Free One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) by J Gordon Smith Page A

from after you taste these.”
    “What are you calling them?”
    “Tennessee Hillbilly Pulled Pork and Peppers,” He tossed a couple of wraps on a big waxed paper sheaf and flung pork, peppers, and onions on top. He shuffled around more ingredients on his grill before flipping the wraps around with the forks and spatulas. A showman.
    “You’re pretty amazing with the utensils!” said Garin.
    “Hey, thanks,” he wiped his forehead on the side of his thick bicep. “I make these for the appetizers at Napoleon’s except cut up on pita wedges – but those are hard to eat at a festival.”
    His assistant collected some money from Garin and we took the pair of wraps.
    Garin waved to the chef as the walked away.
    I bit into the end of the wrap. Walking in a skirt and heeled boots I almost never wore, eating food, and jostled in a festival seemed unwise. My first bite of the wrap amazed me, “Wow. He was right!” I turned to face Garin.
    “Hold still,” he took one of his napkins and blotted my chin. “Smells great.” Then I saw he didn’t eat his. He watched my eyes drop to his hand holding his wrap still fully packaged in the wax paper. “Oh … yes.” I returned to watching ahead of us.
    “I’m saving this for you for later. When I run out of poetry.” I put my hand on his and caught his eyes in mine. Then the crowd jostled us out of the moment. We went passed other stalls with more art and less food, “That’s a huge dragonfly!”
    “Hi.” A tall intense dark haired guy with a vintage concert shirt rocked forward out of his fold-up canvas directors chair. Black wood side tables ran the length of the booth and a lot of wooden sculptures scattered the tent. The largest a dragonfly that looked more like a dragon than a regular insect. I see a “sold” tag on it. “That’s really cool.”
    “I have some other pieces that are still for sale. That one, I’m delivering later tonight after the festival closes,” he spun around a book of pictures, “these are other ones I’ve done that are currently in happy homes.”
    He showed us a few other pieces, “And rather than regular spray paint I’m putting powder enamel on them so these can last a lifetime above a fireplace, on an executive desk, or over a bar.” He pointed to the dragon, “That’s where the dragon is going. The buyer opened a new restaurant at the edge of Livix and wants it over his bar.”
    “I really like this train engine,” I said, touching the almost iridescent metal paint covering the detailed model. I think it’s light but it’s not, “This is surprisingly heavy.”
    “Yes. That’s from reclaimed railroad ties. Swamp oak timber rescued from a lost shipment in the Florida Everglades. The wood lay submerged in the water for a hundred and fifty years, originally cut from five hundred year old trees. So this piece of wood sprouted around the middle of the thirteen hundreds.” He picked the engine up and flipped it around with a practiced hand, “You can see how I cut these details by hand to give the look of old leaves with a Victorian embellishment.”
    “That’s great,” said Garin, interested in the fabrication. “Are you milling those? Or hand fitting a lot of it? You’ve got tight gaps between these wheels and the guides and these rails. It’s nice.”
    “All hand cut from a pattern. If I mass produced them I’d go with milling machines. But I’m doing unique art pieces for high-end judged art shows that frown on industrialized processes. So far it keeps me pretty busy.”
    Garin asked, “The tree root lighting your wall and the night photographs are nice.”
    “Yes, that piece looks ok during the day but in subdued evening light on a wall or over a fireplace it’s better. Hard to show that other than with a picture.”
    Garin said, “Anna, you look like you might like the train?”
    “Yes. It’s nice.”
    Garin glanced at the tag and pulled some cash out of his wallet, “Here … for the train and the