Chapter 2

Six months before, she had sent him to Ostler’s.

How she’d gotten him the invitation, he had no idea, and it was probably better not to ask. The first time Seth had set foot in what was one of Great Britain’s most exclusive clubs, he’d had to flee. Staring around the dimly lit room, he gazed upon some of London’s best looking young men, and not so young, locked in passionate embraces, holding hands, or otherwise involved in more prosaic activities. Here, all his “oddities” were normal and all his fantasies were played out in the flesh.

He’d barely approached one of the empty tables before he’d attracted attention; later he learned this was not unusual. Newcomers were always viewed as potential conquests. The predatory instincts of the regulars took over and the scent of fresh meat drove them to a feeding frenzy. Seth bolted home with all the grace of a terrified rabbit, but also hard and aching.

It hadn’t taken him much time to pin his courage up and return. Less than a week and he visited again, dressed with as much attention as he might have paid his attire on presentation to the queen. Determined not to act the fool again, he’d entered calmly, kept his gaze firmly level, and refused to swivel his neck like a gap-mouthed tourist. Outwardly cool and gentlemanly, he was aquiver within. He took a seat near a window, and watched the happenings of the room reflected in the lead-paned glass.

This time, he was able to deflect some of the sharks, to converse over drinks with a few appealing men, and to consider his options. Caster Powell was the most intriguing, the one who piqued Seth’s interest.

Caster was not much for chat. He was powerful and strong, his chest covered with a dusting of black hair, growing gray in some places. He had brilliant emerald eyes that seemed to notice everything and gazed upon the world with dark knowledge, slightly cynical, faintly sad, and always hovered on the edge of amusement. He was heavily scarred, as if he’d tangled with a bear in his youth. Caster was uncouth and rude, huntsmaster of one of the local lords. He cared for the dogs and led them along behind the riders. Truly, not one of the gentry at all. But his mouth was soft, almost gentle, and his hands were knowledgeable. Seth craved that knowledge, craved release. Holding the older man in his arms, Seth almost wept with gratitude, knowing that he wasn’t alone.

As Cas brought him swiftly to climax, Seth groaned, then clamped down on a startled scream. The older man bit him, hard, on the shoulder. Hard enough to tear flesh. Blood ran down his arm, staining the sheets with a crimson splash. Shuddering violently, Seth shoved Cas away, cursing and blustering.

“There you are, my young virgin.” Cas dressed, ignoring Seth’s hysterics, his green eyes full of shadow-secrets. “Come back to me, when you learn more about what you are now.”

* * * *

Dr. Poindexter Fitzhugh, Dex to his friends, rolled his gear-eye a few times, relishing the clench of jaw and flexing of hands in his fellow players. He clamped his mouth tightly, containing his smirk. By the gods, normals were so easy to aggravate. Coggers—those with artificial limbs, permanent devices, or other gear-driven enhancements—were not actively shunned from society, but they did loiter on the very cusp of it. Coggers were viewed as peculiar, uncouth, perhaps even not-quite-human by normals—people unchanged by machinery advancements.

The only one of the players who wasn’t currently contemplating his death was the American woman, who was much too busy trying to find someone to warm her bed to pay him any mind. Perhaps she knew his secret and had dismissed him from consideration. If so, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t that much of a secret. But people didn’t talk about it, anyway.

Foolishness, he thought. It wasn’t like there weren’t already too many people in London. Taking himself out of the pool of people who would pass on their blood to the next generation wasn’t a bad thing.

The young newcomer, Seth Maitland, glanced at him over green-tinted spectacles. His eyes were green, or perhaps they were blue. In the flickering of the gaslamp, Dex couldn’t quite tell. There was a shadow about that gaze, the intensity with which Maitland studied him, that sent a chill right down Dex’s spine. Maitland was beyond gorgeous, his jaw firm and strong, stubbled with beard that probably started growing in only a few moments after the young lord shaved. He had a full, sensual mouth and the accent with which he rolled the words around on his tongue was slightly exotic. His mother was Italian and she had probably passed down some of her romantic language to her children. She had certainly passed along the darker skin, the Roman nose, and a thick head of black hair.