...The Hound crouched at his master’s feet, watching the party goers whirl by, their costumes a riot of violent color.

“Beautiful.” The man’s skeletal fingers caressed the back of the Hound’s neck above the thick black collar that encircled it. “Beautiful. Isn’t it, my hound?”

The Hound held himself still, though inwardly he quivered with revulsion at the touch.

He couldn’t remember a time before he’d been Arrigo Avogadro’s Hound, a psychic bodyguard. Couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t loathed the old man’s touch. Couldn’t remember if he’d ever had a real name, a family, friends. But sometimes, when he slept, he dreamed. And in his dreams he saw a young man with red-gold hair and unseeing gray eyes.

“I said…” The thin fingers tightened on the Hound’s neck with a strength that belied their frail appearance. “Is it not beautiful?”

Avogadro’s physical grip on the Hound was painful, but it was nothing in comparison to the mental lash he inflicted on his pet. The organic collar around the Hound’s neck transmitted impulses from Avogadro’s brain. The Hound was bound to the man’s will.

“Yes.” The Hound choked. “Yes. It is beautiful.”

The psychic grip loosened. Avogadro squeezed the Hound’s neck once more, then removed his hand.

The Hound drew in a ragged breath, and with one quick look at his master, returned his attention to the brightly attired guests.

For his one hundred and eighty-second birthday, Avogadro was hosting a costume ball. The garb of thousands of centuries and cultures spun past the Hound’s eyes as they danced to music that was old before the first Mars habitat was built. Masks of feathers, lace, silk, and flowers covered faces, blending until they were nothing more than a blur. The scent of warm bodies and heavy perfumes filled the recycled air.

Avogadro wore neither costume nor mask. Attired in an austere suit of black and white, he sat on a throne-like chair on a raised dais, the Hound crouched on one side of him, a Bitch on the other. He observed the hundreds of guests with a slight mocking smile on his thin lips.

The music ceased. In the brief silence that followed, a wave of movement flowed from the direction of the doorway.

“What’s this?” Avogadro murmured.

The Hound lifted his head, turned it.

Guests moved out of the way, forming a channel to Avogadro’s throne.

A masked and cloaked figure made its way toward them, the heavy blue-black drapery making it impossible to determine the wearer’s gender. A squarish-shaped headpiece, from which more folds of fabric hung, completely covered the intruder’s hair. A full gold mask completed the disguise.

The Hound tensed as the figure drew closer, alert for any sign of threat.

Avogadro rested his hand on the Hound’s brush-cut hair. “Patience. Patience.”

The Hound felt his master’s interest through the fine tremor of his hand. But there was something else. As the figure drew nearer, the Hound couldn’t look away. He wanted to know, had to know, what lay behind the mask.

The figured stopped before the dais. The cloak and matching velvet robes beneath swayed slightly before stilling.

The Hound licked lips that had gone dry.

Another need had supplanted curiosity. Unexpected desire flared and burned in his belly, bringing sweat to the Hound’s brow.

Avogadro’s hand tightened on the Hound’s skull. His fingers dug into the scalp.

The Hound didn’t feel it. He was overwhelmed by feelings of need, want, and possession. Yet, beneath them there was an elusive hint of familiarity.

He was hard. His heart pounded. He heard his panting breaths echoed in his master and the Bitch.