4

THE STAIRS ENDED in a small room with a door at the other end of it. The door was heavy wood and metal like the door to a dungeon, and in front of that door stood Clay, werewolf and bodyguard. He came toward us, hurrying, which wasn't good. The look on his face wasn't good either. He looked worried.

Graham was all business, the mantle of bodyguardness sliding over him so that that was all that was left. When he actually concentrated on business instead of trying to get into my pants, he was one of the best of the wolves for bodyguard duty. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Clay shook his head. "Jean-Claude isn't with you?" His tone of voice made it half question.

"No," Graham said.

"What's wrong?" I asked, thinking maybe if we kept asking the question he'd answer it.

"Nothing." He looked at me, and smiled an apology. "Nothing except that we've got a room full of guests and no hosts. It's just me and the four other bodyguards in the room. We aren't even allowed to offer refreshments without one of the dominants being present."

"Are you this worried because you think we're being bad hosts?" Micah asked.

Clay seemed to think about it, then nodded. He did that apologetic smile again. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Clay was as tall as Graham, but his hair was blond, curly, and careless. Where Graham took time and attention with his appearance, Clay just didn't seem to care. He wasn't sloppy, just comfortable. He was wearing the same black-on-black outfit, but he'd put black jogging shoes with his slacks, not dress shoes. He looked good, but a little uncomfortable out of his jeans. I sympathized.

"Stupid," he said, "but yeah, I think the evening is starting off badly. I mean, Jean-Claude gets a message and has to run out. The two Masters of