“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I’m here to visit Dante Artois.”
“Your name and identification?”
“George Wickham.” I pulled out my driver’s license and laid it on the counter.
The woman didn’t glance at the ID as she typed something into her computer. “Okay, Mr. Wickham, have a seat. We will have someone escort you back.”
It was a rare occasion when my name didn’t elicit some sort of response out of people, what with me being a member of the Grey Doors. This woman must not be into alternative rock.
I sat down in the waiting room, smelling coffee and hot chocolate in the air. I spotted the coffee machine over on the side. That was a pleasant addition. Several people held a steaming cup in hand and sipped as they waited. A slight chill permeated the space, so I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them in my pocket but left my heavy coat and scarf. Little white cut-out snowflakes decorated with glitter hung from the ceiling. The stenciled words on a wall above a door read: “Warmth begins with Welcome.” I wasn’t expecting a prison waiting room of all places to be so cozy.
The TV on the wall had a telenovela playing calledNieves del Engano, Snows of Deceit. It looked as if they were replaying episode four, where the actors found themselves snowed in after a large storm, and things were already heating up between the two main lovers. The lead actress reminded me of Lydia—unapologetic, dramatic, beautiful, and fiery all at once. English subtitles scrolled lazily across the bottom of the screen. When I was a kid, my mom used to watch it this way, and on the days I stayed home sick, I’d end up watching with her. I’d had a small crush on the leading lady back then, though I’d never have admitted it.
The door in the back of the room swung open, and a name at random was announced. The man in front of me rose and headed through the door.
In the following minutes, more individuals were called back. I sighed. It appeared as if this wouldn’t be quick. I relaxed into my chair, prepared to settle in for the long haul.
An unexpected door on the right side of the room opened. “George Wickham?”
I stood. “That’s me.”
The officer nodded. “Mr. Artois will see you now.”
“See me now?” That was worded differently from the others that had been called back. I glanced at the door in the rear of the room that everyone else had gone through, then gave a shrug and proceeded through the entrance. The officer led me down a hallway of empty cells. Was this the hidden vampire wing? It made sense that they didn’t hold vampires with the rest of the inmates. Everyone understood that this was a minimum-security prison. Because it existed beyond Austen Heights, I pondered how they hid the inmates, like my sire, from the world. And I wondered how much those working at the prison even knew. I’d never seen a jail with both people and magical beings, so I was unaware of the procedures. The guard next to me didn’t have the same smell to his blood that humanshad, so I figured he must be fae with a glamour to hide his ears. I also wore a glamour to hide my ears.
“Are we going to a side room to meet?” I asked.
The corrections officer smiled at me. “Oh no, he prefers his visitors to come to him.”
I frowned at that. The officer had a strange gleam in his eye, and I had an odd twist in my gut that he must be under my sire’s power. He carried a small hibiscus plant in his arms.
We passed through the door at the end of the hall. On the other side was a room with a single massive cell. My jaw dropped at the king-size bed filling one section of the enclosure. The plush rug appeared soft and handwoven. The large plasma TV hung on the wall, broadcasting the local basketball game with live commentary.
And in the center of everything sat Dante Artois in a leather recliner, drinking a glass of sherry. He set it aside and began to sing. The fae next to me stiffened and then relaxed. I froze and stared. The tune had a captivating and stunning quality, which made me feel unwell.
“Wait right here,” the officer said to me and eagerly headed for the bars. “Mr. Artois, how are you today? I have disabled the cameras before coming as you asked. I have brought you something I think you might like.”
Dante glanced over at the officer’s eager puppy-dog expression and stopped singing. Something dangerous flashed across his face when he saw the plant the officer held. Dante set down his glass of wine and pulled in the recliner before rising and heading toward the officer.
“What is this?” my sire asked.
“A plant. I thought you might like it to brighten up—”
A crashing noise occurred as Dante took the plant and smashed it on the ground outside of his cell. “No plants! I hate plants!”
The officer looked crushed. “But it’s not real—”
Dante paused and glanced at the decimated pot. “It’s not? Oh, then clean up this mess.”
“Yes, sir. I will bring you another one. A better one.”
I hid a smile at the ridiculous display. The officer didn’t realize it, but talking plants aided in getting Dante Artois incarcerated.
My sire stepped away from the harried guard, who did as he was bid. Dante’s sharp eyes landed on me. A grin spread across his face.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal son.”
