Big Game (The V V Inn, Book 3) by C.J. Ellisson Page B

tonight.”
    “Surprise, George,” I say, pushing fake warmth into my tone. “Think they’ll have room for two more?”
    To his credit, not a reaction is revealed as he smiles. “You know they always do.”
    By this time, the closest couple has reached us, and George nods for them to proceed us up the stairs. I keep my back to them, not wanting to engage anyone here on the street. Rafe grabs the bags, and the car pulls away.
    “Any remaining accommodations in the main building or will we be forced to one of the other Tribunal homes tonight?” I ask.
    He takes our luggage from Rafe and climbs the steep stairs to the ornately carved wood double doors. “There’s always a room for VIPs, Alexandria. You should know that.”
    I smile, following him up. “One never knows what favor one might be in when arriving unannounced.”
    George’s amusement rumbles from deep in his broad chest and spills into the night air. “If I treated you poorly, I think Rolando would eat me for breakfast.”
    We enter the main hall, and the interior warmth banishes the last of the night chill from my skin. Honest-to-God burning torches line the walls of the tapestry-covered walls, with reflections of the dancing flames shimmering on the highly polished marble floor. Scenes of harvest and goodwill are depicted on the wall hangings—the Tribunal’s only nod of festive adornment to the fall season on the main floor. I’m betting downstairs there will be a more elaborate theme for their autumn gala.
    “Shall I put your things in a room upstairs?”
    At my nod of thanks, the doorman ascends the curving, black-carpeted tread. “I think the Edwardian room is free. Will that suit?”
    “Anything is fine, thanks. We’re going down to the party.”
    Rafe takes my elbow and directs me after the couple, who entered ahead us. Closed doors line the long hall, and at the end of the foyer sits a large freight elevator spruced up with wood panels and inset with tile, but the size leaves no doubt it’s not a regular elevator car.
    I don’t know the couple, so thankfully we’re not forced to engage in conversation while descending into the pits of hell—known as the Seat of Darkness among the undead. The elevator doors ping open and the subtle stink of death rolls in to greet us. The scent isn’t overpowering like decaying flesh or rotting vegetation, but it lingers on the back of my palate, reminding me why I hate associating with fellow vampires for too long—the more we congregate, the more the odor builds. The others must be used to it, that’s all I can think as to why no one is hurling in a corner.
    Rafe swallows a gag. Dear God, I forgot how much this place reeks.
    Good news is, in ten minutes or so your nose won’t even register it anymore.
    The couple next to us takes a deep breath, seeming to draw pleasure in the cloying aroma and disappears into the crowd before us. Pale, primped bodies mill about, all dressed for a formal evening.
    This main reception room is large enough to hold a hundred or more people comfortably, and looks to be set up in a cocktail hour sort of gathering. The twelve foot high ceiling is festooned with grand crystal chandeliers every ten feet. Tall tables dot the area, draped in orange, red, yellow and rust-toned silks—no chairs to clutter the stream of the mingling undead.
    An ornate champagne fountain sets in the middle of the room. A bubbling mixture of blood and champagne fills the air with an enticing hint of copper and dry wine. Rafe immediately steers us to the right, out of the line of sight from the open elevator, hoping to avoid our discovery as long as possible.
    A human waiter approaches with a tray of non-blood drinks. He’s dressed in a forest spirit type of costume, someone’s idea of a pagan mix to the fall theme. His skin sparkles with glitter and a leaf vest frames his dark chest hair. “Good evening, can I offer either of you a drink?”
    Rafe takes a flute, and I reach for one as well,