Alex had been obnoxious and bossy and acting out, as Jane might have said. So he stared, holding Alex’s gaze, leaking power. Reminding the youngster that there was a pecking order. Or a feeding order. And Ed had brought no blood-servants to feed upon.
Alex broke into a sweat. His lips parted. He stepped back. He gathered up his tablets. “It was a joke, dude,” he muttered, practically jogging from the room.
“Was it?” Edmund asked, his voice carrying, yet soft as a whispered snarl. He heard the Kid swallow and held in a chuckle. Humans were so easy to manipulate.
Ed opened his suitcase and dumped his belongings on the bed. Stared at the denim jeans that erupted from his suitcase. The button shirts. He hadn’t packed these. They wereplaid. He hadn’t worn plaid since visiting his mother’s clan in Scotland. He hated plaid. But...
When in Rome, eat pasta. When on a southwestern hunting ranch... Something that might have been the stirring of excitement warmed him. He closed his door.
Ed slid from his dusty jacket, folded it carefully, and laid it on the foot of the bed. He undressed and showered fast in the small but elegant marble bath, and redressed in his small-clothes before studying and touching the blue jeans and the shirt. Both were softer than expected. He pulled on wool socks, the new jeans, and the plaid shirt that belonged to no clan at all, machine woven in shades of green that crossed at angles, signifying nothing. He ran his hand up the thighs and the arms, accustoming himself to the cloth. Stretched to put on his leather belt. He had packed none of these clothes and he wondered which of the Youngers had removed his clothing and replaced them with... this. This gaudy Western wear.
He looked at himself in the brass-backed mirror on the back of the door. He looked taller than he knew himself to be. Leaner. Perhaps even meaner. More powerful, and he was powerful enough.
Suddenly, he understood why Jane Yellowrock wore garish clothes and acted the country oaf before her vampire betters. There was power in the barbarian attire, the barbarian actions. Power and danger. Excitement raced through him again.
Standing on the wood floor in garishly patterned wool socks, he considered the bed.
Centered on the mattress was a shipping box. As instructed by him, it had been placed there by their host when it arrived. The boots within had been flown in and delivered to the ranch. The brand was chosen in honor of Jane, a tribute, as it were.
He slid the shipping box across the Matelassé spread and opened it. And then the inner Lucchese box.
Inside were a pair of black, low-heeled riding boots. Ed lifted them out and held them to the lamplight. The scent of leather filled the room, rich and aromatic and very expensive. Being off-the-shelf, they were not his usual bespoke footwear, but theywerehandmade, snip-toed.
The artisanship was excellent.
And... he had never worn footwear made from crocodile belly.
New experiences were rare for a Mithran of his age.
He gripped the tabs and slid the boots on. Stamped once with each foot. Not bad. Not bad at all. He regarded himself in the mirror once more. “Prissy boy?” he murmured to himself. “We’ll see about that.”
He stepped from the room, the new boots not quite silent on the wood floors, and stopped by the kitchen. The space was spotless and, like the bath, ultra-modern in contrast to the rest of the tourist-trap cabin. He checked the brand of coffee, found it acceptable, and the year of the wine in the wine fridge. It wasn’t quite to his usual tastes but it wasn’t Mogen David either. He could stand it. He opened a bottle of red. Poured himself a glass in the department store glasses. Sipped and drank.
Different.
Not horrible.
Interesting...
When he entered the living space again, Eli was waiting. The former Ranger was dressed similarly to him, except his boots were old and well-worn. Slung low on his hips was a double-holster gun belt. Not a weapons harness. A gun belt. Made from leather. There were six-shooters in each holster.
Ed smiled slightly. “I haven’t seen a .45-caliber centerfire Colt Single Action Army pistol in decades. Won’t the long barrel be difficult in the saddle?”
“Never bothered me before,” Eli said. “You know guns?”
“I know weapons from certain eras.”
Eli removed the weapon on his left, opened the cylindrical magazine to reveal a full load, and passed it to Ed. The weapon was old, heavier than modern weapons, and this one had been reconditioned.
“The gun that won the West,” Edmund murmured, his finger on the trigger guard, checking the load, “by killing bad hombres and the native people wholesale.” He clicked the barrel shut and checked the Peacemaker’s sights. “Nice. Though I never did care for a revolver. Give me a rifle any day.”
“We hunting tonight?” Eli asked.
Ed shrugged and moved to the door. “If you wish. I think I’ll simply enjoy the ride, however. Once one has hunted human on horseback, little else seems to compare.”
Eli went still as a hunting cat.
Ed smiled. Eli and Alex wanted to play games. It had been a long time since anyone except Leo had baited him. He found it oddly enjoyable to pull their tails. He went on. “Though that was a century and a half before you were born, Eli, and was a hunt of vengeance and judgment well earned.”
