Kit opened the door. They were wearing plush sweatpants and a T-shirt along with their light red collar. The girl beside them had a collar the same shade of red and was equally dressed in comfortable clothing. She reached forward to shut the door, but she was on the phone. Kit won the tug-of-war.
The third was Candide’s fey boy, Dryden. He wore sleeker leisure clothes, accentuating his lithe frame. His long auburn hair was loosely braided, and there was a sharpness in his indigo eyes. The last time Roger had seen him, he was wearing a light pink collar. Now, he had one almost the same shade of red as Kit’s. He folded his arms over his chest.
“Come in, master,” Kit said politely as they opened the door a little farther.
“Thank you,” Roger said with sincerity. He stepped into the home, the shiver of a threshold letting him through. Where mortals called a place home, a threshold could bar him from entry. Candide’s pets had been known to cause a threshold barrier within a night of moving in. She made them feel safe. Loved.
The fact that Kit had the power to invite Roger over the doorframe was a testament to her care as well. Three weeks with their new mistress, and Kit already called the penthouse home. Roger might have been heartsick if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed with relief that they looked healthy and happy. He’d been wrong for them; Candide was a good fit.
“If you’ll come this way, master,” Kit said and gestured to a parlor to their left.
Roger followed them, not giving a damn that the other two pets were watching him closely.
Candide’s home was as extravagant as the Chateau de Vampire, though her style here was a slight touch morecomfortable. When Roger had “disappeared” from the coven, his condo on Lake Shore Drive and its contents had been sold. Candide must have been part of the process—or at least keenly aware it was happening. Several of Roger’s art pieces were on display at the Chateau, and more were here in her parlor. The most prominently placed was one he’d commissioned around the turn of the twentieth century by an artist who’d never gained fame, but Roger had loved his skill with lighting and emotions.
For the painting, Roger had modeled for the role of Lord Wotton, and he was whispering into the ear of James, a handsome, gorgeous man who Roger had been hopelessly in love with. James was playing the part of Dorian Gray in it and had still been mortal at the time. He had been a warlock worthy of earning the title mage, but the mage society circles of Chicago wouldn’t accept him because of the color of his skin. The fictional version of themselves were talking in a nighttime garden, Roger leaning in with a smile promising devious behavior. James was examining the flowers, but the artist had perfectly captured the way he tilted his head when he was listening.
Wherever you are, James, I hope you’ll be happy to learn that you were right about me. I was a coward. With a dry tone, Roger said, “Candide should have no problem with me in her home.” He pointed at the painting. The damn thing had been a treasured possession, even after James left him, and Candide, of all people, knew that. She hadn’t mentioned that she had it. “I am here all the time, technically.”
The girl’s jaw dropped open, but she recovered as someone finally answered her call. She turned away, and Roger politely ignored her conversation as if he couldn’t hear every syllable on both sides.
An easy task, considering he had a parlor to explore for more of his former belongings. Like the Tiffany lamp he’d bought in1899 and his favorite end table. He wasn’t sure if the collection of books on a delicate bookcase was truly his, but many of the titles came from the secret artistic society he and Candide had nourished until the early 1970s.
And then there was his favorite chair that used to sit in one of his playrooms. He’d sat in it and watched his pets have all sorts of fun with each other before joining them. He’d administered punishments and given rewards from that chair. It was the closest thing to a seat of power he’d ever had.
Gently, he traced a long line up the wooden arm. The wood was still sturdy, and there was no mistaking it as a similar piece. He found the scratch in the exact place he’d left one on accident. The stain of the polish made it nearly invisible, but it was there.
Candide had said that she had aided in obscuring his location because she wanted to protect him. Had she collected so many of his things in order to remember him? Or had she been jealous for centuries? Had their friendship been a lie? Their closeness a ruse? What if she had lied to him? What if she was the one to work with an Unseelie to lock him in a coma?
He didn’t want to believe that of her. They’d understood each other for centuries. She was his dearest friend.
The chair was for a dominant master. He considered sitting in it, trying to reclaim that piece of himself. But that felt like giving whiskey to a ghost. Whoever he was becoming, he wasn’t the vampire he’d been.
Roger drew in a deep breath and roused from his long thoughts. He took a seat on the leather sofa and discovered it was far more comfortable than it appeared to be at first glance.
“Would you like any refreshments, master?” Kit asked.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Roger crossed one leg over the other and rested his arm along the back of the couch. Holding himself still helped calm the storm of emotions building in him. He wasn’t sure if he was scared, angry, sad, or all of it at once.
Knowing how Candide trained her pets, he gave a dismissive wave to the three hovering near the parlor door. “You likely have chores or something to do, yes? Don’t worry. I’ll inform her of how I forced my way in here. She won’t mind if you leave me alone. I promise not to ruin anything while I wait.”
Kit, the girl, and Dryden bowed their heads and then went farther into the penthouse. Roger could track their movements if he wanted, but he closed down his senses rather than rely on them. The painting on the wall in front of him dragged him into memories of James and those nights posing for the artist. They had been a wonderful time in an era surrounded by the constant stress of Seamus gaining new ground in his territory.
“I have done it!” Ezra’s English-accented voice rang down the hallway, and his quick footfalls echoed out as he hurried down a flight of steps. “Candide, are you home? I thought I heard—blast it all, fox, you can do more than shake your head and point.”
“Master Roger is here, sir,” Kit said quietly. They were some distance away.
“Roger? Excellent! He’ll do,” Ezra replied. “Fetch me a pair of pants, please? Nothing jean. Anything else will do.”
A moment later, Ezra strode into the parlor. His red hair was standing as if he’d been raking his hands through it constantly. His steel-gray eyes burned with joy. Despite wearing nothing more than a pair of tight bicycle shorts, he walked with a commanding presence. That might have been his two hundred and seventy years of immortality or the fact that he’d been an English nobleman before Roger turned him into a vampire.
Though he was paler, with a few more delicate features, he looked more like Zack’s brother than Cal did, which was a painful reminder that Ezra’s twin sister had spawned a line of hunters, and thus, Zack was one of her descendants.
He had in his hands a thick stack of papers, and he proudly set the pile on the end table beside Roger’s old chair. “I amfinally done with the fucker. Which means I’m done with that fucking room! What glorious timing you have, Roger. Why do you look like I’ve punched you in the heart with silver?”
Watching Ezra light up with passion was like watching a mirror of Zack, and Roger was glad he didn’t need to breathe. “It’s been a hard few weeks.”
“I imagine.” Ezra took a seat on the other end of the couch. “How have you been holding up? Do you need blood? Rum? Tea? Is something wrong? You’re brooding more than I would have expected.”
