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“Hello, Estelle. I just need a room for a couple of nights.”
“Is Arturo expecting you?” she said, looking Helen up and down, probably drawing conclusions.
“No. But I don’t think he’ll mind. Do you?”
Pouting, she opened the door and let them in.
The hallway within was carpeted and dimly lit with a pair of shaded bulbs.
“Is he in his usual spot?” Rick asked over his shoulder.
“Sure. He’s even in a good mood.”
Helen looked to him for an explanation. He just guided her on, through the doorway at the end of the corridor and into a wide room.
The place had the atmosphere of a turn-of-the-century lounge, close and warm, dense with subdued colors and rich fabrics, Persian rugs, and velvet wall hangings. One of Arturo’s dozen minions, Angelo, a young hothead, was smoking, purposefully drawing breath into his lungs and blowing it out again—breathing for no other reason than to smoke. It wasn’t as if the tobacco had any effect on him. Maybe he liked watching the smoke. Or maybe it was just habit. He was only a century old.
Most of Arturo’s vampires were young to Rick’s eyes. Then again, just about everyone was.
Sated with the human blood that kept them alive, they’d most likely been discussing the evening’s exploits. Their latest mode of hunting involved finding a dinner party, inviting themselves over, mesmerizing the whole group, and then having a taste of everyone. They didn’t kill or turn anyone, which would draw too much attention, and the group would wake up in the morning thinking they’d had a marvelous—if strange—evening. Rick sometimes suggested to Art
uro that he should open a restaurant or club and let the party come to him.
Arturo—by all accounts dashing, with golden hair swept back from a square face—lay in a wingback armchair, legs draped over one of its arms. He looked at Rick and raised his brows in surprise. “What have you brought for us, Ricardo?”
The dozen vampires, men and women, straightened, perking up to look at Helen like a pack of wolves.
“She needs a place to stay,” Rick said. “She’s under my protection.”
“Ricardo?” Helen whispered to him, and he hushed her.
“I’d just like to use the spare room for a couple of nights, if that’s all right.”
The young man—he looked to be in his midtwenties, a little younger than Rick appeared—considered, tapping a finger against a chin. “Certainly. Why not?”
“Thanks.”
His arm still around her shoulders, he turned Helen back to the hallway, where he opened the first door on the right and guided her inside.
“Rick? What is this place, some kind of boardinghouse?”
“Sort of.”
“Who are all those people?”
The room was absolutely dark. Helen gasped when he closed the door behind her. “Rick?”
He didn’t need to see to find the floor lamp in the corner and turn it on.
The room had a double bed with a mass of pillows and a quilted satin comforter, an oak dresser, the lamp, and not much else. The place was for sleeping out the day and storing clothing. A rug on the hardwood floor muffled footsteps.
Helen stared. “It’s a brothel. You’ve brought me to a brothel.”
If he argued with her, he’d have to explain, which he wanted to avoid.
“Do you mind?” he said. “I could find somewhere else.”
She hesitated before shaking her head and saying, “No. It’s okay. As long as it isn’t one of Blake’s.”
