“Life must be good, old sport,” Cyril sidled across the travertine terrace toward Flynn, his nose sniffing the air and his voice dripping with subservience.
Flynn stretched languidly, eyes closed, mouth wide, his fangs flashing a brilliant white.
The creamy, walnut-hued courtyard tiles remained cool even under the hottest sun. Flynn lounged there most afternoons, the dichotomy of temperatures easing the ache in his old joints. Cyril’s interruption was must unwelcome, especially since he never came around without seeking some favor.
“What do you want, squirrel?” Flynn began to fastidiously groom himself.
“An introduction to the girl,” he said.