“They will be.” Rory reached out, touched Ethan’s cheek. One large callused thumb, meeting skin. Ethan’s cheekbone had never known it could shiver like that with want: bewildered, hungry, craving more of that softly authoritative touch. His thoughts melted into that spot.

  “Sorry,” Rory said. The hand lifted. Because it’d simply been a touch. A kindness. “Glitter.”

  “What? Oh…yes.”

  “Did you have a question for me?”

  “Did I…oh. Right. Er. Your staff…who are absolutely wonderful, all of them, please remind me to give them bonuses…er, someone decorated my door. I mean the private staircase, and all the way up to the family rooms. I mean I only don’t want any of the guests to think that’s an open area. To try to explore. I mean of course I lock up, and I’m not trying to be precious about it, I just…it’s where I’m staying, and…”

  Rory made a different grumbling sound, dismayed, abashed. “I meant to tell them not to. Didn’t realize they’d already got there.”

  “If it’s too much trouble to take down, it’s not a problem—they can leave everything up, I’ll just make sure the doors stay locked—”

  “No. You deserve your privacy. Not having guests coming up your staircase, making noise, knocking at your door.” Rory shook his head. “I’ll take care of it. Why’d you say it’s not a problem? If you came down to ask about it?”

  “Oh. Er…I was trying to be nice? I know you’re all working so hard? I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  “Ethan Holsden,” Rory said, softer again, an edge of wonder in his face, softer there too. “Y’know, you’re a lot like your books.”

  “Er…”

  “Fantasies. Hope. People trying to do the right thing. I like a good mystery, myself. Finding answers, solving problems. Sorting things out. A bit of a challenge, seeing if I can figure it out.” His fingertips came back. Touched Ethan’s shoulder, this time, over thick blue knit. The feeling tingled even through winter-weight fabric. “More glitter.” But his hand didn’t move, after.

  Ethan, that hand on his shoulder, breathed, “It does get everywhere. Terrible.”

  “It does. We’ll tidy up.”

  “Solving problems before I’ve asked.”

  “Figuring things out.” Rory’s fingers slid upward, touched him more, drew him closer; somehow they were in each other’s space, a shared caress in a castle banquet hall doorway. “Might be figuring something else out. You’d not answered, earlier; how d’you feel about mistletoe? Honestly.”

  “I think,” Ethan managed, “I’m in favor.” At the moment, with this happening—with this tantalizing heat, Rory’s smile, the way this moment felt shared and brand new, tumbling forward around them, only them, together—he could be in favor of all the decorations in the world.

  “Oh, good,” Rory said, a rich low purr of delight that Ethan felt, because they were standing together, moving together, fitting together, “look up, then.”

  Ethan looked. The mistletoe, already in place above, dangled happily. And Rory leaned down and kissed him.

  Rory’s mouth was firm and hot and gently flavored with some sort of sweet cinnamon candy, and the kiss was tender but thorough, full of conviction and the flirtation of Rory’s lips and the scruff of a hint of auburn beard against Ethan’s face, and all of Ethan loved every sparkling astonished thrill of it, the sensation and the surprise and the recognition of certainty underneath.

  Rory leaned back to look at him. One big hand had slid into Ethan’s hair. Ethan had at some point got his own hands on those resplendent shoulders, holding on; he stayed put, breathless.

  Rory rumbled, pleased, “Good thing you like mistletoe. And being kissed.” He hadn’t moved, either. Solid as a stone, a building block, a home.

  Ethan took a deep breath. Met those holiday gift eyes with his own hope. In the background some of the decorating team called to each other, shouted merry instructions, made rustling sounds with fir branches and ornament hooks. The ancient bones of the castle cradled them all. Stories, histories, continuity. A carol, a symphony, holiday scene encouragement. A future, being shaped.

  He breathed, “If you wanted…I think my, er, rooms could use some decorating…you know, the private rooms. Upstairs. They might like more…mistletoe?”

  Rory grinned at him, leaned down to brush warm sugar and spice lips against Ethan’s joyful mouth, and answered seriously, “Yes.”

