It was not a place for predators, as some places were. Rather, it was a place for libertines and dilettantes, for decadence. The peoples who frequented the Duke’s Parlor were more interested in lounging on divans, smoking (in the proper areas, of course) from ornate cigarette holders. They were more interested in chai than chains, in temptation than torture. They took what was supposed to be absinthe over sugar and drank what they pretended was fine wine. The music that played pretended at opera, or madrigals, or other such things (except with electric instruments). The draping was deep, jewel-toned velveteen, the couches covered in the same.

The man who was currently lounging on the chaise and holding court remembered what true libertines were, though one wouldn’t really know it to look at him. He was dressed in form-fitting vinyl and polyester silk, neither of which had been around when libertines were and called themselves such. He looked around the room and saw the changes that had occurred in the last few centuries.

Laughter from further on in the club reached the man’s ears. He smiled, very slightly parting the lips so as not to reveal what he had to hide. A few seconds later, as the man knew it would be, a young blond almost-boy came bounding out of the other room.

“Michel!â€