The gate swung inward with the whir of an electric motor. Ahead, Wulzhan loomed larger, of a piece with the landscape as much as the trees and mountains themselves. The SUV slowed to a stop before the entrance, and the three travelers disembarked, two craning their necks to gawk at their destination, while the third pretended not to care. Twin stone and brass staircases led up to the raised portico, and pale tree trunks supported the balcony and roof, the flensed bones of giants. A man dressed in a crisp suit and tie descended the staircase, two younger men in tight-fitting vests following.
“Mr. Daniels, it’s a pleasure,” the man greeted them, taking Kurt’s hand. Mel recognized the voice from the intercom. “I’m Mr. Sessions, the guest liaison.” He turned to Mel. “You must be Melanie. We’re delighted to have you.” Rather than shaking her hand, Sessions brought it toward his mouth and bowed over it, although his lips never touched her skin. “And this strapping lad must be Master Thomas!” He sank to one knee before Tommy. The boy glanced at Mel, who smiled encouragingly. Tommy extended his hand, and Sessions shook it. “Welcome to Wulfzhan,” he said, standing. “Ollie and Nelson will take your bags and park your vehicle. If you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to the great room to meet the other guests.”
“We’re meeting the others?” Mel wanted to know.
Sessions nodded. “The owner, Mr. Gangulf, insists on a cocktail hour where each group of guests can meet one another at the start of their stay.”
“How charming,” she said.
“How damned annoying,” Kurt muttered. “You can tell Mr. Gangulf not to worry about us. I’m sure we’ll be just fine on our own.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Sessions objected, a steely glint in his eye. “Mr. Gangulf insists, and it’s wise to acquiesce to his wishes, if you take my meaning.”
Kurt did indeed take the man’s meaning, although he acceded with poor grace. “Whatever. At least there’ll be drinks, so maybe the night won’t be a complete bust.”
“That’s the spirit, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me.”
Sessions led them up the stairs to the portico. Mel glanced back to find the narrow valley laid out before her, the tunnel that had led them here a dark eye in the mountain’s flank. Massive doors carved with wild animals and hunting scenes opened onto a long hallway buttressed by a Brobdingnagian staircase that curved upward, stringers carved to resemble vines and flowers. Sessions opened a door on the left, waving for them to enter. They filed in, and even Kurt couldn’t keep from staring. The room was cavernous with rough-hewn stone floors covered with furs and rugs. Overstuffed furniture that would have looked equally at home in a safari lodge was scattered around. The front wall was all of glass, giving a view over the driveway and the valley’s far side.
“Great room doesn’t really do it justice, does it?”
It took Mel a few moments to locate the speaker. Finally, her eye lit on a figure standing before the hearth, which soared toward the shadow-painted ceiling. A shield bearing a coat of arms hung from that clutch of stone: a rampant, bloodied wolf opposite a hunter armed with a sword and a musket. Above the two figures was a crest with the words: sub luna ambulamus written in black. The speaker was somewhere in his middle years, broad-shouldered, his dark curls raked back. He wore a black sport coat over a white button-down open at the throat, paired with jeans and boots.
Mel’s eyes were drawn back to the coat of arms.
“A fan of heraldry?” the man asked.
She shook her head. “But it’s very interesting. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything quite like it. Whose is it?”
“Our host’s,” he said, glancing at it and frowning. “More than a little ostentatious.” He shrugged. “Come meet the man himself if you want, as well as our other companions.” He gestured toward a door to the right of the immense hearth. Beyond, they found themselves in a room hung all about with the heads of great beasts and covered over with leather and brass. Lamps stood about the lounge, green glass shades dominating, but some were skins painted with primitive images. A massive bar stocked with every conceivable spirit stood against one wall. Close by, a gun cabinet was thrown open, revealing a brace of shotguns and rifles. The rest of the room was given over to couches, sofas, and chaises, with armchairs interspersed, all arranged in a horseshoe shape with the bar toward the opening. Most of the seats were occupied by what Mel assumed were the other guests the man had mentioned. Their guide bellied up to the bar, and they followed.
“Whiskey, neat,” he said. The barman, a middle-aged man with a bristling mustache, poured a healthy serving into a rocks glass and slid it over.
“Anyone care for anything?” their guide asked.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Kurt said.
The bartender produced a rocks glass and poured. “Your poison,” he said, passing the glass to Kurt, who studied the amber liquid. Then, with the clink of ice, he tipped it back and drained half the liquor.
“Anyone else?”
“Can I have a soda?” Tommy asked quietly.
Kurt glanced at Mel, then said, “Sure, why not?”
The bartender handed a tall glass of soda to Tommy.
Their guide leaned against the bar. “Some interesting folks staying here,” he said with a nod toward the small crowd of guests. “See the couple over by the piano?”
Mel saw a Black man seated with a brown-skinned woman. The man said something and then laughed. The woman smiled in return, but her mind was obviously elsewhere.
“That’s Stephen and Hallie Bullock. He’s some big shot architect at a firm in Denver, and she’s writing a tell-all about Miriam Hortense and the Black Rose Society.” He pointed at an elderly couple wrapped in layers and sunk deep into a leather sofa. “That’s Ed and Silvia James out of Atlanta. They claim to be retired, but they’re big money.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Still, not enough money to beat what’s eating Silvia alive.”
Mel realized the woman was wearing a scarf over her head, not as protection, but to hide her thinning hair.
“Chemo?”
The man nodded. “Word is she doesn’t have long. I think Ed planned this as a final hurrah or something.”
“How sad!”
“I suppose so,” he said, before moving on. “The scantily clad young lady lounging to their right is none other than Olivia Newsome.”
She was blonde and buxom and beautiful and displaying a surprising amount of tender young flesh to the room at large. “I don’t know who that is.”
The man laughed. “There’s no reason you should. She’s some sort of influencer out of New York City.”
“I knew I recognized her!” Kurt burst out, staring hard at Olivia. Mel gave him a look, and he backpedaled. “I’ve seen some of her videos on YouTube, that’s all.”
“There’s another author in our midst, too,” the other man broke in, letting Kurt retreat. He indicated a tall, bearded man seated a little way from the main group. “Mads Madsen. Some sort of horror writer, I believe.”
Mel’s eye drifted to the final member of the group. It was impossible to tell her age; dark hair hung below her shoulders, framing a delicate face with a strong nose, a full, mobile mouth, and dark eyes. Olivia leaned over and said something. The other woman threw back her head and laughed, exposing a long, pale neck. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Eleanor Leleu is her name. She’s the heir to the Leleu fashion house in France.”
A suspicion struck Mel then. “How do you know so much about everyone?”
He grinned. “I make it my business to know as much as possible about the guests who’ll be sheltering under my roof, Melanie.”
“Rook Gangulf?”
Kurt sputtered, whiskey flying. “What?”
Gangulf gave her a half-bow. “None other. Welcome to Wulfzhan.”
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