Mr. L. waved Lyndon and I over and I had to set this book down to waltz over like the obedient slave I am. We had a customer, of course, perhaps our first serious one of the night. He was waiting for us upstairs in the special bedroom. My first thought, of course, was "us?" As in this guy liked more than one at a time? Weird but certainly not uncommon, I’ve just never been very popular with most men, and I have never shared a customer with Lyndon, male or female. I was curious, now, as to what kind of person this was. So Lyndon and I trotted upstairs.

We passed several doors, some closed, some open. Some doorways merely had beaded or cloth curtains while others actually shut and locked. Our doorway was one with an actual door, and standing outside of it was a gentleman, perhaps one of the most stunning I have ever seen.

He was fairly tall, with long auburn-ish hair all the way down to his shoulders. He was extremely pale with large, woeful dark eyes. He had the face of a Venetian angel, the illusion of beauty broken by something that made his face too masculine to be feminine. Perhaps it was his nose, which wasn’t quite straight, as if broken and never healed correctly. If that could be avoided, he would have been a knockout.

He was wearing a brown suit (who wears those in this day and age?) and in his hands he held a long cane of polished black wood, a black cape, and a black top hat. I thought at first he was our mysterious client, and I barely managed to glance over my shoulder to see what Lyndon thought of this particular specimen.

“Mr. Strephon?” I asked, reading the name from a small white card Mr. L. had given us. Those beautiful brown eyes widened more than I thought possible.

“Me? No!” he exclaimed quickly, his voice thick with an accent that I could not recognize. “God Almighty, no! I am not Newland Strephon…” he trailed off, and gestured towards the closed door. “Mr. Strephon is in there. I am Shagail Yaakov.”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed for my mistake. “your pardon, I thought…”

“Such a shame,” I heard Lyndon mutter under his breath. I glanced over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow. His eyes were glittering, and he was casting several suggestive looks Shagail’s way, who was trying his best to dodge them. Shagail glanced towards me, his cheeks flushed red.

“Mr. Strephon is waiting for you,” he mumbled, his words indecipherable underneath the heavy accent. But from the way he kept gesturing towards the door with his free hand I took the hint. Grabbing Lyndon by the elbow, I knocked once on the door, opened it, and steered him into the room.

It was fairly spacious; of course, I suppose it would have to be. Comfortable, too, with a large four-poster bed and a white somewhat musty couch against one wall. A rug was actually spread out on the floor, and there was a window, the drapes for the moment were pushed aside, and moonlight spilled in. I glanced around, searching for our client, and the clanging of the door caught my attention, causing me to jump.

I whirled around, he was standing there, leaning against the door, hands flat and pressed against the wood, his elbows crooked, he leaned halfway off. His lower half was pressed against the door all the way down to the heels of his boots, which were lifted slightly off the ground for he was standing on his toes. He leaned forward, and the moonlight hit his face. I gasped.

He was the most gorgeous creature I had ever seen, he made the fellow standing outside look like a farmer standing next to a Grecian god. His hair was a shining ebony curtain that hung down to his waist, perhaps a little past. My hands suddenly ached with yearning to touch it, and feel it slide like silk or liquid between my fingers. His face was finely chiseled, his jaw sharp and defined. His eyes were like two dark blue pools; so dark they were almost black in color. The look in those eyes was like that of a cat on the prowl, the way they went from me to Lyndon.

But the most extraordinary thing about him was how he dressed. He wore black pants, which I had no doubt were velvet, knee-high black leather boots, a white silk shirt with lace spilling over his hands nearly down to the fingertips, and a black velvet coat. It confused me for a moment, because he looked like he had stepped out of a painting. Did someone forget to inform him that this was not the 1800’s?

Lyndon was transfixed. I could tell without even looking at him that he was immediately smitten. This, for some reason, annoyed me. I did not want my brother smitten with this creature, because after tonight the man would disappear and we would never see him again. Yet Lyndon was like a child with these things, it was, I prayed, just another case of puppy love. Lyndon had never fallen hard for anyone, really, although he often claimed he did.

