He got to his feet, slipped on his clothes, picked up his glass of wine, and went in search of his host. He declined to intrude on an empty bedroom he took to be Jago’s, which left only a small water closet with a wash basin and the upper banister of an iron spiral staircase, which led down to a well-lit living area.
To say that this was where Jago had concentrated his decorating would have been understating it. Blue walls surrounded him, accented with black shadowy silhouettes sporting forked tails and gnashing sharp teeth. A bright orange couch offered a tenuous link to the 70s while three cushions sheathed in leopard print added a touch of kitsch. The walls of the kitchen were bright red, matching a delightfully audacious kettle and toaster. His host had a penchant for pot plants, which threw splashes of green around the room and almost obscured an ornate, bejewelled peacock that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Argento film.
He paused a moment. No, it was theexactprop he’d seen in an Argento film. He half expected to find a personal note to Jago engraved underneath.
A record played in the corner. Not Alaska. Not Blondie. A blues singer from the American South, whose sensuality smoothed the pops and crackling of the vinyl as it gave up its contents to the needle with a quiet hiss. A large black crow that was either stuffed or the most lifelike model Alex had ever seen, watched over it. No, not a crow. A raven.
“Jago?” He coughed as the heat stifled his call. He opened one of the windows. The night air might have been warm, but it was moving. He fetched a glass from the kitchen cupboard, filled it from the tap and downed it, then filled himself another. At least the water was cold. The red walls of the kitchen seemed more suited to the daemons that covered the blue walls of the livingroom—cast out of Heaven? A cute, if unlikely theme for home décor.
His gaze fell on a large crack in the wall that ran… No, not a crack. A door sat ajar, beckoning him with warm, dim light.
Alex’s jaw near fell from its joint. If the living room walls had been the daemon’s fall, then this small chamber was their place of bacchanal. A cluster of candles on Jago’s desk was the room’s only light source, but what artefacts their flickering light found. A figurine made from straw hung on the wall next to a large tapestry divided into four quarters, all covered in geometric symbols beyond his recognition. The underside of a swooping owl reflected more light onto a shelf of ornate books propped up by a skull decorated with gilt paint lines intercut by rusty stains. Another raven stood beside it with its beak open as if telling the grinning death’s head a story, and hanging from one of the skull’s eye sockets was a thread of black and red beads, which the flickering candlelight gave the appearance of a snake’s tail.
He had just made out a wall of photos on the other side of the room when Jago, still seated at his desk, turned to face him, eyes wide like a man possessed, dark fingers white with pressure as he dug them into the back of his chair, looking at Alex like he meant to tear his skin off. On the desk, Alex at last saw the corpse of the broken bird, pinned down by long needles.
“What are you doing in here?”
Words failed him. He could barely look Jago in the eye, much less conjure an excuse that gave him the right to poke about the home of a man who’d shown him only kindness. But he hadn’t been expecting…whatever this was.
“Get out!” Jago barked like an attack dog eager to strike. “Get out! I won’t tell you again!”
He didn’t need to. Alex threw the hidden door shut behind him. He rushed to the mercifully conspicuous front door and hurriedly worked the locks, barely remembering to grab his shoes. He was halfway down the stairs before he heard it slam shut above, and almost to the bottom before he caught enough presence of mind to check that he had his wallet and keys. Jago had left them in his pants pockets, thank God.
But wow. Just… wow.
***
When a gin and tonic at Black and White failed to steady his nerves, Alex ordered another, then a third, and then—
“Easy,” the bartender said quietly, a smile assuring Alex there’d be no further judgement.
Judgement be damned. He needed calm. True, the pulsing disco beats of Blondie were hardly calming. Debbie Harry really had it in for him tonight. He stared into his drink, letting the hypnotic refrain about someone’s beautiful hair wash through him. At least it wasn’t Donna Summer… again.
Get out.Jago had screamed the words. They’d stung in the moment. Now, they haunted him.I won’t tell you again!
Good Samaritan or not, he wasn’t about to give Jago that opportunity.
“You shouldn’t drink so much too quickly.”
The voice had come from the end of the bar to his left, where a stranger with close-cut dark hair, full lips and enticing brown eyes clutched a beer. The man’s top barely contained hismuscular chest. Any sleeves that might once have been attached hadn’t stood a hope against those arms.
“Thanks.” Alex turned to watch the dance floor. The last thing he needed was mothering from Sister Maria of the Immaculate Pecs. He distracted himself by watching a boy in a leather cap, matching lace-up vest and a floral jacket, whose pace picked up as the music blended over to an Italo Disco song Alex recognised but couldn’t name. The boy’s thick black eyeliner had started running with sweat, though if he cared, he wasn’t showing it. He just lifted his arms high above his head, the vest riding up to reveal a furry belly that belied his boyish face. Perhaps it was just the makeup, but he was hairy as Vicente. Alex bit his bottom lip as the boy caught him looking, scowled, and spun away from him in time to the music.
Had he been that obvious? Maybe, suggested the tightening of his trousers. He raised his drink to his lips and downed it with a swish of ice. Sister Maria Pecs walked by, offering him another mischievous look. Alex allowed himself to watch him disappear into the bathroom, biting his bottom lip again. Not his usual type, yet at the same time, everybody’s type. Hell, sex was about the last thing on his mind. As hard as his dick wanted to be in the moment, all his mind could hear was Jago’s rage.Get out! I won’t tell you again.
He tried to catch the eye of the bartender, who was already serving another customer. Maybe after one more drink he could hit the dance floor with fewer cares than the boy in the mismatched leather and florals.
He started bopping his head as a Radio Futura song coxed another wave of guys onto the floor, along with Sister Maria Pecs.
“You feeling okay, cutie?”
Alex wasn’t sure if it was the spinning lights, the pulsing jaunt of the guitars, the seemingly impenetrable crowd, or the clean, earthy smell of fresh sweat on the man that made him pay attention once more to Little Alex.
“I’m Paco, and you are?”
Alex took Paco’s meaty hand in his fist and let him pump it several times, watching the veins flex under a tattoo of a supremely pissed off-looking rooster. Perhaps he didn’t need another drink after all. “Alex. What’s on your mind, Paco?”
Paco parted his thick lips to reveal a grinning set of perfect white teeth. “Just checking on you. I mean, you look like a smart guy. I’m sure you can take care of yourself.”
