As she watched, he leaned back on the wooden planks of the jetty and stretched out, his muscles stretching and his arms softly laying back with him. She definitely shouldn't be watching this. She should be leaving him to what he obviously assumed was a private moment, but she couldn't look away. It was the most human thing she'd ever seen him do. There was actually a human being stuck within that cold but exquisitely beautiful exterior. She had never seen him in that light. There was a person in there, maybe even with hopes and dreams, although she couldn't image it.
Disturbed, she finally tore her gaze away and carefully stepped through the trees. She'd be mortified if she were observed. She'd probably be fired. Tarquin did not in any way encourage anyone to see an inch of his humanity. It was weird enough to think there was any inside him, without having to acknowledge to him that she had. Actually, she wasn't sure she could imagine anything more uncomfortable.
Chapter 16:
* * *
Tarquin walked through the charred remains of a property in a small town just outside Paris. There had been an incident the previous day and the place needed to be cleaned up. Charred battle sites upset the human administration. The house would be torn down and everyone told a house fire had occurred due to faulty wiring.
These ongoing skirmishes with the rebels weren't ceasing, and Tarquin didn't expect them to. Maybe it would die down. It would be nice to think, not that he could image what he would do with himself if he wasn't guarding the empire. He'd never really developed other skills, focusing himself completely on being destruction embodied.
Charred wood crunched under his feet and the smell of the place stuck in his nose. He didn't mind it, actually, although his gloved hands refused to touch anything.
It looked like it had been the home of a young couple, some idealistic nitwits who had invited disaster into their little nest. There was a framed photo of them, holding each other at the top of the Empire State building, no doubt on some vacation they'd taken. They looked so happy, absorbed in each other like nothing else existed. And yet they had brought destruction down on their happy home.
Tarquin had never had a connection like that, but he would have assumed it was precious enough to protect. If he had, would he have fought harder to protect it? How far would he go to safeguard a connection? Love, a concept he didn't quite believe in. Just people searching for something to give their lives meaning—and they seemed to chase it, complicit with the delusion that it meant something. But it was too pervasive to be completely dismissed, wasn't it? He'd seen the most noble acts meant to protect a loved one.
Obviously, we would do anything in his power to protect his brother and father, but a beyond that, he'd never had anything that would urge him to be irrational. Truthfully, even the relationships within his own family had a certain distance he had never been able to overcome. Other types of relationships were typically transactional; ones he didn't indulge in more than he needed to. Perhaps because it was an empty representation—it was certainly nothing like the warmth and joy on the faces of the tourists in New York.
He let the photo drop to the ground. Whatever that had been, it was ashes now. Fighting had been more important than preserving it.
With a last look, he left the building and returned to the waiting car. There was nothing else to be learned here, the people dead or gone, the survivor no doubt recuperating to fight another day. So this would go on. There was no risk of his retirement just yet.
The thought terrified, the idea of a complete lack of purpose stretching ahead of him. He went to parties and events when he had to and people watched him with wary and differential eyes, hoping to catch his eye and an invitation to approach, in aim of getting whatever they wanted. They always wanted something—power, contracts, connections. Some were smarter than others and hid what they wanted; others were too blatant to hide.
But no one had ever looked at him with eyes that weren't trying to work out how to leverage the opportunity. Maybe he didn't blame them. Most likely, he would be exactly the same in their position, but successful—the reason they were running the continent.
On the whole, the relationships he saw at these events were nothing to envy. Eyes shining with greed. He needed to guard against these people as much as the rebels. Their innuendos and schemes could be just as damaging if not kept in check.
The car brought him back to the house and he met no one walking up their stairs as he continued to his apartments. The house was cold marble and soft, dark carpets, designed with the best materials and craftsmanship available in the world. Entering his rooms, he headed to the bar and poured whiskey from an ancient crystal decanter and sat down along the sofa. The stillness of the place, which usually soothed him, for once felt oppressive. Perhaps it was the coldness inside him that felt threatening, like his blood was slowing down, freezing with lack of… something.
There were people he'd envied. Mostly they were long dead now, or just missing. People who had striven to live authentically. The thought rubbed. While he didn't recognize his life as inauthentic, there were part of him that had never been allowed to develop. He'd been different when he was young, and he'd even lost the things that had driven him then—envy, belief and ambition.
Maybe he just wanted to feel something, even if the petty jealousy and anger he saw in others. It could be that there was value to the pathetic displays of emotions he'd always dismissed—a jealous spouse, a hurtful statement and petty retaliation.
He could never bring himself to engage in such a paltry behavior, even if he wanted to. A relationship was out of the question. He would murder some vacant clothes-horse within days—but the real deal, someone who actually knew him, that was something else—infinitely more disturbing. Someone who was here when he came home, who wanted to know what thoughts strayed into his mind. It might not even be possible. Perhaps he was too far gone, too cold, to ever entertain such a relationship.
The whiskey warmed his throat and he shook off the morose ideas that had crept into his mind. Perhaps it was Castran's issues with his unwanted guest, and the resulting discouragement he'd seen in his brother, even as the situation has since resolved itself—which was good because they had been running out of options.
