Jack of Harts

An angel’s face with a devil’s sense of humor. That is certainly one way to describe Dawn DeMarco. She was the immaculate, bodysculpted noble daughter of a distant world from the tip of her perfect nose to her very flexible toes. That’s where the angel comes in. She used those looks to hide a deadly skill with the spoken word, or a knife. She could twist either into a target with exquisite skill, and step away leaving confusion in her wake. Her targets rarely realized she was even the one who struck, and often found themselves laughing at the absurdity of their situation with her. She could make a crowd laugh at anything or anyone, without offending any of them, including the primary target. That allowed her to step in and out of a situation with a dancer’s skill that rarely left her holding the bag when the cat got out. And going out on the town with her was always a devil of a good time.

Once I realized what Dawn DeMarco was, I did not think we would get along. She was a nobleborn child of Camelot. I was a human being from Earth. I was young and stupid back then, and fully expected we would clash. I was wrong. Yes, she was royalty, but she consistently failed to trigger even my prejudices against that kind of people. Using the term “people” generously of course. I was used to them acting as if others were less worthy or worthwhile than they are. Us normal people were “the help” who should respect them and nod and do as told. She never acted like that. It was amazing to me that she never broadcast that feeling, and more amazing that she truly did not believe it. I asked. She told me. She even let me look into her eyes to verify her words. They are the windows to the soul, you know. She bared that soul for me. That is when I realized I was wrong about her. That is when I realized I really wanted her on my team.