  Staircases and Stories

  Somewhere in the 1920s, in a Southern California hotel…

  The staircase curled and curved, vertiginous, spiraling. The steps narrowed, dwindled, threatened. Each loop held arched doorways to halls, spinning mysteriously away into the hotel’s depths. The sinuous line of the rail—only one, and too low for comfort, Perry decided—formed a dizzying spiral. It tugged at his eyes.

  The depths also tugged at his hat. He straightened, standing on the artistic architectural rooftop walk. Fanciful arches, brickwork, acts of dismaying imagination, twirled around him. The view was tremendous, out over the hills and orange groves and ranches. The hotel was lavish, indulgent, a sumptuous spot for the wealthy and powerful to stay.

  And for the unscrupulous to lurk. Thieves, spies, opportunists, folk with guns and grudges.

  They’d need some extra security, more agents, before the Senator rolled into town for that vote-stumping visit. Between the roaring parties and the champagne girls in sparkling dresses and the winding layout of this decadent outskirts of Hollywood hotel, Perry was starting to think they might want to rethink the whole choice of venue.

  In his professionally suspicious opinion. According to his job’s priorities. As a US Marshal.

  Even if this particular job, far from chasing down bootleggers and fugitives, hadn’t been his choice.

  He’d been told it should be easy work. Checking security, advance evaluations of the location. A pity assignment, a plush one, while his leg healed from San Diego’s shootout and those vicious bullets. It mostly had healed, by now. A twinge or two. Not more, not that he’d admit.

  He eyed ominous narwhal depths again. Nope, still a problem. An evil staircase, that one. Lots of hideouts, in those twists and turns.

  Movement caught his eye. A man, slender but nicely proportioned, elegant and disheveled in the way of idly wealthy bright young people, had emerged from one of the doors along the upper walkway, the most expensive rooms. Hatless, his hair shone gold as a baby sun, in defiance of on and off cloudy weather.

  Perry noticed the radiant color, noticed the slim strong lines of the young man’s forearms under rolled-up shirtsleeves, noticed the curve of those hips, that backside. And then got annoyed with himself for noticing. Not part of his job.

  At least, not unless the young man might be a threat. In which case looking was definitely in order. Helpful. Required, even.

  The baby sunshine wandered over to the perilous staircase of doom, leaned both arms on the top railing, gazed down into forbidding depths. Murmured, “Well, I could certainly murder someone on those stairs…”

  Perry swung that direction. “You could what?”

  The sunshine jumped, blinked in confusion, laughed. His eyes were blue, the most blue Perry’d ever seen anywhere, lakes or skies or oceans. The grey of his vest, the white of his shirt, only made the hue brighter: a simple expensive setting for twin sapphires. “Oh, I just meant this would be marvelous for that—it would look like a fall, those steps are so treacherous—and perfect for a getaway, nobody’d ever be able to follow—”

  Perry took a step closer. Let his long coat swing open. Watched the young man notice the gun. “Got any plans I should know about?”

  “Ah.” Those gemstone eyes evaluated the revolver, came back up to Perry’s face. “I suspect we’ve managed to start off on some sort of wrong foot, haven’t we.”

  “Don’t think we’ve started anything as of yet. Why’re you planning to murder someone?”

  “Why do you have a gun? Are you planning to murder someone? Right here? Now?”

  “Not unless you annoy me enough.” For some reason this made the young man grin at him. Impudent. Irritating. Perry scowled. He’d been told he had a good scowl. Darkly intimidating. Lantern-jawed. Effective. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Peregrin Gardner.”

  “Oh, well, then I positively shouldn’t’ve been talking about murder.” The bit of sunshine smiled more. Perry did not want to find him gorgeous, and did, and reminded himself that criminals could be extremely charming. Attractive. Blue-eyed and winsome, even.

  Criminals might also stay in one of the Bell Court’s most luxurious top floor suites and dress in silk shirts and stroll out the door onto the rooftop walk as if they owned the place. It was possible.

  The young man put out a hand. “Patrick Ellery. Though you might know the name P.R. Ellery, possibly.”

  Perry stared at him. “P.R. Ellery.”

  “Yes?”

  “The crime novelist P.R. Ellery.”

  “If you might’ve been wondering why I was plotting a murder on the stairs.”

