“You aren’t going to make it.”
The voice came from behind me. I wasn’t even three steps up, and some wise guy was giving me shit.
“What are you?” I shot back at the figure in the shadows only slightly below me. “Color commentary?”
“I’m just saying, you’ll need help if you’re going to get to your room.”
From out of the inky blackness stepped my sinewy, dark stud, chomping on the last of his late-night snack.
“I’m pretty sure you and I are not supposed to … fraternize.”
“Is that what Miss Amelia said? I wouldn’t pay too much attention to that. She’s all bark and not very much of that these days.”
Annoyed by this guy’s cryptic commentary, I let go of my cases and let them lean against the steep stairs. “Are you going to tell me your name or help me or what?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips and facing him full on.
He looked me up and down for a second, appraising me. I’m not bad looking if I say so myself, but I’d been in the air and on the road without sleep for almost twenty-four hours. My last few weeks had been an emotional nightmare. I was sure I looked like a walking corpse.
He took pity on me, stepping forward and leaning down to pick up my luggage; the snakes on his arms wriggled as his muscles flexed. He smelled of some fancy citrus and cedar body wash. It was as yummy as he looked. I let myself inhale that musk while he was only one step below me.
“My name’s Solomon,” he said flatly, “but most people call me Sol.”
I smiled as sweetly as I could, a minor pleasantry for the cute boy helping me. His voice felt like the West Coast, maybe Southern California.
“Are you from America, Sol?”
“Ventura.”
“Are there a lot of Americans here?”
“More than you’d think. Let’s get moving. I don’t plan to hold these things all night.”
“Well,” I cooed, turning up the stairs, “I’m glad those muscles aren’t just for show.” My weak attempt at flirting was met with stony silence. I got the sense that Sol was not the lighthearted type.
We mounted the steps, and he moved ahead of me, taking the guide position. We walked silently down an eerie, lightless hall before he flung open a fire door and we were in the dormitory wing. Under our feet was dusty old blue and white carpet, and all around us were white walls fringed with gold-leaf trim work. It looked like the décor of a luxury resort from the turn of the century.
Sol appeared to know where we were headed without my saying a word. We took a right, then a left, then a right. I was completely lost. It seemed impossible that this manor could have so many corners and curves.
As Sol and I walked, I glanced into some of the other rooms, staggered down the length of the hallway, and saw that there were two beds to each. I was a little disappointed by that. I’d always been an only child and was accustomed to privacy. I hoped I could get along with whoever she was and that she liked her privacy as much as I did.
Finally, we arrived at my room. Without a word, Sol dropped my luggage by the door. It was so matter of fact that I wondered if I should tip him like a bellhop.
“Thank you,” I said lightly.
“No worries.”
“I’m serious. I never would have found this if—”
“It’s fine. Now, I have to get some sleep.”
“Sure. Oh, wait. I didn’t tell you my name. I’m Biba—”
“Quinn,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know who you are.”
And then he was gone, around the corner and, from what I could hear, up a flight of stairs to the men’s quarters.
I tapped on the door and then opened it. I could only describe what happened next, like being hit by a freight train in the dark.
“Umph!” She nearly knocked the breath from me, and I grabbed at the doorway trim for support.
“Oh, my bloomin’ gawd! I’ve been waiting for you to get here! Oh, and look at you. You’re just gorgeous! Well, at least we can fix the little things.” Before me stood a five-foot, slightly plump pixie with rolling blonde curls and blue eyes that almost glowed between carefully crimsoned cheeks. “I’m Beatrice Worthington, but my friends call me Buffy. Who are you, and where are you from?”
I looked around to see if anyone was punking me, but the hallway had grown quiet, and the lights had gone dim. Apparently, she was for real.
“Hi,” I began with a croak. “I’m Biba Quinn, Seattle.”
“Oh, what’s Biba short for?”
“Nothing. It’s just Biba.”
“Oh, cool. Where I come from, Charleston, South Carolina (she pronounced it careline), we all have nicknames. Makes life that much more fun, don’t you think? Oh, darlin’, of course, you’re just too tired to think. Here, let me help you drag all that in, and we’ll shut the door before Ol’ Biddie Amelia throws us out the door.” She went around me and began dragging in my heaviest suitcase.