The Sleeping Serpent: Read online

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  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Compelled Books

  www.compelledbooks.com

  The Sleeping Serpent is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events that took place, is entirely coincidental. Any names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner.

  Copyright © 2015 by Luna Saint Claire and Virginia Bowen

  All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  Cover photograph © Arman Zhenikeyev/Corbis

  Cover Design by Ilene Segal

  ISBN 978-1-928816-77-5 (ebook)

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  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Reading Group Guide

  FOREWORD

  Vampires are real. I’m not referring to the kind with blood and fangs, but rather emotional vampires—narcissists—the ones who use manipulation and compulsion to seduce. Charismatic and magnetic, they appear innocent in their motives, gaining your trust with affection and compliments. Truth is, they have targeted you. Within five minutes of meeting his prey, a narcissist has identified your vulnerabilities. It can be as simple as telling you how beautiful you are.

  If I ask you, “Could you succumb to the seduction of a sociopath? Would you allow a man to verbally or even physically abuse you? Would you risk your job, and permit him to reduce your self-esteem to nothing?” I’m certain you would say no. But the process is slow—almost imperceptible. Before you know it, you’re hooked.

  Initially, a narcissist is infatuated and idolizes his target, mirroring what he knows you want him to be. Captivated by what you perceive to be the perfect mate, you quickly fall under his spell. Most people get into relationships for love, but narcissists lack empathy and do not have the ability to feel love. Their self-worth is dependent on the admiration of others. Their targets must be attractive, intelligent, and accomplished. The greater the status, the better to provide what’s called narcissistic supply, be it money, tangible goods, services, or status.

  Once a narcissist has you entangled in their web, the bond is difficult to break. Just like in a vampire story, you are inexorably bound. Bewitched. Compelled. Because they are emotionally unstable, being in a relationship with a narcissist is like a rollercoaster ride. He is charming and passionate, yet nothing satisfies him. He is needy and controlling, making you feel desired and important to him. Once assured of your devotion he becomes verbally abusive, berating, finding fault and punishing you—imposing unreasonable demands to prove your love. Not wanting to lose a source of valuable supply, the narcissist skillfully pours on the charm and romance in doses just large enough to keep you on the hook.

  Emotionally devastated and conditioned to think less of yourself, you hold fast to the fantasy, unaware that it is all smoke and mirrors, and work to restore the initial ecstasy you once felt. There was excitement. Elation. Gratification. Passion. A flood of feelings that were thrilling. But in a relationship with a narcissist, there will never be love.

  All is clouded by desire: as fire by smoke, as a mirror by dust…

  Through these it blinds the soul.

  The Bhagavad Gita

  1

  The breath of the passengers created a layer of condensation on the windows of the plane obscuring his view of the city. Nicolás wiped the window with the sleeve of his jacket to get a clear view. Looking out, he surveyed the landscape with a shiver of delight. The vast expanse of Southern California…mountains, deserts, canyons, and plateaus appeared rugged and unwelcoming, yet magnetic to all seeking wealth and celebrity. Los Angeles, and the promise of a fresh life, stretched deliciously below him.

  He hadn’t actually wanted to leave New York, but circumstances had forced him to seek a new home. As an intuitive man, Nicolás had an innate sense of when it was time to move on, and that time had come for him in more places than he cared to remember. Still, each move brought a certain tingle of anticipation. He craved novelty…new life…new energy. Most of all, he craved new women.

  Walking into the dimly lit restaurant, Luna took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The elderly pianist was warming up with the Liszt paraphrase from Verdi’s Rigoletto, and though she wasn’t as brilliant as Cziffra, the runs were bright and agile. Luna had been coming to this Hollywood haunt for decades, ever since moving to Los Angeles when she was in her twenties and working as assistant to an Academy Award-winning costume designer. The front room of La Forza was packed with regulars eating at the bar, and Luna wove her way toward the reservation desk, past a long farmhouse table filled with noisy locals. A large wooden hutch behind them displayed the restaurant’s renowned cookbooks, exclusive bottles of olive oil, and Sicilian sea salt. Shelves mounted on ochre-colored plaster walls held antique crockery and colorful majolica plates, warmly illuminated by candlelight and copper chandeliers. The charming ambiance, reminiscent of a general store tucked into the hills of Tuscany, always comforted her.

  Seeing Luna and her husband, Tyler, enter the restaurant along with four friends, the owner, Mario, rushed over to greet them. “Luna! Bella, where have you been? I’m so glad you came!” Mario exuberantly gave double-cheek kisses to all the women, embraced Tyler, and vigorously shook the other men’s hands. “We have a wonderful mezzo visiting us from Paris Opera. She’ll be singing the aria from Carmen tonight!” Such animated enthusiasm had helped make La Forza the enduring institution it now was.

  Luna thought he looked better than when she last saw him. His middle-aged pasty and portly look had been replaced with a shaved head and a leaner, more muscular body. Chatting nonstop, he led them to a rustic wood table with mismatched primitive spindle-back chairs. An earthenware milk pitcher filled with thistles and wildflowers provided privacy from a nearby table. The piano area, where the guest singers would perform, was just far enough away to not inhibit conversation. Once everyone was comfortably seated, Mario drew up an extra chair near Luna to catch up on industry gossip.

