Brice stared as Winter quickly disappeared behind the door to the apartment. The water in the shower came out cold then turned piping hot after a minute. A slight groan sounded from somewhere deep in the wall as the pipes heated. Brice leapt back to avoid the scalding temperature. After adjusting the flow, he stepped in and released a moan of pleasure. There was mud and gravel in places they should never be lodged in. Dirt sluiced off his skin, out of his corded hair, swirling in a wide circle before going down the floor drain. He leaned against the wall for a while contemplating his situation. He’d been burning up a little over an hour ago. Now he felt cold to the bone. Events over the last 48 hours were blurred by fevered confusion. Indianapolis wasn’t too far. It was a simple matter of finding a phone and calling his pack. Krish should be able to remove this cursed bond Lulu forced on him. Who is this Winter? While not versed in the Louisville hierarchy, Brice is certain someone as powerful as Winter appears to be should have hit the Arch Alpha’s radar. The thick oversized preheated towels are heavenly as he dries off. Squeezing as much water out of his thick hair as possible, Brice is relieved to find a large professional hair dryer hanging to the left of the bench. He sits down and begins the formidable task of thoroughly drying his long ropes of hair.

Donning his flowy bohemian outfit, Brice opens the door leading to Winter’s living quarters. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the reduced lighting. Rachmaninov’s Isle of the Dead wafts down a hall leading to a slightly ajar door. As he approaches the frame of the second glimmers with multiple sigils, some Brice recognizes as similar to protection wards engraved on the talismans used during the fight with the shadow army. His choice to skip the training sessions on spell craft identification suddenly seems a grave oversight. When he touches the door handle, sigils flicker in a staccato rhythm like a 1980s computer running analysis, then settle to a soft glow. He hesitates. What he wouldn’t give to have Kate and her encyclopedic knowledge here. Going through that door doesn’t seem like the best idea. Brice slowly takes his hand off the door and backs up a step. The lights on the door frame begin to dim. “Hello?” Brice calls out. “Winter?”

With hypersensitive wolfblood hearing, Brice perceives someone moving in the room behind the door. A chair lightly scraping against a hard floor. Scarcely audible footsteps moving his direction. The door swings open revealing a lean form. Deep garnet eyes swathed by charcoal peer from a black matte mask. The mask covers the top ¾ of the person’s face, a delicate chin and pale cupid bow lips peak out the bottom. A thin turtleneck style top is pulled up obscuring all skin under the jawline. Stark white hair, still slightly damp, gathers in a long thick plait falling over one shoulder of a long smoking jacket/robe. Deep blue velvet embroidered in silver with black brocade lining. Hands are shoved into pockets of the robe. Loose satin pants stop at black lamb’s wool slippers. There is an elegance to the strange person as they tilt their head in question. It occurs to Brice this is Winter and they are much too thin. He tries to sniff discreetly. Now that they aren’t covered in mud he might be able to make out what Winter is. Expensive cologne, something amber and smoke, covers Winter’s natural smell. There’s the barest hint of decay, so slight Brice isn’t sure he actually smells it. Residue from forest litter? It doesn’t quite smell healthy. Illness?

“Are you coming in?” Winter’s soft rasp asks from behind the mask. Brice eyes the frame of the door warily.

Noticing Brice’s discomfort. “Ah, you have the sight. Just precautions.”, Winter waves a hand airily at the sigils that begin to glow faintly. “You are invited. It is safe.”

Pretty heavy duty “precautions”. What does this person need protection from? Brice wonders. Sigils are not something common or easily come by. Brice knows the basics, like they require a bank of power infused into them to work. Long term use requires recharging like a battery. Upkeeping one takes a lot of juice. There were 7 on the door.

“Most people do not see these sigils?” Brice asks.

“Rarely with this type of magic.”, comes the faintly uttered answer.  

