“Alucard Emery!”
He flinched at the volume of the voice, the brazenness of being called by name, turned to find a young man ambling toward him, already well into his cups. A single blue thread curled through the air around the youth, though only Alucard could see it. He was dressed in fine silk, the collar open to reveal a trail of smooth, tan skin. His golden hair was rumpled, and his eyes were black. Not edge to edge, like Kell’s, but perfect drops of ink that pooled in the center of the white, and swallowed up the pupils, so he couldn’t tell if they were shrunk to pinpricks, or blown wide with pleasure.
Alucard searched his memory until it produced a name. Oren.
“Master Rosec,” he said, as cordially as he could muster, since Oren was the son of a noble house.
“You remember!” Oren clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends. In truth, the Rosecs had long kept their residence up north, and the two had met only once, five years before, at the royal wedding. At the time, Alucard had thought the boy a spoiled brat. Now, he was certain. Oh, there was no doubt that Oren Rosec was handsome. But the effect was tarnished by the fact the young man clearly knew it, and carried himself with an arrogance that eroded his looks and left Alucard with only the impression of a very punchable face.
“I’m surprised to see a Rosec so far south,” he said. “How is London suiting you?”
“Wonderfully,” said Oren with a sloppy grin and an insufferable wink. “I find myself quite at home.”
“And your sister?” asked Alucard, glancing around in hopes of finding his host, and with her, an escape.
“Oh, Hanara?” Oren waved his hand. “She stayed with the estate. She was the oldest, after all.”
Alucard’s attention snagged on that word. Was. But before he could ask, Oren leaned in, far too close, and said, far too loud, “But I am surprised to see you here, Master Emery, and not at the king’s side.”
Alucard smiled thinly. “Last I checked, I am not tethered to the crown. And thus, free to amuse myself.”
Oren laughed. “I don’t blame you,” he said, fingers tightening on Alucard’s arm. “After all, these days the king’s bed must be so crowded.”
Alucard clenched his teeth, and wondered what he might have said next if Oren had not suddenly seen a host he fancied across the room.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said the younger noble, already propelling himself forward.
“Happily,” muttered Alucard, glad to see him go.
Just then, a ribboned hand settled on his shoulder, and Alucard turned to find a woman in a white dress, though the words did little justice to the woman or the dress. She was exquisite, long-limbed and pale, her ash-blond hair swept up atop her head, held in place with a dozen long silver pins, their handles sculpted into thornlike tips. The dress was a single length of white silk bound around her body like a ribbon round a parcel, cinching here and there until every vital curve was drawn in sharp detail.
Most knew her as the White Rose.
Few also knew her as the owner of the Silken Thread, its proprietor as well as its most desired host.
Alucard knew her as Ciara.
“Master Emery,” she purred, smooth as the silk itself. “It has been too long.”
The air around her warmed a little as she spoke, and he knew it was only her magic—could see the yellow threads of it dancing just over her skin—and yet he flushed and felt himself lean in toward her, like a flower to the sun.
“It has,” he said, taking her hand, and pressing the knuckles to his lips. “And yet, somehow, I doubt your bed is ever cold.”
She shrugged. “All bodies warm, but few have truly burned my sheets.”
Alucard stifled a laugh as she led him through the salon to the bar, whose marble surface curled like a single piece of ribbon through the room. She tapped one perfect nail on the counter and soon two short crystal glasses appeared, their contents amber. They each took up the glass—the brothel’s way of sealing a deal between a patron and their chosen host.
“Vas ir,” she said in Arnesian.
“Glad’och,” he replied in Veskan.
A shadow crossed Ciara’s face—the briefest cloud—before she tapped his drink with her own and downed the contents. Alucard followed. The liquor tasted of sunlight and sugar, but he knew it was strong enough to make an unsuspecting patron feel as if they’d gone to bed on land, and woken up at sea. Thankfully his years captaining the Spire had given him steady legs and a very high tolerance for spirits.