With your arm wrapped around Claremont’s and Dominic’s wrapped around you, you slip through a door and into the darkened maze of the catacombs. Light flickers from sconces on the wall, projecting shadows of spiders skittering through their webs, and bats carrying through the night’s sky. The dance of the fire perched upon the wick gives life to the iron guards circling the sconces. To your eye, the spiders climb across the walls and up to the ceiling. The bats circle among the bricks, never coming to rest.
“Delightful place, no?” Claremont says waving his hand through the air. Blue lines trail him, the brocade on his vest shifting to a bright neon glow. It highlights the press of stone walls twisting around the room and vanishing into the darkness.
“I used to chase rats down here,” Dominic rumbles. At your look, he adds, “They kept stealing the cheese.”
“Perhaps you should entertain her with the tale of how you sprouted fur and gained the ability to lick your own genitals?”
The whole of Dominic’s naked body turns bright pink. He doesn’t slink away, but he turns to stare at the ground. “I don’t do it all the time…” he mumbles, and you feel an overwhelming urge to rescue him.
“Where are we?” you ask gazing at a maze of walls pressing the three of you tighter and tighter together. The fear of being turned around and never emerging rises in your mind.
Claremont pushes a single hair back with his pinkie finger, then he leans closer. You curl your toes in your shoes, waiting for his kiss, but he continues past and cinches a hand around something behind you. When the slosh of liquid appears and the light glints off glass, Claremont says, “The wine cellar.”
He puffs his lips up and attempts to blow at the label, but no dust moves. “The joys of an afterlife without breath. Could you be so kind?”
His lashes lower, an inexplicable amber flickering from inside his gray eyes. It darts around your face as you lean closer to the bottle and purse your lips together. A great blow bursts from beside you, Dominic blasting away not only the dust but ripping the label off the bottle. Claremont leans back from the werewolf’s display of lung power, but you can’t deny how impressive it is.
“That was strong. Do you always blow that hard?” you ask the werewolf partially leaning off you.
“Not really,” Dominic says with his whole heart. Then his green eyes glint and he focuses on you. “I prefer using my tongue.”
There’s that panicking flush again. You clench your toes in your shoes and are about to fan your face from how the earnest werewolf pets down your arm. It almost, but doesn’t quite, touch your chest.
With a sigh, Claremont turns the wine bottle around, tugs back the torn label, and studies it. “A Riesling. Hmph. Ah, and here we have a merlot. Proper drinking wine for cold nights and…” Those inescapable eyes careen down your body, taking in every curve he can. “Warm bodies.”
“You sound about to combust,” you say, unable to deny the flush in your stomach.
“The grave can be such a lonely,” Claremont draws the tip of his pinkie down your arm, “unforgiving place. Would you damn me for wanting to feel a spark of fire?”
The whole of your arm tingles from his single touch, his eyes pleading for a yes. You open your mouth.
“Which shall we take?” Claremont interrupts, holding both bottles out. “The red or the white?”
Which do you pick?
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