Page 2 of The Devil’s Feather

With an air of mild amusement, the man watched me squint up at him. And up. Jesus, he had to be at least 6’8”. No, taller! He had a record tucked under one burly arm; the soundtrack I’d danced to. A name printed at the bottom peeked out from just below his sleeve.

Wait. I looked at the name. I looked back up at his face. As surreptitiously as possible—which was not at all—I sidled around to examine his profile. The glint of amusement in his eyes sharpened.

“No fucking way.” Was it too late to melt through the floor? “You’re Rafael Nazim⁠1? The composer?”

Not just any composer, but my favorite composer of all time. Rafael Nazim had won all kinds of awards for his movie and video game scores. And he’d just caught me flailing to his music. I squeezed my hands into fists, nails biting into the palms, to keep the abject humiliation from overtaking me.

“I am.” A slow, mocking smile crept across his face. “’Nah-zuhm,’ it is pronounced. Not ‘nah-ZEEM’.”

Oh no, he’s hot.

I echoed him in my head, Nah-zuhm, Nah-zuhm. “Sorry! I’ve never heard it spoken.”

God, how that smile transformed his looks! Unconventional, with the long red hair and black clothes, the Rafael Nazim was strikingly handsome in his own unique way. Something about his angular face spoke of a bygone era. Like an aristocrat from the Renaissance. Or the Devil himself.

Rafael Nazim was also famously reclusive. I’d found only a handful of articles about him over the years. He gave no interviews, and only a single black-and-white photo of his profile appeared in those articles. The man towering over me was definitely Nazim—no mistaking that long, hooked nose and those cheekbones—but the nature of the portrait omitted the unusual shade of his hair, his light bronzy-brown skin, and his impossible height.

Not to mention those muscles. How did a man in his 40s still have that much bulk? I never would have guessed from that narrow, almost gaunt face that he would be so huge. This man could snap me in half with one hand.

“Why are you here?” I blurted. “Sorry, that sounds accusatory. Let me try again. What brings, uh—” I flapped internally in my panic. What do you say to your heroes when they sneak up on you while you’re being cringey?

“Relax. I will not bite you for being awkward.” Rafael laughed in a low rumble like distant thunder.

Frissons rippled across my arms. This was not happening.

He wasn’t eastern European; I remembered that much. Naturally, I couldn’t recall where he was from otherwise. My brain spun like a hamster wheel trying to place the accent.

He waved the record he was holding. “I was told the sleeve for this album had a misprint. I wanted to see it for myself, and this place has an excellent vinyl selection.”

“At the risk of sounding awkward again, don’t you have copies at home?”

Rafael’s mouth quirked. “My turn to be awkward—caught buying my own fucking album. This is a second pressing of the vinyl and I never received the proof. Even more awkward, the employees always play my music when I come in here just to be annoying.”

I laughed and stuck my hand out. “Glad you did.”

Rafael stared at my hand, tilting his head slightly as if considering whether to strike at it. It added to his hawkish appearance. Or rather, gryphonic appearance, considering that mane of his. He blinked only once, as distinct and deliberate as his speech. Just before I withdrew in a fit of nerves, he accepted the handshake. His hand completely enveloped mine. It was so warm.

Haha, I’m in danger.

He caught my eye. “You know my name…”

“Pfft it’s like we’re playing awkward tennis, and I’m winning 30-15.” I shook his massive hand once and let it go. Reluctantly. God, those biceps. Maybe he tore instruments in half instead of playing them. “Don’t worry, you still can still make a comeback. I’m Elaine Parham and yes, I’m always like this.” Might as well set the expectations low. Assuming I ever ran into a famous composer again.

“People tell me I am off-putting and strange, so we are playing to our strengths, yes?” His peaked brows rose. “What brings you here, Ms. Parham, other than dancing with the books?”

Oh god. Was it too late to phase through the floor? “Um, I just wanted to signcopiesofmybook and run before anyone noticed.” I spat it out like a cartoon character spraying watermelon seeds across the carpet. “Mission failed, I guess.”

Rafael’s intense blue eyes lit up. “You are an author? Which books?”

I waved his words away, hoping none would land on me and stick. “D-Dragonsoul. It’s my debut.” Don’t tell him his score for the last Wicked Souls game helped inspire it. Do NOT!

The giant composer reached past me and grabbed the copy I’d shoved back into the wrong spot.

“I like the cover.” He hefted it. “Trade you a record for a book?” A frown plucked at his mouth. “Assuming you have a record player.”

“I’d love to, and my housemate has one, but you don’t have to do that! My book, um…has a lot of spicy scenes.” How red could my face turn before blood shot out of my eyes like a horned lizard? I needed a rock to hide under to go eat my ants in peace, safe from this apex carnivore. “Spicy means smutty, if you aren’t perpetually online like me.” Elaine, stop talking!

Rafael grinned wickedly. “I like smut.”