Battle Sylphs were the perfect lovers.
Not that Moreena had anything to compare them by. She’d been a spinster for thirty years, until the Widow asked her if she’d be willing to be master to a battler. She’d leapt at the chance, even as she tried not to look too eager. She’d never had a lover before, not even a beau; not with her limp hair and unattractive features, with her too large nose and her too small chin and the freckles that covered her everywhere.
Battle sylphs didn’t care. They were kind, and protective, and supportive and oh, what lovers they made. What perfect, wondrous companions they were, never straying, never complaining, always there, always loving.
Moreena drifted into her cottage, feeling sensual and sexual in a way she never had in all the years she’d been alone. The years before Dillon came into her life. She could sense him in the bedroom and went in that direction, knowing he’d never deny her, that she didn’t have to even be shy around him, that he loved her for all her flaws. He was perfect.
Moreena opened the door to find herself facing a five foot wide, floating eyeball, its bloodshot, unblinking stare fixed on her while the nerve trailed underneath it, wagging like a tail. It gibbered something horrible and inhuman at her.
Moreena screamed, slammed the door, and ran.
Inside the room, Dillon stared at the door. He’d been quite happy with the new form. It took a lot of control to be something so unusual and solid that also floated in midair. He’d wanted to surprise Moreena.
She had no appreciation for talent, he thought with a sigh.