Chapter 17:
* * *
Cassandra walked through the kitchen at Chartrice headquarters, having come from deeper in the building where her rooms were. The thing she hated most about her rooms was the lack of natural light. The rooms were small, which wasn't a problem; she didn't need a lot of space, but the lack of natural light got to her. She could always walk in the garden, which was surprisingly sizeable for inner Paris, but the Chartrices had the means to insist.
But today it rained, so she sat on one of the chairs under the covered part outside the garage, where the smokers typically retreated to. She was alone, which suited her just fine. As far as she knew, they weren't going anywhere. It didn't settle the general feeling of unease she'd had since the moment they'd returned from Geneva. Particularly as thoughts of her boss seemed to stray into her mind at odd times. They weren't inappropriate as such, but they lingered. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on, just passing thoughts, like she was cataloguing the things that made him human. Not that he was. A colder man couldn't be found. Even the senior Chartrice, Adaeus, had more personality and charm. Although she would never make the mistake of assuming Adaeus' charm didn't cover pure ruthlessness underneath.
Whatever she did, she didn't seem able to shake this constant analysis. It wasn't an issue that had particularly plagued her in the past; it had cropped up after Geneva, but maybe that was what happened when you noticed that someone who appeared quite inhuman actually had some human qualities deeply buried under a solid exterior.
The buzzing at her hip made her jump as the pager went off. Apparently she was wanted. They must be going somewhere after all. Rising, she took a deep breath, suddenly feeling nervous, which also signified that something was off. The driver passed her as she walked
in. They really were going somewhere and she quickly hurried to the meeting point, checking her gun at her side and the blades on the other. Even in the building, they were armed, because it could happen that the rebels tried to attack the headquarters. Unlikely, but it could happen.
"What's up?" she asked Ramone, who was standing in the foyer with his arms crossed, waiting for the others to appear.
"Just transport," he said, which meant they were going somewhere in the city.
A bit sudden, she thought. The Chartrices were normally well planned, so they knew ahead of time when and where, but must be an unplanned event, which was typically only something Castran did.
When Nolan and Henri arrived, they walked through the entrance way and out where the car was now waiting. She saw Townsend go upstairs to inform the Chartrices, whoever was traveling, that they were ready to go.
From her viewpoint, Cassandra could see Adaeus coming down the stairs, his dark coat flowing like a black mass around him. Followed by another set of legs. She knew immediately who it was and felt her own heartbeat race. Now that was a reaction she hadn't expected and was certainly not happy about. Something had definitely shifted in Geneva and now she was getting butterflies whenever Tarquin Chartrice was near. Not good.
The two men spoke quietly as they walked through the large, medieval copper doors and down to the car. Adaeus walked around the other side, while Tarquin came towards her side of the car, where she opened the door for him. He never even looked at her, but he placed his hand at the top of the door, his pale fingers resting there for a moment as he got in. He had nice hands, strong, masculine—capable.
"You ride with Carlos," Nolan said as he walked past. Cassandra bit her lips together and smiled tightly. Just what she needed right now, to ride with the topic of her unwanted infatuation sitting right behind her, breathing the same air. But it wasn't her job to question arrangements, and she certainly couldn't explain a reason, so she got in and shut the door, giving Carlos a small nod as he pulled the car away.
"The French government wants to renegotiate terms," Adaeus said, his arrogant drawl filled the car. They didn't bother raising the partition, their trust in their security absolute. Loyalty was something prized above all else by the Chartrices and any sign of disloyalty was quickly routed out and destroyed, just like any sign of insurrection from the rebels. It made leaving the service nearly impossible, because they had been privy to sensitive information during their time in the Chartrice service. It was something they knew and agreed to when they'd signed on.
"Or perhaps they need to live with the terms they already agreed to," Tarquin replied. He wasn't speaking loudly, but the sound tingled down her spine and she closed her eyes. Yep, she had definitely developed some weird form of infatuation.
"Yes, well, negotiation can be a convoluted process. It can take years in and of itself," Adaeus continued dryly.
"They're just looking for their palms to be greased."
"I'm not sure," Adaeus said a little absently. "Things appear to have shifted slightly."
Tarquin snorted. "Things never change."
Adaeus didn't say anything more, and Cassandra wondered what Adaeus meant that things had shifted—not that it was her business.
When Carlos pulled over, Cassandra got out and opened Tarquin's door. He stepped out, checking the button on his jacket and turned to his father, away from her. The dark material of his jacket draped over shoulders and again she was struck by the idea that there was a real person under the clothes, a man. It still felt like an abstract concept. And now she could see the slight expansion of his breathing. A real body, with breath and blood flowing, a heartbeat.
He turned again, and cast an absent look toward her as he passed. Those pale eyes, the lightest green, passed over her and her breath stopped. What did he see when he looked on her? Was she just part of the scenery? She knew she was. Just another suit, part of the security detail. For all she knew, he didn't even know her name.