  “You’re too young to be P.R. Ellery.” Who’d authored multiple novels, had at least one of those newfangled moving pictures just come out based on the aforementioned novels, and wrote breathless bestselling words about thieves and conspiracies and secret societies and underworld gangsters.

  They weren’t terrible. Perry had read one. Out of curiosity. Okay, two. Maybe three. He had some thoughts about the depiction of double agents in The Nine Curses of Night. Unrealistic, for one. He’d had to find a copy of the sequel just to be annoyed at it.

  “Thank you very much, Marshal, I’m twenty-seven years old as of yesterday, and I wrote The Secret Serpent when I was nineteen, so it’s been a busy eight years.” Those big blue eyes were positively laughing. His voice was warm, too. California native, Perry guessed, born amid sun and sand and Tinseltown dreams. “How old are you?”

  “Older than that. Being a writer doesn’t make you not a suspect.”

  “If I was planning a crime, would I tell you about it in advance? Also, are you looking for a suspect? Can I help?”

  Perry grumbled, “No,” and folded his arms. Shifted weight. Leg objecting, after today’s extensive patrolling around. Aches in his hip, his thigh, above his knee. Three impacts, that’d been. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, unlike his rooftop companion. Not by a good four years.

  He threw in, “And yes, you might tell me. To divert suspicion. And also still no to the rest.”

  “No you’re not looking for anyone in particular, or no I can’t help?”

  “Both. Go back inside and write something, then.”

  “Why, are you planning to watch? To prove that I’m a writer? Also, you can call me Patrick if you want.” Patrick paused. Looked Perry up and down once more. Lingering. The sort of look that held an invitation, if a man wanted to read it so. A suggestion, an appreciation. Not subtle, either. “I don’t mind if you do want to watch.”

  Perry’s skin felt hot. Shivers. Awareness. He did not tend to be obvious about his own wants—he could find ways, places, an old friend or two he knew could keep a secret—and he did not, as a rule, have gorgeous young men looking at him, alone on a wind-whipped rooftop near a perilous view, and smiling like that.

  So blatant. So unashamed. Hell.

  He managed, “Thought novelists didn’t like people looking over their shoulders.”

  “Oh, I can write anywhere. I always did, growing up.” Patrick had ended up closer to him. Leaning back, a sinuous lounge against the railing. Casual, luscious, consequently dangerous. “My father owned a hotel—a nice one, too, a lot like this—and I grew up around the guests, the staff, everybody who came and went. I’d sit around and watch people and make up stories.”

  “Don’t lean back like that. Why’re you here? Thinking about murder on a staircase? With the Senator’s visit tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to fall. I’m here because yesterday was my birthday, I wanted to get away and write for a while, and I like fancy hotels.” Patrick did a little head tip at him. Golden hair tumbled. “There’s a senator visiting? And, does your leg hurt? Honestly, seriously, not me trying to seduce you, would you like to come in and sit down? I’ve got coffee, tea, some decent whiskey that I shouldn’t admit to having…”

  “I don’t care if you’ve got private liquor. Personal possession’s not illegal, anyway.” Perry put a hand on the railing. Next to Patrick’s hip. In case of a sudden loss of balance. Which could happen.

  Not because he cared. Not because he wanted to. Not because, despite himself, he liked freedom and blue eyes and a challenge.

  “Yes, which is why this particular hotel has somehow managed to have everyone pretend that Mr. Bell just throws a large private party every night for all his friends.” Patrick scooted a hand over, balanced more precariously on the railing. His little finger brushed Perry’s, over wrought iron. The spiral of the stair fell away behind him. “So you’re doing reconnaissance, Marshal.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And I’m a suspect?”

  Perry could feel every breath of air in his own lungs, every brush of wind at the nape of his neck. Every ripple of heat, where their fingers touched. Here on a rooftop, balancing amid possibilities. As Patrick Ellery, crime novelist, looked up at him. “Starting to think someone needs to keep an eye on you. Trying to lean over and fall down staircases, a secret whiskey stash, a famous author up here by yourself on a rooftop…”

  “Don’t forget inviting dangerous men with guns back to my room.”

