Dorian sighs, rolling his eyes. “Is there any other kind? And don’t say ‘inner beauty,’ or I shall vomit. You were asking about your appearance, weren’t you?”
“I guess I was.”
“And you have my answer. Now come to the car, and we’ll go see Lloyd-Henry. He’ll know something about our stick-wolf, I promise you that. Also, if his name is too much of a mouthful, call him Lloyd. Personally I can’t be bothered with names longer than a syllable.”
***
Several minutes later, I exit the Tesla Model S—the first electric vehicle I’ve ever touched—and follow Dorian and Vane through the entrance to the Chandler Apartments. Glittering chandeliers, glossy lakes of marble flooring, and crisp postmodern furnishings cascade through my vision as we cross the lobby and enter the private elevator for the penthouse suite. There’s a key code, which Dorian doesn’t bother to shield from me as he punches it in.
The elevator has sleek mirrored walls with brassy trim and awindowed side overlooking the coast, the marina, and the sea. We rise higher and higher until the elevator doors open on an immense living space, like a peaceful grotto of low light, cream-colored couches, and rich leather chairs. A few plush white rugs cover parts of the hardwood floor. There’s a wall of windows, shaded deep blue with the darkness of the night outside, a gleaming, pearly kitchen, and a full bar. It’s a thoroughly modern, luxurious space, but there are touches of old-world richness in the ornate framed art, the occasional bronze sculpture, and a recessed library stocked with thick books, some of which look old and rare.
On one of the creamy couches lies a man who looks several years older than Dorian, maybe early thirties. He’s tanned, muscled, and barefoot, dressed in a loose ivory shirt and jeans. Shaggy brown hair and a goatee half conceal his serious, rugged face. If this were a movie, he’d be the Aragorn to Dorian’s Legolas. Idly he swirls a glass half-full of ice cubes and amber liquid while a documentary about the global fishing industry plays on the immense TV.
He glances over at us, and I’m instantly struck by the intensity of his dark eyes, the sudden, ravenous interest that leaps into them at the sight of me.
No, I must have imagined it. He’s yawning, blinking at us, an easy smile spreading over his mouth. He sits up slowly, placing his glass on a nearby table, a molded acrylic piece that probably costs a fortune.
“Dorian, love of my life, who’s this? Did you bring me a treat?”
I’m nobody’s treat…and I’m also not a fan of the love-of-my-life business, which sounds more like lovers than best friends. The affectionate drawl of Lloyd’s voice over Dorian’s name makes my dumb little heart sink again. I let my walls down a bit tonight with Dorian. The conversation I had with him was the longest I’ve hadwith anyone in weeks. I thought maybe we were bonding—shared trauma, dramatic events, and a mutual knowledge of supernatural crap. Not that a bond between us would mean anything. Because I could maybe save his life, and I plan to let him die.
“Lloyd, this is Basil Allard,” Dorian says. “Baz, this is Lloyd-Henry, my oldest friend.”
“Welcome, Baz.” Lloyd stands, extending his hand. He clasps mine carefully, warmly.
At this point, the blue-haired guy, Vane, seems to realize that I’m more than some tattooed cat lady who lives in an old house. He sidles up to us. “Why didn’t I get an introduction?”
“You were too busy being rude,” Dorian says coolly. “Go tell Sibyl I need her to check socials and make sure no one got any videos or photos of me being attacked by that dog tonight. It happened on Wentworth Street, between Circa 1886 and the address where you picked me up. About an hour ago. I don’t think anyone noticed, but if she finds anything, she needs to scrub it immediately. Stay with her until it’s done.”
“Got it.” Vane hurries across the expansive living space and down a hallway.
“Lloyd knows about me,” Dorian says quietly. “But the others don’t.”
I mime zipping my lips. But the mention of socials reminds me of the hours I spent stalking Dorian online—and that raises a question. “Why are you even on social media? Aren’t you afraid someone will figure out you don’t age?”
“Au contraire,” he says. “Not being on social media would be far more suspicious. It’s better to be present and to curate that presence with the help of someone like Sibyl—part brand manager, part social-media expert, part hacker. She’s the best.”
“That she is,” Lloyd agrees. Rolling up his sleeves to reveal sinewy, tanned forearms, he walks over to a well-stocked bar, complete with soda guns, rows of jewel-toned bottles, and sparkling glassware. He flips an empty rocks glass right side up and drops in a large ice cube with a clink. In a mixing glass, he puts a teaspoon of sugar, a few dashes of bitters, and a little water, stirring before he adds crushed ice and bourbon. There’s more stirring, and then he strains everything into the rocks glass.
After finishing off with a twist of orange peel, Lloyd rounds the end of the bar, handing the drink to me.
“Old-fashioned,” he says. “I’m guessing you need it after the night you’ve had with this one.” He jerks his head toward Dorian. “What’s this about a dog attack, Dorian? I thought you planned to show the lady a good time. What happened?”
He’s smiling, but there’s concern in his tone. He has a stake in this, too—the survival of his friend.
“It wasn’t a dog that attacked us.” I glance at Dorian, and he nods slightly, so I continue, describing the creature we saw, how it acted, and how we burned it to ashes. “It sounds really dumb when I say it out loud,” I finish. “But Dorian says you’ve had some experience with—weird stuff.”
“I’m a mythologist, parapsychologist, historian, activist, preservationist…”
“All those long, boring words mean that he actuallycaresabout things beyond himself,” Dorian interjects. “Do I get a drink, too, Lloyd? My back was ripped to shreds. Cleaved to the bone. Blood everywhere. It hurt like hell.”
“For you, whiskey, neat.”
“My savior.” Dorian takes the glass. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me smoke in here.”
“Take it out on the balcony. You know the rules.”
“Bastard.” Dorian flings himself into a chair, somehow managing not to spill his drink.
