Read Online Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper by Morgan Blayde - Free Book Online
Authors: Morgan Blayde
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play anything at all? You’ve got no opposable thumbs!”
You want dream to end or what?
There was a nervous stirring from the waiting audience. I looked out and saw that several men and women in the front row had writing pads in their laps. Damn, it’s a competition . “Fine. Let’s get this train wreck going.”
Tukka nodded above the keys, his paws leaping over each other as he scurried the song to life. The piano spewed a torrent of grandiose chord progressions in the air, something strikingly classical that quickly degenerated into rock and roll— Thank Buddha’s fat ass.
I tucked the violin in place under my chin. Lifting the bow, I set it against the strings. My hands seemed to know what they were doing even if the rest of me didn’t. I made love to the instrument, displaying the same sensitivity and dexterity as when I played a woman’s body. My melody leaped with fire and grace, soaring into realms of glory. This might not be so bad after all.
Tukka impressed, Deadfinger play good .
“That’s Deathwalker because I walk with… Never mind.” I shot him the finger without a break in my playing. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you. I’ll find some way to explain it to Grace.
Temporary sanity, perhaps.”
I looked out at the audience. They waved cell phones so the glowing screens arced in the gloom.
In the front row seats, the critics sat mouths agape, pens still,
and pads forgotten. Their wonderstruck eyes clung to my violin. One old man with thinning white hair and extra-thick glasses was mouthing the words to the Elton John tune. As I tore into the second verse, I happened to notice that the dream was starting to spiral into edgy directions. Okay, sure, I’ll take the blame.
A pole appeared at the edge of the stage. Madison was there in fishnet stockings and a black leather bikini with a couple wooden stakes strapped to a muscular thigh. She gripped the pole with both hands, shaking her money-maker as drunken sailors—bearing a surprising resemblance to Popeye—crowded close, fanning the air with one dollar bills. The dream version of Madison swung her closed legs up into the air, using the pole to hang upside down as she slowly spun back down.
Madison glided in for a landing, knees swinging down to catch her. Her butt toward me, one hand still on the pole, she bent backwards, arching so that could see her face—and her tits. Completely out of character, she mouthed silent words, “Come fuck me!”
I thought of something else she could mouth once we wrapped up this gig, and found some privacy. I smiled at her. Hold me closer, tiny dancer! No wait! I groaned, suddenly remembering I had no cock. This is way too fucked, even for me.
I hung in there, fiddling away, watching Madison working the crowd. She took the ones, snatched a wallet, emptied that as well, and took another guy’s watch. One sailor had nothing in his hand. He lunged for the bikini bottom. Madison staked him through the heart, and never broke stride in her dancing.
Wow, that slayer training sure makes you supple.
The main audience didn’t seem like they could see her there. Their eyes were still on me as I finished the last chorus and played into the final chords. Over my shoulder, I noticed that Tukka had kicked the piano bench back, letting it crash over. He balanced on his hind legs, front paws a flurry of pounding exuberance. The piano rattled a little, one wheel popping off a leg, shooting out to the audience where it was lost to sight. This made the keyboard slant a little, but it didn’t seem to faze the fu dog in the slightest.
Give ‘em big finish! Tukka bellowed. Behind him and the piano, stage pyrotechnics ignited. Jets of fire stabbed upward. Colored smoke billowed. It was like being at a rock concert where special effects compensated for a lack of talent—but that vibe changed as colored
You want dream to end or what?
There was a nervous stirring from the waiting audience. I looked out and saw that several men and women in the front row had writing pads in their laps. Damn, it’s a competition . “Fine. Let’s get this train wreck going.”
Tukka nodded above the keys, his paws leaping over each other as he scurried the song to life. The piano spewed a torrent of grandiose chord progressions in the air, something strikingly classical that quickly degenerated into rock and roll— Thank Buddha’s fat ass.
I tucked the violin in place under my chin. Lifting the bow, I set it against the strings. My hands seemed to know what they were doing even if the rest of me didn’t. I made love to the instrument, displaying the same sensitivity and dexterity as when I played a woman’s body. My melody leaped with fire and grace, soaring into realms of glory. This might not be so bad after all.
Tukka impressed, Deadfinger play good .
“That’s Deathwalker because I walk with… Never mind.” I shot him the finger without a break in my playing. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you. I’ll find some way to explain it to Grace.
Temporary sanity, perhaps.”
I looked out at the audience. They waved cell phones so the glowing screens arced in the gloom.
In the front row seats, the critics sat mouths agape, pens still,
and pads forgotten. Their wonderstruck eyes clung to my violin. One old man with thinning white hair and extra-thick glasses was mouthing the words to the Elton John tune. As I tore into the second verse, I happened to notice that the dream was starting to spiral into edgy directions. Okay, sure, I’ll take the blame.
A pole appeared at the edge of the stage. Madison was there in fishnet stockings and a black leather bikini with a couple wooden stakes strapped to a muscular thigh. She gripped the pole with both hands, shaking her money-maker as drunken sailors—bearing a surprising resemblance to Popeye—crowded close, fanning the air with one dollar bills. The dream version of Madison swung her closed legs up into the air, using the pole to hang upside down as she slowly spun back down.
Madison glided in for a landing, knees swinging down to catch her. Her butt toward me, one hand still on the pole, she bent backwards, arching so that could see her face—and her tits. Completely out of character, she mouthed silent words, “Come fuck me!”
I thought of something else she could mouth once we wrapped up this gig, and found some privacy. I smiled at her. Hold me closer, tiny dancer! No wait! I groaned, suddenly remembering I had no cock. This is way too fucked, even for me.
I hung in there, fiddling away, watching Madison working the crowd. She took the ones, snatched a wallet, emptied that as well, and took another guy’s watch. One sailor had nothing in his hand. He lunged for the bikini bottom. Madison staked him through the heart, and never broke stride in her dancing.
Wow, that slayer training sure makes you supple.
The main audience didn’t seem like they could see her there. Their eyes were still on me as I finished the last chorus and played into the final chords. Over my shoulder, I noticed that Tukka had kicked the piano bench back, letting it crash over. He balanced on his hind legs, front paws a flurry of pounding exuberance. The piano rattled a little, one wheel popping off a leg, shooting out to the audience where it was lost to sight. This made the keyboard slant a little, but it didn’t seem to faze the fu dog in the slightest.
Give ‘em big finish! Tukka bellowed. Behind him and the piano, stage pyrotechnics ignited. Jets of fire stabbed upward. Colored smoke billowed. It was like being at a rock concert where special effects compensated for a lack of talent—but that vibe changed as colored
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