  Luna’s latest job was the new hit series Going My Way, about four young, artistic women living in L.A., trying to navigate their careers and love lives. Luna described it as Sex and the City meets Entourage. As head cos
tume designer, she applied her eclectic style, using trendy designers and vintage clothing to create cool looks. Having received critical acclaim for the first season, Luna was counting on this series to be the defining project of her career, earning her the Emmy she had long coveted but had so far eluded her.

  Feeling a bit guilty, she lamented, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while, but I’ve just been so busy on the show.”

  Always charming, Mario teased flirtatiously, “Ah…where does the time go, bella? I remember you waltzing in like an exquisite butterfly, and all the heads would turn to stare. So pretty—and sexy!”

  Luna laughed and tossed her long, chestnut-brown hair off her shoulders, shaking her head as if considering whether his recollection was correct. Tonight she wore L.A.-based designer Paige black skinny jeans with a Roberto Cavalli embellished silk tank and her signature turquoise and sterling silver Native American jewelry.

  “Now look at you—a big time costume designer!” he voiced robustly, then asked, “How are things going?”

  “They’re great! The show got good reviews.”

  Switching the focus to Mario, she smiled, “It’s good to see you looking so well.”

  “I wasn’t doing so well last year. You remember.” A twinge of sadness passed over his face, and it struck Luna that it had been nearly a year since the passing of his longtime friend and partner. “Time just seems to take a lot away from us, eh, bella?” he added quietly.

  Luna nodded. He’d hit a nerve, but she concealed her chagrin. His voice receded into the background as she remembered herself in the past, catching the admiring glances of men. She tried to reconcile that Luna with the present day, telling herself she was a successful, happily married woman—and still attractive.

  Mario piped up enthusiastically, “Do you remember my friend, Roberto, the wine distributor?”

  Luna wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway.

  “His son, Nicolás, is coming tonight. He opened a yoga studio here in L.A. You should go. You’ll feel younger…trust me!”

  Startled that it seemed Mario had read her thoughts, she responded defensively, “I’m so busy, Mario. There isn’t much time left in the day for myself.” But then she sighed and conceded, “I do need to sleep more, though, and take a vacation!”

  Mario leaned in to whisper, “You know, when I started doing yoga, my sex life improved. I have a young lady—and I keep her very happy.” He grinned and winked.

  Luna blushed a little and looked over at Tyler, hoping he would rescue her. Seeing her searching for an escape, Mario finished, “I’ll bring him over to your table. He should be here soon.”

  Picking up the familiar menu, Luna debated what to order. She wanted the seafood lasagna, but thought about the thick layers of cheese and briefly considered a salad. Sadly, she reflected on Mario’s words. What did he mean I used to be pretty and sexy? I’m wearing skinny jeans and a tank top, how is that not sexy? Granted, the top is long and loose-fitting…camouflaging, she ruminated. But when the waiter refilled her wine glass and asked for her order, she pointed to the lasagna. Moments later, the singers assembled around the piano to begin a lively, popular aria from Rigoletto, and some tables sang along.

  She allowed the wine and music to transport her, until something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. An attractive man stood next to the reservation desk texting on his cell phone. The greeter, a pretty young woman, apparently knew him, since she kept leaning in closely and touching his arm. But intent on his phone, he kept his head down, ignoring a thick forelock of long, layered hair curtaining his eyes. Perfectly ripped jeans revealed the tanned olive skin of his muscular thighs, while a half tucked in, tight-fitting, black T-shirt displayed a large, silver dragon’s head belt buckle, accentuating his nice package below. A well-worn, vintage black leather motorcycle jacket slung over his shoulder with one hand completed the captivating, sexy image. Always the costume designer, Luna made a mental note to distress the jeans of one of the male characters on the show in exactly the same way. She found herself staring too long at the exotic man, and his eyes raised to meet hers. Instead of looking back down, he kept them firmly locked with hers, until he shoved his phone into the jacket pocket and walked in to warmly greet Mario with a big bear hug.

  After escorting the stranger to the table, Mario dragged up another chair from nearby so they could join Luna’s party. When Mario introduced him as Nicolás, Luna shifted in her chair uncomfortably, pushing her hair back. He must be used to women gawking at him, she rationalized. He hung his jacket on the back of the chair, then took Luna’s hand and his eyes danced as he said, “Nice to meet you. Call me Nico.” He sat down assuredly. At that moment, the server arrived with their entrées and placed the large plate of seafood lasagna in front of Luna. Feeling her face get hot, she tried to sound casual when she asked Nico, “Would you like to share this with me? It’s far too much for me to eat!”

  Aware of her ruse, Nico winked, “Sure, I’d love to share with you.” The words flowed mellifluously off his tongue.