Taking a deep breath, Brice steps through the door. An electrical pulse hits him as he enters. Brice clutches his arm as a burning sensation races up his arm. Winter’s eyes widen at the sharp snapping sound. Winter looks Brice up and down, eyes falling to the raised angrily flaring cobalt blue area on Brice’s wrist. Snaking tendrils of burning blue writhe under the skin up his arm, tangling with the golden energy of Krish’s magic flowing from beneath the kaftan’s sleeve. The runes on the door flare to life, blazing with white light. Winter steps forward. “That’s. Different. Painful?”, The whispered question laced with concern. 

“A bit.” Brice replies through gritted teeth. River makes a quick symbol with their fingertips, tracing the blue symbol on Brice’s wrist. The protections on the door dim. The sigil’s energy reaches out, running along Winter’s skin in plasma lamp tendrils. Brice is thrown into a vision. An emaciated child, pale skin, shaved head, a slave’s shift, wide innocent eyes welling with tears, in a dark room. Straw piled in a corner. It feels underground. Musty, slight smell, sewage perhaps.  Winter jerks their hand back, breaking contact with the energy.

The pain begins to recede; Brice takes a deep breath, fighting to control the reaction to his vision. “Whatever you did helped. Thank you.”

“Okay.”, Winter changes the subject. “Hungry?”, gesturing to the kitchen.

“Starved.” Brice smiles and walks past Winter to the kitchen area, trying his best not to be unnerved by the mask and odd nature of his host. The nonchalant attitude toward powerful magic. Was the vision past or present? It felt old. Visions of possible futures are less vivid Present and past tend to be sharp, too real.

Lights throughout the apartment are low, putting off an amber candlelight glow. The haunting melody playing over hidden speakers adds a melancholic ambiance. On the left Brice observes the kitchen and dining area. Reclaimed wood cabinets in a clever arrangement of rosewood, black walnut, and mahogany dance a pattern above and under a dark marble counter with a patinaed copper back splash. Carved burl wood bowls hold food foraged from the market. Jerky, bread, dried fruit and nuts. A jar of honey with a spoon setting in it. Balsamic vinegar and fresh olive oil for the bread. A wedge of soft spreadable cheese. There are exquisite eating utensils with intricate designs, linen embroidered napkins and dishtowels instead of paper.  A pair of tall stools, one pulled out the other nestled next to the counter. Brice sits down on a stool before his disoriented state becomes obvious. A door on slide rails towards the back, behind a weathered oak farm table with benches flanking it.

The apartment continues around a center wall in a U-shape to an extravagantly comfortable living room. An extra-long ox blood leather couch takes up a painted stucco wall bracketed by shelves stacked with books and nicknacks. A bench seat with green velvet upholstery, rolled arm rests, satin pillows, soft chenille blankets, tilts toward a soap stone stove. The bench is set on a creamy white plush wool shag throw rug. Glancing through the living room, a king-size bed peeks out; too many pillows, gauzy fabric draping from the ceiling, and an extremely fluffy comforter. Slate floors run through the entire space. Walls that aren’t faced in stucco are bare brick. An ornately carved grandfather clock in the living area gently ticking the seconds. Every eclectic detail lends to an old world melded with modern comforts luxury aesthetic.

Not a single portal where outside light could hope to enter. A massive landscape painting covers one wall. Brice waits for an uneasy feeling to signal the need to flee. When his second sense doesn’t give a warning, he relaxes. His intuition is never wrong. The entire situation and the company is strange beyond measure. Still, he feels safe here. His head says there’s too many strange goings on, his gut says there’s nothing to worry about. There is a reason he is here.

Brice settles in to eat. Winter moves around the kitchen, setting a kettle on to boil. “Tea? Water?”

“Water is fine.” Brice replies. Winter produces a heavy lead glass tumbler.  When they open the fridge to fetch a filtered water pitcher, Brice gets a look at the barren state of the fridge. A carton of eggs, a small variety of protein drinks, and the water pitcher. That’s it. Brice takes note of the overly thin nature of his host again. “I don’t keep much food in my flat.” The previous comment takes on a new pallor.

