Beautiful Death Read Online Free Page A

“Hey,” he shouted, stomping across the rich ebony stained bamboo floor as if he intended to dent the wood. “You and I have a few things to clear up and then I’m out…” He turned a corner and froze, the rest of his words instantly forgotten. The home may have been traditional Japanese on the outside, however it was anything but inside. There were no tatami, no bamboo and paper doors or exposed beams. Instead, the dark wood flooring from the entry and hallway extended into the large rectangular room, spotted with only a few simple rugs where it mattered. The entire wall directly opposite of the doublewide doorway they entered from was covered in books; floor to ceiling, nothing but books. Most were leather bound and very, very old by their worn and wrinkled bindings.
    Floor length windows dressed in delicate, dark red silk framed the bookshelves. To the left, nestled before a bank of windows facing the front of the home was a grand piano. The sheen was so perfect, so smooth you could see the reflection of the room in its high, black gloss. To balance the room, the other end was dominated by a slate-front fireplace. A frameless abstract canvas hung over the mantel of the great fireplace. The art was dark, mainly black, mixed with hues of blue, gray and streaks of red. Tristan frowned up at the piece, not recognizing it and unable to make sense of what the splashes of muddy colors were portraying only that it added to his already gloomy state. Two high back and plush armchairs cozied up to the front the fireplace. Tristan could almost picture his strange host sitting there with one of his antique books, wearing reading glasses and one of those heavy embroidered robes with an ascot tucked inside, drinking 50-year-old scotch. Pretending to be all grown up.
    Tristan stepped farther into the warm room and his eye was immediately drawn to a well-stocked wet bar on the right-hand wall, the fireplace end of the room. He almost didn’t realize he was licking his lips, transfixed on the bottles of liquid. God he could really use the drink right about then too. Then again, when couldn’t he? A round silver clock ticked away the minutes over the bar. A quick glance confirmed what he had suspected outside; it was practically dawn. He’d lost more than seven hours.
    Eyeing his strange host, Tristan decided to restart their conversation, maybe with something less aggressive than before. The guy did save him after all. That earned him at least five minutes of niceties, even if they tasted bad on Tristan’s tongue. “Did I hear right before?” His host, who’d gone to stand at the fireplace to look up at that macabre painting, turned and gave Tristan a questioning look. “Your name is… Ash ?”
    “That is correct.”
    “Great. What the fuck is going on?”
    That didn’t take long. Ah, but Ash supposed that Tristan had every right being annoyed. Should have been scared too, only if he understood the very real danger he was in. Ash gave a deep sigh, tugging on the leather barrette at the back of his neck and released all of that long, pale hair.
    Tristan’s fingers tingled, remembering the feel of that hair through them, soft and cool. Ash gave his mane a soft toss showing just how much of it there really was, reaching past his waist to brush the top his butt. Again, Tristan wondered if maybe his assessment of Ash was wrong. Because, seriously, who flipped their hair like that?
    Girls.
    Yep .
    Ash slipped out of the cape and folded it over his arm without turning to look at his houseguest again. Under the cape he was wearing a black kimono and hakama, just like a kendo student. A white sash, the obi, around his waist was all that kept the top closed and the pants up—a small consolation, to be sure. Tied to the obi by a deep purple cord was the sword he was dancing around with earlier. Hell, it wasn’t every day you ran into a dude who looked like a chick and thought he was some kinda samurai Dracula character. Just,