“Daniel, my new wife is a very curious lady. She seems to be having trouble making out your kinship. Do you care to enlighten her?” Timothy said, giving me a warm smile.
The stranger examined me a moment. “She is still human, but changing. Yes, I will explain my affiliation, since you wish it.”
He glanced at Terry and Bob. I think the three of them were friends, but it was hard to tell. Daniel held himself a bit aloof from the others. Even Ben and he seemed to have a distance between them, which couldn’t be easy when the three other men were all sitting in the same limo.
Bob, Terry, and Ben were all male specimens of the gorgeous sort. Women eyed them with interest and even lust. Daniel was equally handsome, but his reserve and the look in his eyes might be oft-setting for some. He probably blended well, not flashy or as muscle-bound as the wolves. Where Ben was eye candy, as Cara had put it, because of his perfect Faeness, Daniel gave off vibes that might prevent women from getting close. Why that was, I had no idea, but it was like a blinking red warning sign: Caution, keep your distance.
I hoped the man was unaware of my thoughts. Whatever vibrations Daniel was sending out, I was sure that Timothy knew the man well enough not to be suspicious of his nature. It was just me feeling the shivery doubts over the emanations from his presence. Was that just because I didn’t know him? Was he a genuinely nice man?
“Long ago in the Eastern Woodlands,” he began, his speech, the calm, deep and gentle voice of a true story teller. “When forests grew, birds sang freely, and people like yourself . . . ” He paused a moment, reflecting. People your color, but not like you. You are the color of flowers, the warmth of the sun. I feel reflection in your nature. You are a young soul, but one who learns. I feel the spirit in you, a blessing of kindness. You have not lived before, but your pureness is a beacon my people would see. It shines.”
“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head. Was that appropriate? I didn’t know, but there was something in Daniel, a strength . . . a wisdom. His speech was measured, slow, and mesmerizing. I wanted to ask him to continue, but I knew to remain silent.
For a moment he sat across from me on the leather seat next to the window, Ben, at his side. He watched me as if learning my nature, as if reading deep inside me, and while doing so, he remained as still as a boulder by a waterfall, one that absorbs the waterfall’s moisture, but seems impermeable to it.
Daniel glanced again at Timothy, then at me. “Yes,” he said. “You, Penelope Caldwell, you blend, like the morning dew which seeps inside a cornflower. I see that you will drink of each other, and it will nurture you both. You are alike and yet, not. That is good.”