  His voice was soft, with a musical quality, and Luna puzzled over his accent. Unlike the Spanish she was accustomed to hearing in L.A., there was no roll to his Rs and no lisp on Cs. Most strikingly, when he spoke of something exciting to him, she detected a hint of an Italian accent. After telling her about the new studio, he began gently pressing her with questions about her job and inquiring where she lived and worked and whether she was married.

  Luna pointedly introduced Tyler, who was splitting his attention between the singers and their dinner guests and reported that Nico taught yoga and was explaining the benefits. However, Nico’s gaze remained focused on her. Soon, the rest of the table fell into a haze in the background, leaving the two of them in a cozy cocoon. Locking eyes with her, Nico asked if she practiced yoga. She replied, “I was a ballet dancer when I was young.” Pausing to wonder at the magnetism of his unwavering gaze, she nearly forgot to answer his question. “But I have taken yoga classes on and off.”

  Nico murmured a low “Uh-hmm,” then cleared his throat. “Well, Luna, the purpose of yoga is not just physical discipline. Yoga is also a meditation, meant to help us reach a higher consciousness. Did you know yoga is integral to Hindu philosophy?”

  The chairs were packed tightly at the table, and Nico’s arm occasionally brushed Luna’s as they picked up their glasses to drink. She felt a strange electricity sparking off his warm, olive skin. His hair covered his neck, just touching the collar of his T-shirt in soft waves. When he angled his body to address her directly, she noticed his eyes, dark green with flecks of yellow in the iris; they didn’t so much sparkle as glow, teasing her with some closely held secret.

  Being married to Tyler, a philosophy professor, she was careful not to come across as a know-it-all. So, smiling, she deftly applied her talent for disarming self-important movie stars. “Well, yes, I know yoga is more than physical postures. I believe its fundamental underlying principle is mastering the mind.” She glanced over at Tyler attempting to engage him in their conversation, but he was engrossed in soccer talk with the other men.

  Nico gazed at her as if she were an exotic bird he’d never seen before and was trying to fix in his memory.

  Feeling put off by his intense scrutiny, yet curious to know why Mario felt so strongly that she should hire him, Luna gently asked, “What do you do, exactly?”

  Nico leaned in closely, almost too close. His tone and cadence were hypnotic, “I’d already been practicing yoga for many years when I made a trip to study with the paqos—the mystics of the Q’ero tribe—in the Andes. As with yoga, these mystics also practice meditation and controlling the body’s energy, or kawsay. I felt a strong connection with the paqos and stayed to study their ways, and what I learned from them is why I opened a studio combining yoga and energy healing. My methods help people alleviate stress, which in turn puts the body’s systems, like hormones and metabolism, back into alignment. Plus, my program makes you look and fee
l younger.”

  Luna was skeptical, but not because he studied energy healing with native tribes; after all, Luna herself had Mohawk blood in her veins. She knew quite a lot about the healing properties of herbs, as well as sacred ceremonies. Something else about Nico made her a little uneasy. Maybe it was his Latin machismo vibe, or his body language. But Tyler had been saying she needed to take better care of herself, warning she was wearing herself down. And those comments from Mario had hurt her feelings; how he’d described her as “pretty” and “sexy” in the past tense. Although Nico wasn’t being overtly pushy, there was a part of her that couldn’t say no. Besides, there’s no harm in trying something new, she decided.

  Nico had wanted a tony Beverly Hills address somewhere within the triangle of Wilshire, Santa Monica, and Canon, but was forced to settle in Studio City for now. With the help of his longtime childhood friend, who happened to be one of the top restaurant and club developers in L.A., he’d found this space nearly ready for him to move in. The studio had formerly been a martial arts school, so mirrored walls were already installed. Before his arrival, he’d had the hardwood floors refinished and the locker room spiffed up to almost elegant status—essential to the type of women he wanted as clients. He creatively designed a warm and mysterious space, using dark oxblood-red paint, dramatic lighting, and liquid music.

  Nico hung his collection of photos from the time he lived in the Andes with the Q’ero and the spa where he’d worked in Kerala, India. Stepping back, he admired a photograph showing his ripped and bronzed body taken back when he surfed and took daily runs on the beach. Well, sunny California will be a nice change from New York City, he thought to himself. He had a good feeling about moving here, especially the opportunities he would welcome.

  Word spread quickly, and classes at Amaru Yoga instantly filled with actors and studio personnel. Calling on his friend, Paolo, for yet another favor and promising to pay him in a month, Nico persuaded him to send someone over to install his sound system. He went to his laptop and turned up the volume on Spotify in expectation of the class soon arriving. Nico prided himself on his playlists of unusual music, and his mixes were already getting positive comments from discerning clients. “Kafez (Dusk Mix),” by Nuria Lita from the Destination Marrakesh album, played while his evening session filed in. Nico did a quick head count as the last person squeezed her mat between two other students in the back. His studio had been open for business only a short while, and already forty people were in this class. He realized he would have to set up his online registration to limit attendance to that number. Pleased with the progress he was making, he confidently sauntered the room in bare feet, his black yoga pants hugging his taut butt and thighs and accentuating his lean, muscular build as he approvingly admired the clientele of mostly attractive young women.