selling drinks. Just tickets.
"Guess it'll have to be a usual, then."
"Right. Two trendy waters." The pair of tickets changed hands. "You know, Henry, you're paying a hell of a lot for piss and bubbles."
Henry grinned down at him and swept an arm around the loft. "I'm paying for the ambience, Thomas."
"Ambience my ass," Thomas snorted genially. "Hey, I just remembered, Alex got a case of halfway decent burgundy. . . ."
It wouldn't have taken a stronger man than Henry Fitzroy to resist. "No thanks, Thomas, I don't drink . . . wine." He turned to face the room and, just for a moment, saw another gathering.
The clothes, peacock bright velvets, satins, and laces turned the length of the room into a glittering kaleidoscope of color. He hated coming to Court and would appear only when his father demanded it. The false flattery, the constant jockeying for position and power, the soul destroying balancing act that must be performed to keep both the block and the pyre at bay; all this set the young Duke of Richmond's teeth on edge.
As he made his way across the salon, each face that turned to greet him wore an identical expression-a mask of brittle gaiety over ennui, suspicion, and fear in about an equal mix.
Then the heavy metal beat of Anthrax drove "Green-sleeves" back into the past. The velvet and jewels spun away into black leather, paste, and plastic. The brittle gaiety now covered ennui alone. Henry supposed it was an improvement.
I should be on the street, he thought, making his way to the kitchen/bar, brushing past discussions of the recent killings and the creatures they had been attributed to. I will not find the child up here. . . . But the child hadn't fed since Tuesday night and so perhaps had passed through the frenzy and moved to the next part of its metamorphosis. But the parent. . . . His hands clenched into fists, the right pulling painfully against the bandage and the blisters beneath it. The parent must still be found. That he could do up here. Twice before in Alex's loft he had tasted another predator in the air. Then, he had let it go, the blood scent of so many people made tracking a competitor a waste of time. Tonight, if it happened again, he would waste the time.
Suddenly, he noticed that a path was opening before him as he made his way across the crowded room and he hastily schooled his expression. The men and women gathered here, with faces painted and precious metals dangling, were still close enough to their primitive beginnings to recognize a hunter walking among them.
That's three times now; the guard, the sun, and this. You'll bring the stakes down on yourself if you're not more careful, you fool. What was the matter with him lately?
"Hey, Henry, long time since you bin by." Alex, the owner of the loft wrapped a long, bare arm around Henry's shoulders, shoved an open bottle of water into his hand, and steered him deftly away from the bar. "I got someone who needs to see you, mon."
"Someone who needs to see me?" Henry allowed himself to be steered. It was the way most people dealt with Alex, resistance just took too much energy. "Who?"
Alex grinned down from his six-foot-four vantage point and winked broadly. "Ah, now, that would be tellin'. Whach you do to your hand?"
Henry glanced down at the bandage. Even in the dim light of the studio it seemed to glow against the black leather of his cuff. "Burned myself."
"Burns is bad stuff, mon. Were you cookin'?"
"You could say that." His lips twitched although he sternly told himself it wasn't funny.
"What's the joke?"
"It'd take too long to explain. How about you explaining something to me?"
"You ahsk, mon. I answer."
"Why the fake Jamaican accent?"
"Fake?" Alex's voice rose above the music and a half a dozen people ducked as he windmilled his free arm. "Fake? There's nothing fake about this accent, mon. I'm gettin' back to my roots."
"Alex, you're from Halifax."
"I got deeper roots than that, you betcha." He
"Guess it'll have to be a usual, then."
"Right. Two trendy waters." The pair of tickets changed hands. "You know, Henry, you're paying a hell of a lot for piss and bubbles."
Henry grinned down at him and swept an arm around the loft. "I'm paying for the ambience, Thomas."
"Ambience my ass," Thomas snorted genially. "Hey, I just remembered, Alex got a case of halfway decent burgundy. . . ."
It wouldn't have taken a stronger man than Henry Fitzroy to resist. "No thanks, Thomas, I don't drink . . . wine." He turned to face the room and, just for a moment, saw another gathering.
The clothes, peacock bright velvets, satins, and laces turned the length of the room into a glittering kaleidoscope of color. He hated coming to Court and would appear only when his father demanded it. The false flattery, the constant jockeying for position and power, the soul destroying balancing act that must be performed to keep both the block and the pyre at bay; all this set the young Duke of Richmond's teeth on edge.
As he made his way across the salon, each face that turned to greet him wore an identical expression-a mask of brittle gaiety over ennui, suspicion, and fear in about an equal mix.
Then the heavy metal beat of Anthrax drove "Green-sleeves" back into the past. The velvet and jewels spun away into black leather, paste, and plastic. The brittle gaiety now covered ennui alone. Henry supposed it was an improvement.
I should be on the street, he thought, making his way to the kitchen/bar, brushing past discussions of the recent killings and the creatures they had been attributed to. I will not find the child up here. . . . But the child hadn't fed since Tuesday night and so perhaps had passed through the frenzy and moved to the next part of its metamorphosis. But the parent. . . . His hands clenched into fists, the right pulling painfully against the bandage and the blisters beneath it. The parent must still be found. That he could do up here. Twice before in Alex's loft he had tasted another predator in the air. Then, he had let it go, the blood scent of so many people made tracking a competitor a waste of time. Tonight, if it happened again, he would waste the time.
Suddenly, he noticed that a path was opening before him as he made his way across the crowded room and he hastily schooled his expression. The men and women gathered here, with faces painted and precious metals dangling, were still close enough to their primitive beginnings to recognize a hunter walking among them.
That's three times now; the guard, the sun, and this. You'll bring the stakes down on yourself if you're not more careful, you fool. What was the matter with him lately?
"Hey, Henry, long time since you bin by." Alex, the owner of the loft wrapped a long, bare arm around Henry's shoulders, shoved an open bottle of water into his hand, and steered him deftly away from the bar. "I got someone who needs to see you, mon."
"Someone who needs to see me?" Henry allowed himself to be steered. It was the way most people dealt with Alex, resistance just took too much energy. "Who?"
Alex grinned down from his six-foot-four vantage point and winked broadly. "Ah, now, that would be tellin'. Whach you do to your hand?"
Henry glanced down at the bandage. Even in the dim light of the studio it seemed to glow against the black leather of his cuff. "Burned myself."
"Burns is bad stuff, mon. Were you cookin'?"
"You could say that." His lips twitched although he sternly told himself it wasn't funny.
"What's the joke?"
"It'd take too long to explain. How about you explaining something to me?"
"You ahsk, mon. I answer."
"Why the fake Jamaican accent?"
"Fake?" Alex's voice rose above the music and a half a dozen people ducked as he windmilled his free arm. "Fake? There's nothing fake about this accent, mon. I'm gettin' back to my roots."
"Alex, you're from Halifax."
"I got deeper roots than that, you betcha." He
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