Fairy In The Flesh Excerpt

Blurb: Fairy In The Flesh

Katalina Leon

Maya Rousseau’s fantasy vacation in Avignon France heats up when an eccentric enchantress tricks her into drinking mojo-laced absinthe.

An unexpected encounter with the green fairy causes Maya’s reality to have a serious melt down. She travels back in time and wakes up naked in the bed of her favorite bad boy Bohemian artist, the tall, dark and mysterious André Bosco. There’s nothing wrong with that except it’s 1903.

For André it’s love at first sight. He begs Maya to become his cherished model, muse and lover. The chemistry and shared passion between them is overwhelming. André’s a generous-hearted dream man but there’s a catch. Every hour they spend together bonds them tighter and time is running out. The same powers that flung Maya back to 1903 are preparing to snatch her back.

With a hundred and ten years separating these soul-bound lovers it’s uncertain if they can find a happy ending without the help of a little magic and La Fée Verte.

Note: Story contains super hot sex with an unattainable man, enchanted hallucinatory beverages, mischievous time-twisters and green fairies.

Today I want to share another except of Fairy In The Flesh. This is from Chapter Two. Maya has already been tricked into drinking mojo-laced absinthe and follows the green fairy upstairs to steal a forbidden peek inside Andre Bosco's sealed art studio. When she opens the door, she gets a big surprise. A burst of green light knocks her down and tosses her back in time to 1903...

Excerpt: Fairy In The Flesh.

Maya opened her eyes to a sunny, cluttered room that carried the distinct scents of male musk, linseed oil and turpentine. A warm breeze blew through an open window. She rolled onto her side, realizing she was lying on a rumpled bed—naked.

She gasped in shock, clutched the well-worn linen sheets close and darted a furtive glance around the room, wondering where the hell she was.

An ornate, painted Oriental screen blocked her view of all but the bed, which was surrounded by stacks of books, puddled candle stubs and bits of interesting things like iridescent peacock feathers, a scrimshaw pipe and a tortoiseshell comb.

“Miss, are you all right back there?” a deep male said with caution. “You’ve been lying down a long time. The morning light is nearly gone. I’d like to get some work accomplished. Will you be able to model today or not?”

She recognized the voice. It was the same voice that had coaxed her upstairs. It was André Bosco. She knew he spoke French but there was none of her usual struggle to comprehend and translate what was said. It was as if French were her first and only tongue. His words flowed with ease through her mind.

She leaped to her feet, wrapped the sheet around her and peeked over the screen. In the corner, a man who looked exactly like the sketch of André Bosco sat near an open window, furiously shoveling oil pigments from tiny jars with a blunt knife and daubing them onto a glass palette.

Her mouth gaped wide.

Bosco glanced toward her. The sunlight lit his eyes a brilliant shade of golden- green. He grinned. “At least you’re standing—that’s a good sign.” He returned his attention to the palette. “For a while I was convinced I’d wasted my money on you.”

“What?” she gasped.

“I paid you in the square. I don’t usually work with models. They’re a luxury I can seldom afford. You inspired me to try something different and insisted I give you a day’s pay upfront before coming here. I admired the unusual coppery glint of your hair so I willingly paid. I prepared a canvas, got my hopes up and then you simply fell down and passed out.”

“No I didn’t.” Maya dabbed her forehead with her palm, exploring for signs of injury. This had to be a delirious hallucination. A small amount of absinthe couldn’t possibly provoke an effect this strong. Her heartbeat was steady. The room felt solid and Bosco certainly felt real. What the hell was going on?

She peered out the window. A horse and buggy clattered past on the street below. The horse snorted. “The streets are full of buggies and carts—where are the cars?”

“The what?” Bosco looked puzzled.

“The cars, catering trucks, the hip-hop dancers grinding on the pavement with their boom-boxes. The streets were full of television crews, parked vans and people taking pictures with their cell phones at the summer arts festival. I could barely move down the street. Where is everyone?”

“What in God’s name is a hip-hop boom-box? I can’t make sense of such garbled nonsense.” Bosco stared at the colorful cone-shaped piles of paint heaped on his palette with a look of regret. “I’ve wasted my paint today, haven’t I?”

He appeared to be stewing in thought. The steep angle of Bosco’s dark brows lifted and grew stormier by the second. He suddenly bolted forward, snatched a scant handful of clothing from a tabletop and pressed the clothes into her arms. “This is why I never paint women from the square. I should have known better. You’re drunk, aren’t you? I won’t work with a model who passes out cold or talks nonsense all day. There’s no point. I thought you were something special but apparently you’re not. Please get dressed and leave. You can keep the money—just go.”