The room was quiet for a long, long time. It was starting to get to me and I figured I should try and encourage some conversation, or at least get things moving.

“Mr. Strephon, a pleasure to meet you, I’m Lucius Moncreaff and this is my brother, Lyndon Moncreaff.”

“Brothers?” there was an odd glint in those dark eyes, and he paused to lick his lips in another cat-like gesture. “He didn’t tell me you were brothers, he merely assured me you were the best.”

“He” of course, being Mr. L. I felt embarrassed and wanted to punch my employer so hard.

I gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Then I hope you’re not disappointed, my employer has the tendency to … exaggerate.”

“I’m sure I will not be,” he said as he detached himself from the closed door, all fluid, seductive grace. He walked towards us slowly, as if savoring the building tension. By the time he was within touching distance, I was ready to bolt, if my legs would obey the command. Which was doubtful. He reached out and his hand brushed my cheek. His fingertips were like ice, cold as death itself, but the lace was soft, and the scent of his wrist was enticing. I found myself leaning into his hand to prolong the caress.

He reached out with his other hand and touched Lyndon’s hair. I saw his lips part in what looked to be amazement, and he grabbed a handful of it, rubbing it between his fingers, getting himself entangled in it, as if it were the softest most beautiful thing he had ever held. It was all the invitation Lyndon needed. He reached out and his hands ran over the buttons of the coat, trailing down all the way to the bottom, carelessly unfastening them. The coat flapped open, and I saw the shirt beneath had a collar that dipped all the way to the navel, and more soft, inviting lace framed his pale, muscled chest.

Lyndon gave a sigh of pure happiness, and reached out, stroking the pale patch of flesh of which we would undoubtedly be seeing more of very soon. Newland slid off the coat with practiced ease. We were getting somewhere.

I knelt down and tugged on the boots, indicating that I wanted to pull them off. Newland obliged by sitting down on the couch and allowing me to do so. I slipped the first off, then the second, and tossed them aside as if they didn’t matter. I cupped his heel in my hand and kissed his ankle, then worked my way up, kissing the space just above, and so on, until I had to roll up in his pant leg and stopped just at the knee.

Lyndon buried his hands in the soft, glossy hair, and Newland did the same to his. Lyndon buried his face in the hollow of Newland’s neck and breathed in deeply, then kissed his throat. Newland threw his head back and Lyndon continued, going down neck the neck, then slipped the shirt down to Newland’s elbows so that there was bare shoulders and upper chest. Lyndon kissed the shoulders, and then paused, pressing his cheek against Newland’s chest. Newland stroked Lyndon’s hair, and then looked at me with those cattish eyes. I found myself fumbling with my own shirt, and I slipped it over my head. Newland looked at me, his mouth almost in a perfect “O”, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

A lot of emotions rushed through me at that point, lust not being one of them. His lips, while soft and pliant and nearly human, lacked something. I don’t know what it was, but then he pressed hard enough to nearly bruise my mouth, and he bit my lower lip, drawing blood. I freaked, and tried to struggle out of the kiss, but he seized my wrists and pressed them against the floor, so I was pinned down, and I realized with much horror that he was drinking my blood.

I struggled, and he finally drew away from the kiss, his lips still red with my blood. He looked down at me with a satisfied, smug expression, and I gazed up at him with dumb terror.

“Let me go,” my voice was hoarse even to me, but he had to let me go, or I was going to have a major freak-out. He held my wrists pinned firmly to the floor and he loomed over me, his dark hair making a curtain that shut out the rest of the world, so all I could focus on was him.

“Why would you want that?” he asked, his voice dripping with honey, his throat coated with oil. He hooked his ankles around mine, and dug his knees into my thighs. I nearly cried out in pain, because that was where he was putting all his weight.

“I can’t…go on…” I managed to gasp. “Please, let me out!”

“Your brother is very squeamish,” Newland remarked. I realized vaguely that he was addressing Lyndon.

