The Tempting: Seducing the Nephilim. D. M. Pratt

hallway of her house. Cora, her eyes wide with terror, tore down the curved stairway that anchored the house. The fear etched across her face intensified as she glanced back at what was chasing her. Eve stepped closer to the glass as if to look deeper into this other world. A shadow, large, dark and foreboding, pushed out of the darkness that cloaked the upper floor. It leaped on top of Cora, wrapping around her, dragging her into its folds of blackness. A huge hand with long, sharp fingernails jutted out, tearing the stairwell wall fabric with the preciseness of five, perfectly formed razors wielded with superhuman strength. Eve watched as it tore at Cora’s body, her arms, her neck, her face. Blood gushed from Cora as she screamed and fought for her life.

      Eve struggled to pull herself out of the daydream. Was it a wish? A prophesy? A memory? Was this real? No. Impossible! Had it been real Cora would have been left horribly scarred.

      “Miss Eve, are you alright?” a young woman’s voice said, piercing through Eve’s vision, startling her. Eve screamed, knocking her glass to the floor with a crash.

      “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give you such a start but …” the voice stopped. “Oh, my, Miss Eve, you should sit down.”

      Eve gasped, feeling the girl’s hands guide her to one of the oak Windsor chairs that circled the kitchen table.

      “Let me get you some water.”

      Eve looked at her savior, but a dizzying haze covered the details of her features. She turned back to look at the fridge. It too was now a haze of grey. When she looked back again she saw Aria reaching for a glass and pouring water from a pitcher that sat on the counter.

      Aria was the young nurse from the hospital. Eve had known her mother, but for the life of her Eve couldn’t remember why or from where—just only that she had. The young girl handed Eve the water. Her smooth features and long tight curls were braided into two braids that hung down to her shoulders, making her look even younger than she was. Aria could see Eve’s hands were trembling as she handed her the glass. Eve drank, taking long, deep swallows, feeling the cool liquid wash down her throat and soothe her body. When she stopped, she gasped and caught her breath, forcing herself to slow down. She held on to the wooden arm of the chair with one hand until the trembling slowly subsided.

      “Better?” Aria asked.

      Eve wanted to say, yes, and shake away the images she had just witnessed, yet she also wanted to remember every detail. This was the most complete version of the terrifying fragmented visions that kept plaguing her thoughts day and night since awaking from her coma. Again, she turned back for one last look. There it was, a glimpse, wavering in the glass, of the shadow’s hand cutting through the air and ripping into Cora’s face. Eve squeezed her eyes shut and drank another series of long sips. She sat back and steadied herself against the smooth wood of the oak table. Aria looked from Eve to the massive refrigerator.

      “My, my, it’s pretty gigantic for a fridge, but if you don’t like it, I say send it right back,” Aria offered, her Louisiana accent thick and slow, as she continued her study of the Traulsen that seemed to be the focus of Eve’s tormented expression.

      “It’s fine,” Eve said.

      Eve touched her own neck and thought of the small scar on Cora’s chin and neck. She’d seen it. Of that she was sure. When she first awoke in the hospital she had noticed the wisp of a scar crawling out from under Cora’s chin; a jagged piece of some forgotten past, but she couldn’t remember if Cora ever mentioned where it had come from. It battered Eve’s memory. Desperately, she tried to blend the visual of the terrifying images that skittered across her refrigerator with a piece of a memory. A time and place that didn’t fit anything she could remember doing. Eve struggled to focus on the truth of what happened to her when she hit her head. Getting knocked out wasn’t what came to mind. She woke in the garden alone, she thought. But how? When? How could she determine the correct answers when she didn’t even know which questions to ask? She’d tried more than once to talk to Cora about her visions, but Cora said she had no idea what Eve could possibly be talking about, waved her hand as if to brush away an unwanted fly, abruptly ending every such conversation. Beau responded to Eve’s questions in essentially the same way. Eventually, Eve stopped asking questions and focused on her ridiculously perfect world of pre-matrimonial and motherhood bliss and prayed she wasn’t losing her mind.

      “Miss Eve? We better be getting back to Philip. He’ll be waking up any minute,” Aria said. “He’ll be hungry. That boy of yours is always hungry.”

      “Philip?” Eve asked.

      Aria smiled. “Yes, Philip. Remember? Your rambunctious son, who you hired me to nanny? Good thing you did ‘cause that little boy is a demon of energy. I’ve never seen anything like him in my life. And growin’ like a weed, that handsome little one.”

      Eve watched as Aria spoke while busily grabbing a bottle of chilled breast milk Eve had pumped from the second fridge in the pantry. Suddenly, Eve felt a rush of moisture release from her aching breasts. When she reached up and touched her blouse, it was soaked with mother’s milk. Aria saw and handed her a kitchen towel.

      “Guess nature calls and you’re on duty,” she said with a smile. “Unless you’re not feelin’ up to it? You have two bottles stored and I could get the pump for you now.”

      Eve shook her head as she stood, straightening her wobbly legs under her.

      “I’m fine, Aria,” Eve said. “You put him down in the nursery?”

      “No Ma’am, he’s in the garden house with Miss Cora and little Delia.”

      Suddenly she could hear her son’s cry from the backyard, distant, but strong.

      “Will you get a bath ready for him?” Eve said.

      “I’ll have it ready by the time you’re done with the feeding,” Aria said.

      Eve looked one more time at the refrigerator. She wiped her bodice with the kitchen towel, crossed the kitchen and exited out the back door.

      Stone steps led from the back sun porch to the patio. The still flowing milk from her breasts, trailed down her stomach, staining the soft green cotton fabric of her dress as she walked. Still carrying the towel, she wiped again. Eve smiled as she looked in the direction of her son’s screaming. His cry demanded she hurry to fill his empty belly before she spilled all of his lunch from her breasts. There was a real messiness to motherhood. Yet her aversion to pumping, which made her feel like a cow, was clearly superseded by the pleasure she took in giving her son nourishment and life.

      Eve stopped. A chill ran up her spine the moment she felt someone’s eyes on her. She turned and saw him: the slightly rumpled, but very handsome Detective from the New Orleans police force with the sad, worried eyes. Detective Macklin Blanchard had been trying to build a rape case against her soon-to-be husband. After all, he’d reminded her more than once, she had been a guest at a party who ended up raped and pregnant. All the evidence made a compelling case: young woman taken into the bushes, knocked into unconsciousness and found to be pregnant. There had been a rape kit taken at the hospital without her request and, well, there had been Philip. She had no boyfriend and admitted to surrendering to Beau’s seduction willingly. When Eve woke from her coma, Beau fought hard to keep Detective Blanchard away from her. She and the detective had spoken and, to the detective’s frustration, Eve had refused to press charges. The impending wedding muddied the waters even more.

      Eve’s eyes connected with his as she stepped from the shade and the heat of the warm morning sun pressed down on them. Eve was hit by a feeling of déjà vu. Of course this wasn’t the first time he had come to the house, not to mention all the times he had tried to speak with her while she was still in the hospital. Eve liked him. Something about him made her even trust him. There was an easy kindness he exuded. Cora and Beau didn’t like him at all. As a matter of fact Beau vehemently hated him. Cora insisted repeatedly that Beau was jealous—always saying it in that coquettish, playful, Southern belle way she had when she wanted to make a point while avoiding making anyone mad. But Eve never felt jealousy coming from Beau—just immense concern that played itself