He looked at her with genuine hurt simmering in his eyes. “I wanted to paint you. I had several canvases already planned in my mind. This is a crushing disappointment.”

“I’m not drunk. I promise you. I was just...” How could she possibly talk herself out of this one? Her idol was cross with her and it stung. If this was her hallucination why couldn’t it be a happy one? This gorgeous man was looking at her with reservations, as if she were a drunken idiot. It was not exactly the stuff of fantasy. She felt her lip tremble. “Why are you so angry?”

“I have an important salon showing next week. I’m under a lot of pressure. I don’t have enough completed canvases and I can’t afford to waste time.” Bosco raked his fingers through his wavy mane of coffee-black hair. “I hoped for your cooperation. Instead you fell down and passed out behind the screen. When you awoke I couldn’t make sense of a single thing you said. I have to assume you’re drunk. This is quite unprofessional. You have modeled before, haven’t you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why were you standing in models’ square? You agreed to come here. My paints are laid out, the light is perfect and I find your type of beauty inspiring.” He paced across the room in agitation. “What a shame to squander it all. I won’t detain you against your will. If you’re not prepared to work, please go!”

She had fantasized countless times about what André Bosco might be like but the man towering in front of her was much more formidable in the flesh. It surprised her that for a man of his size he possessed a sleek, feline quality when he moved. He did appear peeved, but she sensed it was because he genuinely wanted to paint her portrait. That alone was a heady thought. “Forgive me. I was so nervous I didn’t know what to do. If you’ll give me a second chance, I’d be honored to model for you.”

“Truly?” Bosco stopped pacing and studied her face. “Promise me you are not drunk. I refuse to paint a drunken woman.”

 “I’m not drunk.”

“Are you sure? You were acting like a drunk a short time ago. I smelled a touch of anise on your breath right before you passed out behind the screen. Did you conceal a flask of absinthe in your boot?”

“No, I didn’t. I felt faint and had a moment of confusion. I assure you I’m sober and ready to work.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Bosco’s tone softened. “That was unkind. Perhaps we can start fresh?”

He reached for her hand and stroked her palm with the pad of his thumb. “You’re shaking. Is it simply nerves or something else? When did you last eat? Are you hungry—is that why you fainted?” He motioned to a side table set with a single loaf of bread and a round of cheese. “It’s not much but I’m happy to share. You don’t have to go without.”

She gazed into Bosco’s warm green eyes and thought of a slow-flowing river in summer. “A cup of water would be enough.”

He glanced around. “I have only one cup and I’ve been drinking wine from it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He picked up a ewer, poured water into a cup and swished it around with vigor before dashing the spent water out the open window.

A man passing below the window shouted, “Watch what you’re doing! I’m soaked. Rude souls be damned!”

“Walk under the awning you grouchy old goat!” Bosco shouted out the window and laughed. “You’re lucky I wasn’t pissing!” He looked at her and shrugged with a broad smile on face. “Sometimes it happens.”

Maya clutched the sheet closer, feeling completely disoriented. Was she really standing in front of the André Bosco or was this just a fevered hallucination? It didn’t feel dreamlike. André was far from perfect and there were too many gritty details, such as stains on the carpet, or a swath of beard stubble Bosco had missed while shaving, for this to be an idealized fantasy. Was it possible she’d been drawn into some sort of time vortex?

“When is it?” she said cautiously.

“That’s an odd question to ask. It’s late morning.” The smile faded from Bosco’s face. He poured water into the cup and handed it to her. “Maybe you should eat something.”

“I meant what year is it?”

“Oh dear.” The broad arch of Bosco’s elegant lips slipped downward. “You offered me false hope. For a moment I thought I might get at least one decent canvas from you and then you snatched it away by talking like a madwoman again. Today is July 16th 1903. Is there somewhere else you need to be?”

She shook her head.

“Now that we are clear about what year it is, before we begin...” André set a large canvas on an easel and secured it with a clamp. “Do you have any other questions?”

“No.”

“I have a question. Your dialect is unfamiliar. Where are you from?”

“Thibodaux, Louisiana.”

“Louisiana, America?” His brows shot skyward. “Why are you so far from home? Do you have family in Avignon?”

“No, I just wanted to come here.”

André looked scandalized. “Alone?”

She took a sip of water and set the cup on a side table. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I came to see the new art being made here.”

He laughed. “You are mad, but you’re very pretty. I can’t wait to paint you. What’s your name?”

“Maya Rousseau.”