“He’s never done this before,” Lyndon’s voice was thick, lazy, but also expressed concern. He wrapped his arms around Newland torso, and pressed his mouth to the base of Newland’s neck. “Let him go, I can finish up for him.”

Newland lifted his weight off of me after a moment or two more of completely cutting off my circulation. I rose as quickly as I could, not bothering to pick up my shirt, and literally staggered to the door without a glance behind. My knees were shaking so badly I was afraid they wouldn’t even support my weight that far.

I bolted out the door and slammed it shut behind me. That fellow, Shagail, was sitting outside on a chair that had been provided for him, reading an old novel that looked too thick and too dusty to be of any interest. He glanced up with a look of surprise, his eyebrows raised well above his gold-rimmed reading glasses.

I then collapsed.

He quickly set down his book on top of the pile of items piled between the chair and the wall, and then stood. He reached out a hand, but I was shaking too badly to accept it. He sighed, and took me by the arm, pulling me to my feet and allowing me to put all my weight on him.

“I couldn’t go on,” I told him pitifully. “It was just…too much.”

He nodded in grim understanding.

“Most of Mr. Strephon’s paramours feel that way,” he told me as he set me down gently in the wooden chair. “God knows I was not his biggest….” He paused and wrinkled his brow as if searching for the right word, he finally found it. “…fan, I guess you could say, when we met.”

“It’s just…I thought he wanted a little foreplay, you know? Teasing, nothing serious. That’s what most men I’ve encountered want, usually it’s all they dare…” I could feel myself getting even more panicked, and I couldn’t help it. “He wanted the full package, and I couldn’t do it.”

Shagail leaned over, nodding to my every word, and he touched the sides of my neck with two of his fingers like he was checking for a pulse. I was so not wanting to be touched, so I grabbed his wrist and gave a good shove, sending him staggering back several paces.

“Your pardon,” he apologized, “I was just checking to see if he marked you.”

I glared at him. As if he assumed I would let that man do anything to me.

“Marked, what do you mean?”

“You know, bitten you.”

“Sheesh, he’s one of those,” I scoffed. I glared at Shagail, and he slipped off his brown jacket, holding it out to me, still a good distance away.

“Put this on,” he said. “Please, so you don’t have to wander about here indecent.”

If he realized the absurdity of this statement, he didn’t show it. I sighed and accepted the offer, because d***, it was cold. He whipped his reading glasses off and stuffed them in the front pocket of his crisp white dress shirt. I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“I don’t need them much anymore,” he was quick to explain, “I stopped needing them a … a long time ago, but you know what they say, old habits die hard.” He shrugged, and smiled weakly. I didn’t smile back, I just sort of sat there, head down, shoulders hunched, coat pulled around my arms tightly against more than just the chill.

“Will he complain?” I asked after a moment, not looking up. “If he tells Mr. Lexin, I’m done for. They’ll turn me out without a second thought.”

He didn’t answer for several minutes, but I didn’t look up to see if he was still there. For a few minutes it was eerily quiet.

“I don’t think he will,” the reply came at last. His voice sounded as if it were quavering. I looked up to see he still appeared calm, but that mask was quickly slipping, and underneath all sorts of feelings were revealed. Among them, terror, resignation, and perhaps madness?

Something was up. Neither Mr. Strephon nor his companion was what they appeared to be. I narrowed my eyes, slightly, and he seemed to notice the change, for that calm mask slipped right back on, but I saw him playing nervously with his glasses.

“Well,” I stood and slipped off his jacket, handing it back to him. “Thank you, I’ll be on my way, now.”

Shagail nodded, if I dare say he did look relieved. I tossed his jacket at him when he didn’t accept it right away, and started down the hall, shivering.

I didn’t want to know what was occurring behind closed doors of the men’s wing. I didn’t want to know what Newland was doing to my brother right now. I didn’t want to think, I didn’t even really want to exist at the moment. Furthermore, I didn’t think I was ever going to let another man touch me again. Ever.