“Oh, and a word of advice, ladies.”
Sara and I both gave the driver our full attention. I had the feeling we were going to need all the help we could get to fit in here. Clearly Clyde was not above flaunting his money.
Our chauffeur wasn’t looking at us as he brought the limo to a smooth stop in front of the path leading to the brightly lit French double doors. One of the trio of armed security guards at the door came down the steps and opened the car door for us as the driver left us with some parting words of wisdom.
“Don’t mention the hair.”
With that cryptic statement, the two of us were left to face the security guard, who was doing a decent impression of a brick wall while he held the door and waited for us to decide if we were going to come out. Sara edged her way out first, accepting the guy’s hand as he helped her to the curb. If he thought her “Yes, I Run Like A Girl—Try To Keep Up” T-shirt was a bit much, he didn’t give any sign.
Once I was on my feet, I followed Sara up the steps and tried not to wince when the doors opened and blasted us in the face with electronica music. Yet another security guard roughly the size and dimensions of Mount Everest met us just inside. It was too loud for us to hear much of anything, but he gestured for us to follow him.
The place was just as grand and imposing on the inside as it was outside, though the furniture and artwork had more of that tacky-but-expensive look of red velvet and black satin rather than the carefully maintained Barbie’s Dreamhouse architecture and landscaping outside. Like some exclusive S&M club, except with a bunch of famous people hanging out in the latest Hollywood chic instead of leather and chains.
Somehow, I managed not to stare. It helped that the strobe lights made it too disorienting to keep track of the security guard if I didn’t keep my eyes locked on him, for the most part. Though I did take a peek when Sara tapped my shoulder and jerked her chin to the right. I squinted into the shadows, and nearly fainted at the sight of one of my favorite actors lounging on the couch, talking with a girl who was probably also famous, but it didn’t matter because oh, my God, that was really him.
The security guard was more than a little annoyed that he had to backtrack and find us. Even more so when he had to resort to a firm hand on our shoulders to get us moving again. This was probably a good thing, because it reminded me to close my mouth and not look like the ragingly obvious tourist I was.
Some of Hollywood’s finest were looking beautiful and carefree and having a great time dancing and drinking and rubbing elbows with vampires. It was difficult to tell which were the monsters and which were the real people, but if you looked hard enough, you could always spot the Others. It seemed that everyone here had a touch of that predatory mien, but only the vampires had that special glitter to their eyes.
Then again, that glitter could have been drugs. Not that it mattered. Everyone here was dangerous in his or her own way.
Sara and I were led deep into the house. We eventually reached a door where the guard had to punch some numbers into a security pad before he could open it. He motioned us into the stairwell, not following us down the rabbit hole.
Though the stairwell was well lit, and the walls here were a much more appropriate off-white, hung with the occasional framed photograph, being starstruck was replaced by that sense of dread and intimidation all over again.
For her part, Sara didn’t seem concerned. She moved on the stairs like she was heading down to meet a business acquaintance. Taking a cue from her, I schooled my features into what I hoped was a pleasantly blank expression instead of one that said “dear-God-get-me-out-of-here. ”
At the bottom of the stairwell was a hallway that branched off into other rooms to our left, and a wide-open space directly ahead with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the beach from the heights of a cliff. Or maybe we were on a mountainside. We’d gone through so many twisting, winding roads, I wasn’t sure anymore.
“Ah, ladies, you made it,” said a pleasantly deep male voice from our right.
I had seen pictures of Clyde Seabreeze before, and even a couple of video interviews online. However, they lacked the impact of the real thing, who was currently—and very deliberately, I was sure—standing under a small spotlight a few feet away from a small group of men. One was lounging on some more artsy than comfortable looking couches, and the rest were hanging back in the shadows; probably bodyguards.
Of course, the first thing I noticed was the hair. It was dark—black—obviously dyed. It wasn’t a good color for him, but that was like saying it wasn’t a good color for Brad Pitt in his prime.
His gaze drew me in next. Clyde’s eyes were . . . well, cliché as it sounds, a smoldering, dark blue. Come-hither eyes. Eyes deep enough to drown in. I remembered at the last second to look away, and, much like whenever David Bowie came on screen in Labyrinth, soon found myself staring at what was obviously framed by his too-tight pants and the tails of the shirt he hadn’t bothered to button.
“Mr. Seabreeze,” Sara said, and with far more grace than I could possibly have mustered, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Oh no, the pleasure is all mine.”
The two of them were very cool and polite with each other considering he looked like he’d walked off the set of some romance novel photo shoot. I debated opening my mouth, but the words package and balls were dangerously close to the tip of my tongue. Instead, I mutely offered my hand when he approached to give us both a polite, welcoming handshake. I imagine my vow of silence was probably for the best—for all of us.
“Ms. Waynest,” he said, smiling in a way that told me he knew exactly what I had been staring at a moment ago, “I am thrilled to finally meet the girl who stole the heart of Alec Royce. I must admit, I never thought he’d request that I be the one to offer sanctuary to one of his own, but I am delighted that I could be of service.”
I’m sure my blank look spoke for me. His smile became a little more genuine, and he spread his arms, bowing his head in a theatric move reminiscent of an orchestra director.
“You must forgive me, I have forgotten my manners. Ladies, may I introduce you to Fabian d’Argento, master of San Francisco.”
A man who was sprawled as if he had been placed just so on the couch inclined his head to us. “Delighted,” he said, clearly not.
Like Clyde, Fabian was lovely to look at but undoubtedly far more deadly than you would think based upon appearances. I had once mistaken Royce for a lackey; had I not just been introduced to the two, I might have easily assumed the same of Clyde and Fabian. Though they were both pale, and perhaps unfairly good-looking, they did not give off any dangerous vibes. Their ability to pass as human and my instant attraction to them was what made them dangerous, particularly since, as both were masters of their respective cities, they must have been ancient. The old ones always seemed to be devious and strong enough to lay the smack down on anyone who got in their way.
“Fabian, this is Shiarra Waynest and Sara Halloway. Alec has sent them here to visit for a time.”
The other vampire finally looked mildly interested, one brow quirking. “Is that so? You pair are private investigators, yes? I understand Ms. Waynest has caused quite a stir back East.”
I cleared my throat and looked away. “Yes, we are, and that’s why I’m here. Why we both are.”