“Maya.” Bosco’s eyes fanned at the edges as he smiled. “It’s a good name and it suits you. My name is André.” He pointed to a once lovely but now sun-faded Persian carpet in the center of the floor. “Maya, would you stop clutching that sheet against you and stretch out on that patch of sunlight on the carpet?”

( Maya and André begin a very eventful day that will bring them together as lovers and change theirs lives completely.) 

Fairy In The Flesh available now! 

Ellora's Cave Publishing

http://www.ellorascave.com/fairy-in-the-flesh.html

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Fairy-in-the-Flesh-ebook/dp/B00EQ88XJC/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1378856004&sr=1-6 

Have a wonderful week. 

XXOO Kat

Have You Ever Tasted Absinthe?

Have you ever tasted Absinthe? It’s strange, beautiful stuff and something of an acquired taste. Straight from the bottle it’s an earthy golden-green similar in hue to high quality olive oil. When mixed with water it becomes an enchanted, cloudy shade of pale opalescent jade. The mysterious green transformation is where the legend of La Fée Verte, the green fairy begins. In cafés of the 19^th century a patron would be served a fluted, parfait style glass, a small pitcher of water, a filigree spade-shaped spoon that often was a work of art in itself, and a tiny dish of chunky oblong sugar cubes.

The patron would balance the spoon across the top of the glass, place the sugar cubes atop the spoon and very slowly drizzle the absinthe over the sugar cubes, saturating them. Then a small amount of water would be trickled over the sugar cubes and allowed to dissolve them. The final step after the last bits of green sugar had slipped through the spoon is to stir the mixture until it becomes opaque. At that moment it’s time to ask La Fée Verte to be kind with you and grant you a beautiful vision.

The first impression that might leap to mind while tasting modern commercial absinthe might be “Dear god that’s strong”, or it might be, “Wow this is just weird black licorice and a lot of booze.”

Taste it again and the other subtle flavors begin to come forward. Taste it again and you’ll notice there are a lot of layers to this stuff, multiple ingredients that are familiar yet very hard to name. Anise is right at the top, screaming licorice!, but there are other quietly seductive flavors as well as the possibly of a few sinister properties. Absinthe as it was made in the 19th century contained wormwood as one of the principle ingredients, which is said to induce hallucinations and eventually madness.

Madness? Wormwood? You might think that sounds a little unsetting but it didn’t stop the French from guzzling the stuff. Until World War I Absinthe was the most popular alcoholic beverage in France. French veterans returning from the Crimean War came home with a taste for exotic herbed alcoholic beverages. Absinthe’s astonishingly high alcohol content and notorious ability to intoxicate added to its popularity among the poor and serious café drinkers alike.  Absinthe’s allure crossed all social boundaries in 19^th century France. Intellectuals, artists and well-to-do middle class matrons all enjoyed and often overindulged in La Fée Verte’s warming and yet numbing embrace.

For professional purposes only I drank a little absinthe while editing Fairy In The Flesh. I called on La Fée Verte to bring me a beautiful vision as I asked the question, “What if your soul mate was born a century before you?” Fairy In The Flesh explores that question big time.

In this excerpt at the end of a long, luckless day of wandering through Avignon France searching for André Bosco’s art studio, Maya stubbles into a Bohemian bistro run by a strange lady who claims to be a “time-twisting” enchantress.

…Maya’s gaze wandered toward the far wall and fixated on a framed pencil sketch of a handsome man with a proud, compelling face. The sketch was framed beneath glass and the paper had yellowed at the corners and crumbled with age. She studied the man’s face and guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He had a thick head of wavy dark hair and a rugged face with square, noble features, chevron brows and luminous eyes that glanced sideways from the portrait and seemed to follow the viewer around the room.

Maya found herself unable to look away. The man had a magnetic quality she seldom saw in contemporary faces. It was a look that could only belong to someone who possessed the self-confidence and perhaps a touch of arrogance not to care what the world thought. The generous arch of the man’s lips was so sensuous her thoughts wandered toward what it must have felt like to be kissed by him.

“You like Bosco, don’t you?” Miss Ruby leaned close. “He has a interesting face, doesn’t he? He can appear both compassionate and feral in turn. I’ve heard many differing opinions about the portrait over the years.”

Maya started. “Is that a portrait of André Bosco, the Fauvist painter?” she gasped. “I’m a great admirer of Bosco! I had no idea a portrait existed.” Her heart fluttered. “Did he really look like that?”

“You know of Bosco?” Miss Ruby looked elated. “So few do. History has all but overlooked him, which is a shame because those familiar with his small body of work have hailed him as one of the most innovative painters of his time. Some say Bosco inspired his more famous peers and set the example for the Fauvist moment by showing the world how to paint like a wild beast. Of course, a few of his nastiest critics called him a ‘paint waster’, but it’s clear Bosco had vision.”

