King simply turned to Hoyt. “You raising an army, General?”
“Hoyt. I am, yes.”
“You just got your first recruit.”
“Stop.” Cian strode around the counter that separated the kitchen. “This isn’t for you. You don’t know anything about this.”
“I know about you,” King returned. “I know I like a good fight, and I haven’t had one in a while. You’re talking major battle, good against evil. I like to pick my side from the get.”
“If he’s a king, why should he take orders from you?” Hoyt put in, and the black giant laughed so hard and long, he had to sit on the sofa.
“Gotcha.”
“Misplaced loyalty will get you killed.”
“My choice, brother.” King tipped the bottle toward Cian. Once again, something silent and strong passed between them with no more than a look. “And I don’t figure my loyalty’s misplaced.”
“Hoyt, go somewhere else.” Cian jerked a thumb toward his bedroom. “Go in there. I want a word in private with this idiot.”
He cared, Hoyt thought as he obliged. Cian cared about this man, a human trait. Nothing he’d read had indicated vampyres could have true feelings toward humans.
He frowned as he scanned the bedroom. Where was the coffin? The books had said the vampyre slept in the earth of his grave, in a coffin, by day. What he saw here was an enormous bed, one with ticking as soft as clouds and covered with smooth cloth.
He heard the raised voices outside the door, but set about exploring his brother’s personal room. Clothes enough for ten men, he decided when he found the closet. Well, Cian had always been vain.
But no looking glass. The books said the vampyre cast no reflection.
He wandered into the bathroom, and his jaw dropped. The expansive privy Cian had showed him before retiring had been amazing and was nothing to this. The tub was large enough for six, and there was a tall box of pale green glass.
The walls were marble, as was the floor.
Fascinated, he stepped into the box, began to play with the silver knobs that jutted out of the marble. And yipped in shock when a shower of cold water spurted out of many flatheaded tubes.
“Around here, we take our clothes off before getting in the shower.” Cian came in, shut the water off with one violent twist of the wrist. Then he sniffed the air. “On second thought, clothed or otherwise, you could sure as hell use one. You’re fucking rank. Clean up,” he ordered. “Put on the clothes I’ve tossed out on the bed. I’m going to work.”
He strode out, leaving Hoyt to fumble through on his own.
He discovered, after some time and chill that the temperature of the water could be adjusted. He scalded himself, froze, but eventually found the happy medium.
His brother must have been telling pure truth when he spoke of his wealth, for here was luxury never imagined. The scent of the soap seemed a bit female, but there was nothing else.
Hoyt wallowed in his first twenty-first-century shower, and wondered if he might find a way to duplicate it, by science or magic, once he returned home.
The cloths hanging nearby were as soft as the bed had been. He felt decadent using one to dry his skin.
He didn’t care for the clothes, but his own were soaked. He debated going out and getting the spare tunic out of his case, but it seemed best to follow Cian’s advice in wardrobe.
It took him twice as long to dress as it would have. The strange fastenings nearly defeated him. The shoes had no laces, but simply slipped on the foot. He was forced to admit that they were quite comfortable.
But he wished there was a bloody looking glass so he could see himself. He stepped out, then came up short. The black king was still on the sofa, drinking from the glass bottle.
“That’s an improvement,” King observed. “You’ll probably pass if you keep your mouth mostly shut.”
“What is this fastening here?”
“It’s a zipper. Ah, you’re going to want to keep that closed, friend.” He pushed to his feet. “Cain’s gone on down to the club. It’s after sunset. He fired me.”
“You’re burned? I have salve.”