place someone like Poppy might settle for—though if I wasn’t playing her part, I certainly wouldn’t have gone near the place. The hotel sat next to a bar, so not only did it stink of sweaty humanity, but of booze as well. The raucous laughter coming from inside the bar suggested heavy patronage—which in turn meant little sleep. I blew out a breath, reminded myself it was only for one night, and headed inside.
The reek was worse within the four walls, and the rooms more dilapidated than the outside. The bed itself looked older than Methuselah, and had obviously seen more than a few couplings on it. I screwed up my nose and glanced at the floor. The carpet looked no better, but at least the floor didn’t have a disastrous sag in it.
With a sigh, I hauled off the blankets—which at least looked and smelled clean—and made myself a bed on the floor. Then I stripped off, shifted shape to hurry along the already healing scratches on my arms, and settled down to sleep.
Surprisingly, and despite all the noise and odors, I
did
sleep, not waking until the hotel’s manager banged on the door the following morning.
With a groan, I rolled onto my side and stared blearily at the clock on the bedside table above me. Eight. Time to get some breakfast and head on over to see Dia.
After stretching out the kinks and giving my face and arms a quick wash down with cold water, I dressed and headed back out to the street. Unfortunately, trams didn’t run as regularly on a Sunday, so I grabbed a couple of McMuffins from McDonald’s to munch on while I waited at the stop.
It was well after nine when I hit Toorak. I climbed off the tram at Kooyong Road and pressed the disk behind my ear.
“Heading for Dia’s now.”
“Keep the line open.”
“Will do.”
I strolled up Kooyong Road, admiring the million-dollar houses and wondering what it’d be like to live in a place that practically screamed money. Personally, I’d be afraid to move lest I break something.
Huntingfield Road came along, and I turned left onto it. Many of the houses here seemed more ornate, making me feel even more out of place. A feeling that grew when I stopped to press the intercom button to one side of the huge, wrought-iron gates that guarded Dia’s house.
To say the place was amazing would be an understatement—though the house itself wasn’t as ornate as some of its neighbors. It was an old, early-twentieth-century design that reminded me greatly of the grand old English mansions often shown on TV. Though this was painted a warm, soft gold, ivy crept over the brickwork and sprawled across the roof, giving the impression the house had been here forever. The lawn that stretched from the side gate to the porch was a rich carpet of green—so lush my feet suddenly itched with the need to run through it—and the pines that lined the boundary gave the whole property a feeling of isolation. I’d never been envious of anyone else’s living conditions in my life, but I couldn’t help thinking how amazing it would be to live in a place like this. A little bit of luxurious heaven, and yet with everything you could ever want or need within walking distance to your doorstep.
The intercom crackled, then Dia said, “Yes?”
“Poppy Burns, accepting your invitation.”
“Ah. Good.” The gates buzzed, then clicked open. “Come in.”
I walked through the gates, and somehow resisted the urge to take off my shoes and run through the grass, instead following the herringbone-patterned brick path. Dia Jones opened the door as I approached. That surprised me. Surely someone who lived in a pad as plush as this would have a servant or two running around?
Her hair was no longer brown mixed with silver, just a pure whitish-silver, and with the long, flowing white dress she had on, she looked almost ethereal. Except for her eyes. They positively glowed with the power that shimmered across my skin like little zaps of lightning. I stopped, staring into her
The reek was worse within the four walls, and the rooms more dilapidated than the outside. The bed itself looked older than Methuselah, and had obviously seen more than a few couplings on it. I screwed up my nose and glanced at the floor. The carpet looked no better, but at least the floor didn’t have a disastrous sag in it.
With a sigh, I hauled off the blankets—which at least looked and smelled clean—and made myself a bed on the floor. Then I stripped off, shifted shape to hurry along the already healing scratches on my arms, and settled down to sleep.
Surprisingly, and despite all the noise and odors, I
did
sleep, not waking until the hotel’s manager banged on the door the following morning.
With a groan, I rolled onto my side and stared blearily at the clock on the bedside table above me. Eight. Time to get some breakfast and head on over to see Dia.
After stretching out the kinks and giving my face and arms a quick wash down with cold water, I dressed and headed back out to the street. Unfortunately, trams didn’t run as regularly on a Sunday, so I grabbed a couple of McMuffins from McDonald’s to munch on while I waited at the stop.
It was well after nine when I hit Toorak. I climbed off the tram at Kooyong Road and pressed the disk behind my ear.
“Heading for Dia’s now.”
“Keep the line open.”
“Will do.”
I strolled up Kooyong Road, admiring the million-dollar houses and wondering what it’d be like to live in a place that practically screamed money. Personally, I’d be afraid to move lest I break something.
Huntingfield Road came along, and I turned left onto it. Many of the houses here seemed more ornate, making me feel even more out of place. A feeling that grew when I stopped to press the intercom button to one side of the huge, wrought-iron gates that guarded Dia’s house.
To say the place was amazing would be an understatement—though the house itself wasn’t as ornate as some of its neighbors. It was an old, early-twentieth-century design that reminded me greatly of the grand old English mansions often shown on TV. Though this was painted a warm, soft gold, ivy crept over the brickwork and sprawled across the roof, giving the impression the house had been here forever. The lawn that stretched from the side gate to the porch was a rich carpet of green—so lush my feet suddenly itched with the need to run through it—and the pines that lined the boundary gave the whole property a feeling of isolation. I’d never been envious of anyone else’s living conditions in my life, but I couldn’t help thinking how amazing it would be to live in a place like this. A little bit of luxurious heaven, and yet with everything you could ever want or need within walking distance to your doorstep.
The intercom crackled, then Dia said, “Yes?”
“Poppy Burns, accepting your invitation.”
“Ah. Good.” The gates buzzed, then clicked open. “Come in.”
I walked through the gates, and somehow resisted the urge to take off my shoes and run through the grass, instead following the herringbone-patterned brick path. Dia Jones opened the door as I approached. That surprised me. Surely someone who lived in a pad as plush as this would have a servant or two running around?
Her hair was no longer brown mixed with silver, just a pure whitish-silver, and with the long, flowing white dress she had on, she looked almost ethereal. Except for her eyes. They positively glowed with the power that shimmered across my skin like little zaps of lightning. I stopped, staring into her
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