Miss Ruby waved her hands through the air in an expansive gesture. “A few art historians have credited Bosco with being the original wild beast, in part because of his physical intensity and unruly head of hair, but also because he had a habit of tossing his paintbrushes aside and smearing the brightest colors across the canvas with his fingertips, with passion. It was said by those who watched him work that he ravished his canvases like a ferocious lover.” She giggled.

“He sounds exciting.” Maya drew a sharp breath. “Years ago, I saw an original Bosco in a traveling museum show of modernist work. Bosco’s painting was the most expressive piece of art in the entire show. I kept wandering back to look at it again and again. The painting was of a white stallion but the colors were vivid—every hue of the rainbow was hidden in the lines and shadows. Before I left the museum I bought a postcard of the painting and carried it around in a battered sketchbook for years. Bosco was my greatest inspiration. I heard a rumor he had a studio somewhere in Avignon?”

“He did.” Miss Ruby pointed upward. “His studio is a corner room on the third floor. The landlord of the building has preserved it.”

“Bosco’s studio is here?” Maya tensed. “Can I see it?”

“No.” Miss Ruby shook her head. “I don’t have permission to open the room, but the landlord will return on Sunday. You can ask him then.”

“I won’t be here on Sunday.” A note of desolation crept into her voice. “This is my last full day in France. I have to start making my way back to Paris tomorrow for my flight home. I’ll miss my only chance to see Bosco’s studio.” Maya leaned across the bar, feeling absolutely desperate to get a look at Bosco actual living space. “Please reconsider—I promise not to touch a thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Miss Ruby nodded toward the top of the bar, where an ornate brass skeleton key dangled from a green satin ribbon. “The landlord is the only one allowed to use that key to open the studio.”

“Damn.” Maya swallowed the last of her iced coffee and set the empty glass on the counter. She now felt torn about getting up and leaving when something as interesting as André Bosco’s studio was so near. “What’s inside the studio?”

“Everything.” Miss Ruby sounded glib. “The room is exactly as Bosco left it in 1903. He abandoned his paints, brushes, unfinished canvases, clothing—even a small amount of money. It’s a real mystery—no one knows what happened to him.”

A chill shivered up Maya’s spine. “No one knows?”

“There are romantic tales that claim Bosco fell in love with a model. She left him and he simply walked away one day never to be heard from again. What happened after that is an unknown. No doubt that is the reason he hasn’t enjoyed the same success as of some of his peers. Bosco abandoned his art, or perhaps changed his name and drifted. Even his legal name is in dispute, but no one really knows who he was or what became of him.

“The only thing that’s certain is Bosco disappeared from this hotel on the eve of having his work shown at an influential art salon. Wealth and success were headed his way and he chose to chase after a woman instead. Beyond that, history never heard from him again. Even the paintings destined for the salon showing in Paris disappeared and no surviving Bosco paintings have been authenticated after 1903, so you see, his career as an early Fauvist was fleeting but intense.”

Maya’s gaze fixated on the portrait. “It’s sad. He showed such promise.” She studied André Bosco’s commanding face. The depth of his eyes in contrast to his dark brows fascinated her. As she carefully examined the sweeping graphite lines of the sketch an odd thing happened—Bosco’s gaze seemed to sharpen and for the briefest moment she felt as if a living man confronted her.

“That portrait is uncanny.” Maya swayed from side to side, changing her angle of view. “When I move, Bosco’s gaze shifts too.”

“He’s watching you as intensely as you’re watching him.” Miss Ruby chuckled. “I think he likes you.” She turned and opened a locked cabinet built into the wall, opened the cabinet and removed an emerald green, liter-tall apothecary bottle stopped with a wax-dipped cork.

The sides of the bottle were smeared with colorful paint-stained handprints. A yellowed label that had begun to separate from the glass featured a voluptuous winged fairy cloaked in a wisp of green silk. The dreamy-eyed fairy basked beneath ornate golden lettering identifying her as La Fée Verte, the fabled and sometimes fickle green fairy who lurked within absinthe’s golden-green depths, waiting to inspire or destroy those who partook of her.

Miss Ruby proudly presented the bottle to Maya. “This bottle of absinthe belonged to Bosco.” She pointed to the flecks of dried paint on the label and bottle. “This was the paint palette Bosco was using when he disappeared. Look at the vibrancy of the lime greens, sorbet orange and warm pinks. The colors are gorgeous. This is just one of the many personal items he left behind. Being a high-level enchantress from New Orleans, the landlord entrusted me to take possession of the absinthe. I put my own protective mojo on it.”

