Page 4 of Blind Date with a Werewolf
She wasn’t the only one on his recent kill sheet. He’d been sent after, what? Eight werewolves in the past year, not including Sage? He understood the necessity of it. Humankind must believe werewolves were harmless, so there was no more room for mistakes. He’d understood why the Marrok quit sending Charles after all of them. Charles regretted killing. Asil did not.
Asil’s wolf enjoyed it. For that reason, Asil was not the firstwolf the Marrok sent out, either. But there were situations that only a wolf of Charles’s or Asil’s power could deal with.
So the boy’s reluctance to let someone he did not know, someone who might be a killer, know where he slept was a smart thing. Not that it would have saved him from Asil. But Asil didn’t hunt young men who had done nothing to deserve it.
“Wise,” Asil said, aware he had been silent for too long for comfortable interaction. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yes?” It came out as a question.
“Good,” Asil said. “You will take my car, drop me off, and pick me up.”
“Thehell, man,” Kelly sputtered. “Didn’t you understand me? You don’t give out your home address or wherever you are staying. You meet in public, and”—his voice got very sarcastic—“you don’t give someone you don’t know the keys to your car.”
Ah, Asil enjoyed this young man. Even his wolf thought it was funny that the boy thought he,Asil, needed to be careful. Amusing enough that the old beast didn’t find Kelly’s ire offensive. Kelly was in their care—if only for a night—and so could be permitted to push boundaries in a way a stranger would never be allowed to.
Silkily, Asil said, “Room 216. The Hilton on Reserve Street.”
“There are serial killers using dating sites to hunt their prey,” said Kelly.
Asil’s wolf alerted as though he had scented prey. Asil hadn’t thought about using the Internet for a hunting ground like that. They could pose as prey—Asilcould pose as prey. Reluctantly, Asil set the idea aside. His wolf was not safe to take hunting humans, not even evil humans.
“I am not worried about your being a serial killer,” Asil saidwith more accuracy than was polite, judging by the way the boy bristled. “Efficiency and common sense suggest that you driving my car will allow us to continue our date with the least amount of fuss.”
“You’re being stupid,” said Kelly.
“No,” said Asil. “And that is enough conversation on the subject.” If he let his wolf out and Kelly ran “screaming into the night,” Asil would lose the game he was playing with his unknown opponents. But if Kelly didn’t stop arguing, Asil’s half-mad wolf—still excited at the thought of hunting serial killers—would come out. So Kelly had to stop.
Asil got up and paid for the dinner to give them both some space, and chatted about food andpeculiaridades americanaswith the woman who had waited on them until his wolf had calmed down.
When Kelly saw his car, he tried to refuse to drive again. Perhaps Asil should have brought the Subaru, but when one went on adateto aball, one drove the good car.
“It’s a Porsche. I’ve never driven a Porsche.”
“It’s a Cayenne,” soothed Asil as he opened the driver’s door and ushered Kelly into the seat without the boy knowing he’d been pushed inside. “They are cheaper than most Porsches.”
His wasn’t, but some of the models were.
“What do you do for a living?” asked Kelly as Asil got into the passenger seat.
“There is old money in my family,” apologized Asil, because he knew that Americans had this weird thing about inherited wealth. It was very old money—all of it earned by him. “I grow things and try not to lose money at it.” There, he had a career and legitimacy. “It drives just like any other car,” he said,instead of telling Kelly that they were sitting around wasting time. “Just go.”
Though snow was piled up on either side, the roads were only lightly slushy—which was probably a good thing, as Kelly drove like an eighty-year-oldabuela. Traffic was bad on Reserve Street, as usual. By the time they reached his hotel, Asil was sure that his car was safe but less certain of their chances of making it to the ball before midnight.
When packing, he had briefly considered an outfit he’d saved from the Rococo era. The silver-blue looked particularly good on him, and the fabric was as crisp as if it had been manufactured yesterday instead of nearly three hundred years ago. But in keeping with the style of the time, it made him appear a little potbellied. That hadn’t bothered him then, but his tastes had changed. He also had no inclination to wear the powdered wig necessary to keep the costume period correct.
He’d decided upon a set of Renaissance clothes, his favorite era for fashion, when menswear vied with women’s for sheer spectacle. It wasn’t original to the period—none of his Renaissance clothes had survived. But he’d had this costume made for somebody’s wedding or some other occasion half a century ago. Maybe a hundred years. When you were as old as he was, time didn’t matter as much.
His coat was handwoven silk brocade. The amber of the base fabric meant that the gold threads woven throughout were a subtle addition—the only subtle thing about the whole costume. Purple, pink, and blue flowers exploded across the fabric in a pattern designed to show off his physique. Beneaththe coat his doublet was a complementary brocade—all of the patterning of the coat was repeated, but on a base of black rather than amber. On the doublet, the gold threads were startlingly bright.
Beneath the doublet he wore a gold silk shirt. His creamy lace collar, a less boring predecessor of the modern tie, fountained down his chest and out from under his coat sleeves.
He looked in the mirror and regretted that his hair was cut short. Properly he should have a mane of curls to balance the lace, but he looked magnificent anyway.
He had been careful to ascertain that Kelly had clothing that would not show badly against his own—he’d brought a tuxedo that would have been acceptable wear in case his choice had been too elaborate. But Kelly, driving with white-knuckled precision to Asil’s hotel, had assured him that his clothing was professional costume level. He had a friend who earned spare money by sewing costumes. She’d done Kelly’s for the cost of materials so she would have some clothes to show for her portfolio.
Asil gave his reflection one last, pleased look, then settled down at the hotel desk and opened up his laptop to micromanage a few of his investments. When he’d finished, he checked his email and found a message from his son.
He replied and, on a whim, told him about the game he was playing—and of his date so far. Hussan was evidently online, because he responded immediately.
