Intel suggested her target would be here tonight. Itching to get back to Atlantis, she wanted to get this over with.
Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she pushed the door open and sauntered in, rolling her hips. The buttery soft, snug Basilisk hide pants showcased her ass. Not that her attributes were required when she hunted because she could lure a man with just her enchantment, but her appearance facilitated the chase.
The beat of the music overpowered her hearing until she adjusted her magical volume meter to a tolerable level. Heated stares skimmed her body while she made her way to the bartender. It was early, so the establishment wasn’t as crowded as it would be later tonight. The revelry was already at a hearty swing, and the dance floor sported an impressive contingent of ladies with a few men. A high-polished, walnut-wood bar hosted less than a dozen patrons.
Sameya slid in-between two males and leaned across the bar. “Whiskey. Neat. The best you have.”
Not that she intended to drink her order. One sip of liquor and she’d be wasted, all magic neutralized. She had a strict policy against vulnerability.
“I’m Gabriel.” The man on her right leaned a little closer, so near she could discern the minty scent of his breath.
Usually her intimidating otherworld vibe was enough to keep the humans back, even if they failed to comprehend why her diminutive stature came across so menacing.
Not sparing a glance in the male’s direction, she said, “Not interested.”
“Of course you’re not, syreen.”
The Atlantian term for her race. Sameya’s attention snatched about. A slight grin hit the corners of the fair-haired, drop-dead gorgeous man. A mystic. Like her…but not similar in many other ways. Cultured, but with a more humanized flair. Probably born in this mortal world rather than from Atlantis. Some mystics had chosen to remain among the humans when they shielded their land. But she couldn’t pinpoint his exact race.
He ran his fingertip along the rim of his glass, lifted the goblet, and drained the liquor in one gulp. “What are you hunting?”
Syn. The only thing she hunted.
Guarded, she tried to play it cool. “I imagine, the same as you.”
“I don’t hunt.”
Elevating her eyebrows, she called him on his lie with only her expression. Dressed like he owned half the world in a charcoal gray suit and baby-blue cravat…the man definitely pursued something. If nothing more than a willing but fast fuck.
His appearance was remarkable, handsome, with dark-blond, spiky hair. She was curious how many had been granted the privilege of running their fingers through it during coupling. His golden yellow eyes assessed her coolly, and they could not be mistaken for human. Clean shaven square jaw. Expensive clothing stretched across broad shoulders, hinted at power that had nothing to do with magic. It was the feral presence he exuded that suggested beneath the refined attire he was deadly. Could strike with the least amount of provocation with lethal accuracy, no hesitation and no remorse.
“Where you from, little lady?” The bald bartender set a glass of whiskey in front of her.
“Far away.” Sameya two-fingered the glass and sloshed the liquor in a circular motion, eyeing…Gabriel.
“Never heard your accent before,” the barkeep persisted.
If he were lucky, he never would again.
“I’m not interested in conversation.” She flicked her finger for him to go away, an apparent universal sign everyone understood because the male took the hint and moved away.
A very long time ago the mystic race had coexisted with humans. Sirens had filtered the scum from society, the criminal debauchery a feast. They’d been worshiped as gods, welcomed into homes, and prayers were sent their way. In return, mystics had received the mortals into their Valhalla—Atlantis. Then an unknown plague had nearly eradicated mankind. When the prayers went unanswered, the mystics had sunk their heaven to escape persecution. They might be stronger and magically inclined, but humans could still kill them.
Swiveling in her seat, she surveyed the room. She sensed the focus of the male beside her, but he remained seated with his back to the dance floor.
Gabriel. What a unique name, nothing she’d hear in Atlantis. She liked it. The way the syllables rolled around in her head was kind of…intriguing.
On the dance floor, bodies were grinding together in the suggestive act of sex, which increased her awareness of the mystic male. Revelers drunk on liquor and pheromones grew more lascivious with one another, less cautious of the company they kept. No way would a syn miss this easy action.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Gabriel.” She shuddered. Shit. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the way his name sounded on her tongue. Even though he didn’t look at her, she felt his attention. “What type of mystic are you?”