The outfit should look ridiculous, a custom for a man playing alpha male. Instead, itunnerves me. He’s too comfortable in it, like the damn thing is a second layer of skin.
“Welcome to my humble retreat,” McAllister says, extending his hand to greet us. “I’m delighted you accepted my invitation.” He claps Ares’ hand for a second before turning to me. His hand remains in mine longer, his thumb stroking my inner wrist in a gesture meant to establish dominance.
I force myself not to flinch, not to show how my skin crawls at his touch. I just hope Ares missed it because I know he would rip his head off without asking any more questions.
“Your home is impressive,” I say, withdrawing my hand as soon as he lets go. “Quite a collection.”
“Just the smaller trophies here,” he replies with false modesty. “The real prizes are in the trophy room. I’ll give you the tour after you’ve settled in.”
Great, more dead animals. I think I threw up in my mouth a little when he said trophy room.
Through the windows, I count at least six luxury vehicles parked in the courtyard. Range Rovers, a Bentley, two Mercedes G-Wagons. Vivian mentioned we were the last to arrive, so I guess that’s all of us.
“Drinks?” McAllister gestures toward a crystal decanter on a side table. “Single malt.Forty years old. Smoother than a virgin’s thigh.”
I can’t even tell if he's libidinous in that way, or if he’s just trying to test our reactions, but I maintain my neutral expression to his words while Ares accepts a glass.
“To new and old friendships,” McAllister proposes, raising his tumbler. “The ride here must have been exhausting,” he says, setting down his empty glass. “Vivian will show you to your accommodations. Dinner is at eight. All the good people will be here. One of my men will bring your luggage to your room soon. And if you’re kind enough to give me your car keys, he’ll take the vehicle to the inner yard.”
I try to force a smile, but fail while Ares hands him the keys. Next, Vivian leads us toward the grand staircase, and I can’t help but feel McAllister’s eyes on us. Or maybe it’s because of all of these damn hunting trophies that seem to track our movement, glass eyes gazing creepily at us.
This isn’t just a house. It’s a taxidermist’s dream, and most people’s nightmare.
When we get to the room, we don’t talk about anything essential to our plan or anything that could give us away. Weknow about potential bugs or hidden cameras, we won’t risk fucking this up. We just act normal, spend a couple of hours in bed, Ares lying down, pretending to watch TV, while I wrap my arms around his torso, feeling the rapid rhythm of his heartbeats and watching from time to time as that dark flash runs through his eyes as he fights to keep himself composed.
I place a hand over his heart, an unspoken plea for him to calm down. He finally does so, at least for a while, because, as we look at the clock on the wall, we realize it’s seven, and it’s time for us to get ready for dinner.This is just one of the formalities we need to go through to find a weak spot and get him alone and cornered. So we pretend to enjoy everything he says, to be absorbed by everything that surrounds us, while we’re in fact just fishing for opportunities.
***
“This is where the real art lives,” McAllister announces, swinging open a set of double doors carved with scenes of men on horseback pursuing terrified prey.The trophy room in front of us makes the entrance hall displays seem modest by comparison. Mounted heads, cover every inch of wall space. There are creatures from every continent, those glass eyes reflecting our entrance like an audience of the dead. Even the floor is covered in different exotic pelts. Tigers, lions, zebras, and my feet become wobbly because I have the sensation that I’m walking across fucking graves.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” McAllister runs his fingers over the fangs of a snarling wolf. “This old boy gave me quite the chase. Twenty miles through the Siberian wilderness before I cornered him. He was an alpha male.”
I swallow, trying to stop myself from punching him in the face.
“You tracked it yourself?” Ares asks, his voice filled with a polite interest that doesn’t suit him. Which he surprisingly manages pretty well.
“Every single one,” McAllister‘s chest puffs like a damn peacock. “I don’t believe in guided hunts. Where is the glory in shooting what another man has already found for you?”
I drift toward a display case holding smaller trophies, like claws and teeth, some of them even from a shark, I presume. But I’m not here to admire hisart. I’m looking for security cameras in case we’ll have to interrogate him in his home, and walking here, I’ve already counted four positioned poorly enough to create blind spots.
“My pride and joy,” McAllister says, gesturing toward a massive black cat, mounted on a rock formation. Its fangs are bared in fury, and its muscles frozen mid-leap. “Rare melanistic Jaguar from the Amazon. Locals called it a demon. Said it couldn’t be killed.” He laughs, and I recognize something evil in it. “Everything can be killed with the right weapon and enough patience.” His eyes slide to Ares, and I can’t help but feel there’s an implied threat hanging in his words.
Ares feels it too because I can see that vein on his neck pulsing. “An impressive philosophy,” he replies, matching McAllister’s stare without blinking. “Though I’ve come to learn that some prey is worth morealivethan dead.”
“Maybe.” McAllister‘s smile is so fake now that he can barely keep it up. “Though nothing compares to the final moment when they realize they’re beaten. When they submit to your superiority.”
A knock interrupts what I was beginning to be afraid of turning into a standoff. Vivian appears at the doorway. “Sir, the other guests have returned.”
“Ah, my other guests took a few steps outside to admire the property while you were resting,” McAllister says with genuine interest on his face. “Let’s collectthem, and then head to the dining room, shall we?”
We follow him back to the entrance hall, where five men wearing expensive outdoor wear are accompanied by women whose beauty is visibly perfected through surgical interventions and high maintenance.
The women barely acknowledge my presence, but I can definitely see all their eyes pointing at Ares, studying him from head to toe, with the same interest McAllister studies his trophies.Only they don’t want to kill him.
But I could definitely kill them. I’m not even sure anything would stop me.
Ares can sense my murderous intentions, and he wraps a hand around my waist, pulling me toward him in a gesture of claiming what’s his. Even if he promised to keep his distance. Make this look like I’m more of a bed warmer than the woman who owns every piece of him.
