates into the kitchen for a drink.
The first seed has been planted. She will pursue.
In the kitchen a girl with short blond hair laughs at something some bloke is saying. He’s the nice guy, comedian type, wearing an oversized T-shirt. The moment I walk in, her attention wavers to me and her happy yellow aura turns to a fog of surprise, a flame of orange excitement, and then an uprising of red. The bloke tries to get her attention back, but I’ve friend-zoned him. Poor guy. I do feel bad for the ones who have to try so hard. If only they’d act like the sexual beings they are.
Any bloke who seems not to think about sex all day and night is a right liar. Or he’s attempting to train his mind for sainthood, which is idiotic.