Here we have a snippet of Alasdair putting his plans in motion. He’s already seen to Bruce’s wife Jules, and now it’s Bruce’s turn–
“You were just–thinking, picturing thoughts from your past. It was very enjoyable to me, and I want to thank you.” Alasdair stood and held out his hand.
Incredulous, Bruce took it. He closed his eyes again for a brief moment, smelling him. God, it was intoxicating, the odor of old herbs, and a whiff of–what was that? Frankincense? It smelled like the inside of a Catholic church, just like he remembered. There was another smell, a masculine smell that made Bruce excited and aroused. He felt himself getting hard again underneath his clothes.
But there was another smell underneath them all, one of great age, decay, and corruption. It reminded Bruce of the wet rotten smell that appeared when you lifted up a crumbling log in a forest to see all the creatures scurrying away from the light, or perhaps the sweet decaying stench of a mouse that had died trapped in a wall only to leave a lingering odor when its corpse had finally dried and decomposed. Bruce shivered as if he were chilled or scared, or a child anticipating something both wonderful and terrible.
Alasdair smiled, gently squeezing his hand.
“Let’s go sit in front of the fire. You can have a glass of wine, then a little something if you are hungry.” Bruce nodded.