Setting the water next to Brice, Winter digs through the bag from the bakery. Pulling out a single oat cake, they set it perfectly in the center of a plate. “Please, eat.” Winter requests, as they pull a teacup from a hook under the cabinet. The cup, painted like its compatriots with detailed florals, is composed of eggshell thin porcelain. It looks like something grand old ladies would use when having tea and biscuits with an important visitor. Winter takes a hand tied mesh bag from a tin, placing it in the cup. Brice smells smokey oolong with orange. That is when Brice catches the state of Winter’s hands. Long slender fingers, a white as pale as the teacup’s porcelain, scarred. Old burns stretch tightly along both hands disappearing beneath shirt cuffs. A few fingers at slightly wrong angles with bumps where old breaks weren’t properly set. More scars pucker crudely from lacerations that should have had sutures. Each bone and tendon in the hands visible. Perceiving the scrutiny, Winter fidgets with the cuffs of their shirt, tugging them down as far as possible over knuckles.

The tea pot whistles.

Winter’s hands shake slightly while pouring the water, barely managing not to spill it.

“Are you okay?” Brice asks.

“Tired. I need to eat before resting though.”, Winter shrugs the tremors off. Brice feels the lie in the dismissal. Something is seriously wrong.

They eat in silence, Brice watching Winter. Winter unhurriedly picking the small oat cake apart and nibbling between gingerly taken sips of tea. It takes 15 minutes for Winter to get over halfway through the cake, what would have been 2 bites for Brice. Winter stops. Taking a final sip of tea, they sweep the plate and cup away to the sink.

“Please continue eating.” Winter says as Brice prepares to rise. “Do you mind if I smoke? I have an air filter.”

Curious, Brice replies, “That’s fine.”.

Winter wanders into the living area. Pulling a silver case out of one pocket, they flip it open revealing hand rolled cigarettes. Attaching one to a long thin filigreed silver holder, Winter produces a matching lighter and flicks a flame to life. A flare of the cherry, smoke curves in wisping tendrils from the tip. Winter settles on the velvet bench, leaning on the side where a round claw foot coffee table sets. Winter reaches for what looks like a Tiffany lamp on the table. The click of a switch and a soft motorized hum starts, smoke from the cigarette immediately drawing towards it. The lamp shade working like a fume hood. Winter taps ash into a lotus shaped glass tray resting next to a wooden box carved with an Asian dragon. Even with the filter, Brice’s keen sense of smell catches hints of what Winter is smoking. It is not tobacco. Acrid hints of poppy lace with aromatic marijuana tickling his nose. There are other floral scents he can’t identify woven into the blend making it not entirely unpleasant. Attention on Winter, Brice finishes his meal then begins to pick things up. Setting dishes in the sink and turning the water on.

“Leave it.” Winter’s instruction so quiet, only wolfblood ears could catch the words. “My housekeeper comes daily.”

Brice comes into the living room, relocating onto the large burgundy couch. His fingers run over the supple high quality leather. It is a well cared for, aged piece. A hint of glycerin soap and lanoline conditioner wafts to him. Winter extinguishes the last of the cigarette. The Grandfather clock chimes 7 am.

“You may take the bed. Sheets were just changed.” Winter rises. “There’s a restroom though there.” Winter indicates a door to the right of the bookshelves Brice hadn’t noticed. “I’ll sleep out here on the couch.” Winter slides open the doors of a hidden linen closet, removing sheets and blankets. “Please don’t go into my walk in closet or private bath.” They indicate doors just past the bed.

Taking the cue, Brice stands, moving into the bedroom. His feet sink into the thick pile rug of the bedroom area. Winter’s head bobs as they fuss with the sheets and blankets. Arranging them on the couch.

Pulling the Kaftan over his head, Brice slides between the most sumptuous sheets he’s ever touched. The bed has a thick goose down topper that cocoons him as he snuggles in. The entire experience is like the fantasy of laying on a cloud. “Are you sure you don’t want me on the couch?” He calls out to Winter.

A thin hand waves off the comment, followed by a rasped, “I’m fine. I’ve slept in vastly worse places.”

Satified with the blankets on the couch, Winter touches a panel on the wall. The lights fade to a low amber; the music goes quiet. “Sleep well Brice.”