Maya reached out to touch Bosco’s broad handprint on the bottle with reverence. His palm print dwarfed hers and she immediately saw that he must have been a man of large build. The intimate act of tracing her fingertips against the same spot where Bosco’s had once rested made her hand tingle. Touching Bosco’s handprint seemed to forge a galvanizing link to a past she would have loved to be part of.

Bosco had lived at a time when the world had just begun to awaken to its true potential. Queen Victoria had recently died, marking an official end to the Victorian era. Albert Einstein’s first important papers on thermodynamics had just been published and few outside his rarefied circle of peers knew his name. The Wright brothers were still perfecting their first fragile aircraft. The Eiffel Tower was a newly completed wonder and Europe and the rest of the world had yet to go to war.

Over a century ago, at the moment Bosco had picked up the bottle with paint- stained fingers and left his handprint on the glass, most people had seen a gleaming future on the rise but few had glimpsed its looming shadow.

“You’re touching that bottle as if you were stroking a lover’s thigh,” Miss Ruby said softly. “I can see by your faraway expression that you’re a bit enamored with Bosco. I understand. I’ve been smitten with the past too. It can be so enthralling.”

“I wouldn’t say I was smitten.”

“Is seduced a better word?” Miss Ruby reached behind the bar and retrieved a fluted parfait glass that stood on a delicate pedestal, a spade-shaped filigree spoon and a tiny silver dish filled with sugar cubes. “I can’t allow you to enter Bosco’s studio, but I can offer you a small taste of his absinthe.” Her hand poised above the cork, she said, “Would you like to try it?”

Maya stared at the tempting but slightly forbidding bottle. “Isn’t absinthe dangerous?” She squirmed on the barstool. “I‘ve heard it can cause madness.”

Miss Ruby’s posture stiffened. “I’m not going to let you consume that much. I’m only offering a taste so you can say you shared a drink with André Bosco. But if you’re not interested...” She started to put the bottle back into the cabinet.

“Wait!” Maya lurched forward. “I’d be honored to sample Bosco’s absinthe.” Her head spun from this crazy but thrilling offer.

“There’s a ritual that goes along with this.” Miss Ruby pointed toward the green fairy on the label. “If you want La Fée Verte to bring you a beautiful vision, you must offer her a gift.”

“What kind of a gift?”

Miss Ruby reached over the counter and, with a bold gesture, removed one of Maya’s tiny, gold hoop earrings from her lobe. Before Maya could protest the earring was plopped into the bottom of the fluted glass.

“Why did you do that?” Maya gasped in surprise.

“You can have it back later. La Fée Verte will bring you a lovelier vision if you offer her a personal item with your essence on it.” Miss Ruby lifted a pitcher of water and poured it into the glass until it was half full. She then balanced a lacy silver spoon across the top. “Pick up two sugar cubes,” she commanded. “Kiss each, make a wish and set them on the spoon.”

Maya picked up the sugar cubes and kissed both. The kisses left a sweet grainy texture embedded in her lipstick. She licked her lips and set the stained sugar cubes on the spoon. When set side-by-side the lipstick marks on the two sugar cubes formed a perfect pink heart. She almost pointed out the coincidence to Miss Ruby but decided to keep the thought to herself.

Miss Ruby uncorked the bottle of absinthe and poured a drizzle of golden-green liquid over the sugar cubes. A piquant and slightly bitter herbal scent filled the air. The cubes absorbed the soft-green color as they dissolved and washed through the tiny slots in the spoon. As the absinthe mixed with the cool water it formed delicate whorls that sank in the glass like exhausted dancers gracefully melting to the floor. A moment later the liquid turned a cloudy, opalescent shade of pale-jade.

Miss Ruby glanced at Maya. “Did you make a wish?”

Maya nodded. She’d wished she could meet a man as exciting as André Bosco but didn’t believe for a moment that it could actually happen.

“La Fée Verte can transport you for a brief time to another reality, but remember you belong in the present and no matter the temptation to remain in her realm, you will have to return. Your fate lies in the present.” Miss Ruby dipped the spoon into the glass and stirred. The golden earring twirled at the bottom of the glass, making soft tinkling sounds before settling. She withdrew the spoon and pushed the fluted glass toward Maya. “Your magic potion is ready. Enjoy.”

(Maya drinks the absinthe and gets left alone in the building. Things get strange fast. La Fée Verte appears and tempts her to steal the key)

Fairy In The flesh is available now!
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XXOO Kat