Unable to help herself, she watched as he walked toward the building, moving up the stairs next to Adaeus, his back straight, shoulders back. He moved so fluently. The speed and precision when he fought was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Tarquin in action was awe-inspiring.
Only now that they were inside and out of view did she notice the building. They were at one of the municipal offices, and she hadn't even noticed until now. This thing was compromising her, she recognized as she closed the door to the car.
"Come," Nolan said, walking toward the building. They had to follow, of course. Again, she was slightly caught unawares when she knew full well that the protocol was. With hurried steps, she followed the others as they guarded the Chartrices.
Tarquin was walking ahead of her; she could hear his steps on the white marble floor, watched as his body moved. There was a person under those clothes, who wanted things, did things. Had sex. Color flared up her cheeks. Even the thought of it felt like an intrusion into his privacy.
"You alright?" Nolan asked next to her.
"Fine."
"You look a bit drawn."
"I hope I'm not coming down with something," she said tightly, knowing in a way she already had, and it was bad.
She would just have to shake it. Maybe she needed to get laid herself, not that she had anyone at the moment. There had been a guy she'd messed around with, but these things got complicated in this world and it had drifted apart. Sometimes it was easier to deal with humans, have someone who knew nothing of the politics of their world, but that got complicated as well, as not everyone wanted to put up with an intermittent and quite shallow relationship.
There were times when she felt like cutting loose and would go to a club and just dance endlessly—dance until dawn. Maybe it was time for a night out with a couple of the girls.
The Chartrices were having a discussion with some official behind a heavy set of doors and Cassandra was appointed to guard a corridor further down, where she could look down on the street below, see anything coming.
Her mind indulged in an image of her doing her job, taking on a threat coming—protecting him, and him knowing she had.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she repeated to herself as she paced around the empty hall. This was bad. She had to get over this, past it somehow. Her going all puppy-eyed when he walked past was downright embarrassing, particularly if someone noticed. A shock of embarrassment flared through her at the thought of him noticing. She blinked, trying to clear the mortifying idea from her mind. He would probably fire her for starters, but she couldn't technically leave, so a compromised security agent would probably be given kitchen or laundry duties, for the rest of her life, somewhere hidden away from sight and forgotten.
She had to shake this, if not for her personal sanity, for her career.
Chapter 18:
* * *
It looked like they were heading into negotiations with the French government. The process would be long and onerous, not to mention tedious. If it was Tarquin's choice, he wouldn't bother, preferring blunter measures, but Adaeus didn't mind. Tarquin supposed it kept the French government distracted and out of the way, so there was a benefit.
The problem was that Tarquin didn't have the patience required, perhaps for little these days, preferring decisive action. If there was a kink in a rope, you cut it out—although he recognized that there were benefits in slower, more considered approaches. The robe remained intact, for one. But he couldn't sit through endless discussions where the humans tried to push their luck.
Twisting his cufflink to straighten the cotton shirt inside his black jacket, he rose from the table, leaving his father and brother to continue their discussion on current politics along the Rhine and the alps. Adaeus was keen to give Castran more responsibility, but Castran was circumspect about this new responsibility now, whereas in the past he'd rushed toward more trust. Perhaps Castran had learned not to embrace too soon a more involved part in the family business and the way it consumes a life—as it had Tarquin'
s own.
Tarquin had always accepted this, but these doubts that had recently arisen still clung to his consciousness. The feeling that there was more to be had returned, but he saw no room in his life for anything other than what he excelled at.
*
The soft carpet made his climb up the stairs silent as he moved to his apartments that had been designed in optimal taste. Perhaps he needed a change, but in his gut he knew a change of décor would not settle this bothersome mood. Neither would getting laid, which left him feeling empty and disappointed—after some circumspection concluding because it wasn't in the end what he was after. It didn't begin to address what he was truly after. It hinted at it, but never truly delivered, only highlighting that it was not the way to achieve it.
Intimacy, it was such a ridiculous word, suited to a ridiculous notion. All his life, he had strengthened himself to ensure he didn't need anyone, but it was dawning on him that it was a need he couldn't entirely suppress—at least the craving for it. He didn't need it as such, it was just a craving—an itch he had no means of scratching. Achieving intimacy with another person wasn't something you could buy; it had to be done through consent by the other person, a process which left you utterly vulnerable. Vulnerability was the ultimate sin, inviting all sorts of problems and repercussions that should be guarded against. If there was a way around that, he would have achieved it, but there wasn't. Intimacy could not be had while keeping the other party at a distance. So, it wasn’t had.
He missed his youth, when things like this didn't matter. Achievement was what drove him, but there was nothing left to achieve now. This was all maintenance and it bored him. A bitter smile spread across his lips. It would be seriously wrong to start a war to appease his own boredom. He wasn't quite callous enough to accept the losses of such a course simply to entertain himself. Wars were brutal and people died. While he didn't think intimacy was a state he could ever achieve, he did respect it between other people, and a war would inevitably destroy such things.
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