Again I notice the simplicity of my name next to others. At least Andras is better than Mongrel.
Music drifts out from within A stringed instrument, perhaps a cittern, plays a lilting melody. The woman speaks over the tune. “Welcome.” She steps aside so we can enter. “I’m Anna. I’ll fetch Ivaz for you. Will you need accommodations for the day?”
“Yes, thank you, Anna,” says Bowie. “And a bath, please.”
“Of course. One room or two?”
“One will suffice.”
“Are you in need of a meal?”
“I am not.”
“And your guest?”
Bowie glances to me. I panic. He answers, “Meat and cheese, dessert if you have it. Thank you.”
I’m still clutching Bowie’s hand as if I’ll perish without it. I’m probably standing too close as well, but looking around at the sight only makes me more hesitant to leave his side.
Crackling wall torches light a scandalous scene in glowing golden light. It’s the people I notice first, more than a dozen men and women, some of them near to naked as they lie sprawled against others. Vampires, but not all. Humans too. Their scents mingle, so I can’t tell which is which, with the exception of a naked bear of a man with his head tilted awkwardly to make room for a vampire’s sharp fangs.
Bowie releases my hand and wraps an arm tightly around my waist. I lean into him as the feeding vampire glances up and catches my eye. Quickly, I look away.
The room—or series of rooms rather because one leads through to the next via a wide archway—comes into focus. Low lounging furniture lines the walls in jewel-toned velvets. Purples, greens, and ruby reds don’t so much blend together as fight for dominance within the opulent space. Intricately painted vases stand half as tall as a man, their scenes depicted in shining silvers and golds. Even the tables have a metallic sheen, copper and brass next to gleaming mahogany. It’s easier to focus on the decor rather than the people.
The scent of sex and blood permeates every corner, floats in the air, overwhelms my nostrils. Bowie gives me a gentle squeeze. “Come, Andras. Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
That sounds good. He steers me farther into the room, past sights I ignore, and to a tall bar stocked with dozens of bottles of wines and spirits. He opens a cabinet door as if he owns the place and plucks out a crystal goblet. I wish it were a sturdy wooden mug instead.
“With water or without?” he asks.
“With, please,” I mumble.
Bowie pours a bitter-smelling burgundy wine into the glass, stops halfway, then tops it with water from a pitcher. “There you are. Don’t fret. No one will harm you here.” He keeps his voice low, and though no one reacts, I wonder how many can hear him.
I sip my drink and lean back into his side as his arm returns to my waist.
“Shall we sit?” Bowie glances around the room, unaffected by the various couples at play, searching for an empty couch.
I’m saved from touching any of the furniture as a newcomer glides into the room on silent feet. Though he makes no sound, heads turn as he enters. An imposing man of tall stature hides a bulky frame beneath a richly embroidered blood-red robe. A golden sash delineates a comparably narrow waist, and tight golden sleeves strain over bulging muscles.
“Ah,” says Bowie. “Here’s Ivaz now.”
Of course this intimidating man is Ivaz.
He guides me toward the behemoth in silk, who’s already spotted us.
Ivaz doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes flare with recognition. For a big man, he moves gracefully as he meets us halfway. He doesn’t look unfriendly, but he has a serious air about him to which his dark hair, eyes, and eyebrows lend a menacing quality. He’s much older than Bowie. I’m not sure how I know that; it’s as though the knowledge is part of his presence, a feeling that runs bone deep.
“Bowie,” he says in a rumbling baritone, one hand extended. “Welcome, brother.”
Bowie takes his hand. “Ivaz, it is good to see you.”
“And you’ve brought”—Ivaz’s smooth gaze takes me in from head to toe.—“a lone werewolf?
I suppress a shiver and the urge to cling to Bowie with the tenacity of a parasite.
”My goodness, that’s unexpected. Greetings.” Ivaz extends his hand.
