Taltos by Anne Rice

the glen only moments before the bullet had knocked him on his face.
    Time to go upstairs. To see this mysterious friend of Samuel’s, who had already arrived, and who had not been described or explained to Yuri. Time to do what the little man wanted because the little man had saved Yuri’s life, nursed him back to health, and wanted him to meet this friend who had, in this great drama, some mammoth significance.
    Yuri climbed out of the car, the genial British doorman quickly coming to his assistance.
    His shoulder ached; there was a sharp pain. When would he learn not to use his right arm! Maddening.
    The cold air was fierce but momentary. He went directly into the lobby of the hotel—so vast, yet warm. He took the great curving staircase to his right.
    The soft strains of a string quartet came from the nearby bar. The air was still all around him. The hotel calmed him and made him feel safe. It also made him feel happy.
    What a wonder it was that all of these polite Englishmen—the doorman, the bellhops, the kindly gentleman coming down the stairs past him—took no visible notice of his dirty sweater or his soiled black pants. Too polite, he mused.
    He walked along the second floor until he came to the door of the corner suite, which the little man had described to him, and finding the door open, he entered a small, inviting alcove rather like that of a gracious home, and which looked into a large parlor, dowdy yet luxurious as the little man had said it would be.
    The little man was on his knees, piling wood into the fireplace. He had taken off his tweed jacket, and the white shirt pulled painfully over his stunted arms and hump.
    “There, there, come in here, Yuri,” he said, without so much as looking up.
    Yuri stepped into the doorway. The other man was there.
    And this man was as strange to behold as the little man, but in an entirely different fashion. He was outrageously tall, though not impossibly so. He had pale white skin and dark, rather natural-looking hair. The hair was long and free and out of keeping with the man’s fine black wool suit and the dull sheen of the expensive white shirt that he wore, and his dark red tie. He looked decidedly romantic. But what did this mean? Yuri wasn’t sure. Yet it was the word that came to his mind. The man did not look decisively athletic—he was not one of those freakish sports giants who excel in televised Olympic games or on noisy basketball courts—rather he looked romantic.
    Yuri met the man’s gaze with no trouble. There was nothing menacing in this extraordinary and rather formal figure. Indeed, his face was smooth and young, almost pretty for a man, with its long, thick eyelashes and full, gently shaped androgynous lips—and not intimidating. Only the white in his hair gave him an air of authority, which he clearly did not regularly enforce. His eyes were hazel and rather large, and they looked at Yuri wonderingly. It was altogether an impressive figure, except for the hands. The hands were a little too big, and there was an abnormality about the fingers,though Yuri wasn’t sure what it was. Spidery thin they were, maybe that was the sum of it.
    “You’re the gypsy,” said the man in a low, pleasing voice that was almost a little sensual and very unlike the caustic baritone of the dwarf.
    “Come inside, sit down,” said the dwarf impatiently. He had now lighted the fire and was fanning it with the bellows. “I sent for something to eat, but I want you to go into the bedroom when they bring it, I don’t want you seen.”
    “Thank you,” said Yuri quietly. He realized suddenly that he’d failed to remove his dark glasses. How bright the room was suddenly, even with its deep green velvet furniture and old-fashioned flowered curtains. An agreeable room, with the imprint of people upon it.
    Claridge’s. He knew the hotels of the world, but he had never known Claridge’s. He had never lodged in London except at the Motherhouse, to which he could