  “Just the one gun, and you’re a menace to society.”

  “So I’ve been told. It’s a very nice room, Marshal.”

  “Is it?”

  “Maybe afterward,” Patrick said cheerfully, “I can help you with reconnaissance, I’ve got lots of ideas about these stairs and those doorways and places where a gunman could hide,” and he was ridiculous and beautiful and clever and fearless, and he smiled when Perry closed a hand around his wrist and squeezed. Tightly. “Ah, you do want my help.”

  “Maybe I do.” He ran his hand along Patrick’s arm, exploring, capturing. They remained alone up here, at the top of the spiral: the place where the world swirled and moved, up and down, from the rooftop to the ground and back. “You did say it was your birthday, didn’t you?”

  “Yesterday. Are you offering to be my present?”

  “Are you here alone?”

  Patrick’s eyebrows went up, golden demon swoops. “I’m not really a suspect, am I?”

  “No.” He was doing this wrong. It’d been too long. He did not know how to flirt, how to smile at, a sparkling young man. “I was just wondering why. When you’re…you.”

  “Ah. Famous crime writer and all.” Patrick’s smile went more wry; a line or a pleat appeared in the sky of his gaze. “No, no lavish parties, none of that. I’d been trying to work on the next book, I told you. A getaway. Inspiration. In comfort, because I’m a shameless hedonist, but it’s just me and the words.”

  And no family, Perry thought. No mention of that hotel-owning father, or any friends or family who might want to share a celebration. He said, “Well, if you and the words want company…” and let himself look, let himself indulge. Making it, yes, obvious.

  Because he wanted this. Because he did want this, here and now, whatever it was.

  Maybe, he thought when Patrick smiled, maybe he could have this. Maybe they both could, this day, this afternoon. A possibility. Something new.

  Patrick moved, suddenly; Perry grabbed for him, and realized that Patrick hadn’t been falling, only turning more his way; but the end result was that no one tumbled down the staircase and Patrick ended up in his arms, both of them startled and willing, eyes meeting.

  The wind tugged his coat around both their legs.

  Patrick said, laughter in his voice, “So you’ve heroically rescued me from falling to my doom, Marshal Gardner…”

  “Peregrin.” He took a deep breath. “Perry.”

  “I like this story,” Patrick said. “My room’s right over there. And I’m definitely feeling inspired.” He even winked.

  Perry, to his own surprise, laughed. And thought about ups and downs, stairs and secret doorways, perilous unknowns; thought about danger and temptation, and chance meetings, and the hopeful blue of Patrick’s eyes, and the way a single step could change the world.

  “Go on, then,” he said. He had a hand on Patrick’s arm, learning how that felt, the bright slim shape of him. “Show me what you want. In our story.”

  Alex and the Crime-Solving Werewolf

  Alex Lyster was lying in a hospital bed, alternating between trying to sleep and not wanting to sleep and worrying about deadlines and wondering whether giving a main character appendicitis would be a good plot twist, given recent real-life experience, when his door slammed open and the werewolf burst in.

  The werewolf had impressive shoulders and shaggy brown hair and angry eyebrows over ink-pool eyes; he was wearing a nicely fitted suit in a way that suggested he didn’t enjoy it, and he snapped, “Blake Forrest, FBI. What do you know about the cancellation of MysteriCon 2023, and why do you smell guilty?”

  Alex was definitely no longer trying to sleep. And probably shouldn’t be enjoying the shoulders and the angry competence and the undeniable presence, at least not quite so much. It was an annoyed kind of enjoyment, because the sexy werewolf FBI agent had shoved his door open and was yelling at him, but his day had inarguably become a lot more interesting.

  He sat up more. And folded the blanket over his lap. “Nothing, because I’ve been in the hospital. Busy, you know, getting my appendix out. I canceled as the convention Guest of Honor yesterday. What happened?”

  This earned him a noise in response. It was almost a growl. Alex’s spine did a little shiver, thrilled by danger or want or both.

  The werewolf FBI agent retorted, “If you were ill, why do you feel guilty?” and began glaring around Alex’s hospital room, presumably looking for clues, or simply very irritated with nondescript chairs and beeping monitors.