by Mindy Klasky
“That’s his job,” I said through gritted teeth. “Noticing details.” When James did not back off, I fought the urge to roll my eyes, to sigh like an exasperated teenager. “Don’t worry. I laid the groundwork over dinner, built enough trust that he has no reason to suspect me here, in the office.”
“You ate dinner with him?”
I bristled at James’s possessive tone. “What’s the matter with that?”
“Keep it professional, Sarah.”
Professional? Like wrestling in the Old Library was professional? Who was James Morton to lecture me about “professional”? Before I could think through my response, I jerked my arm out of his grasp, pushing hard against his shoulder with my free hand.
I had one split second to realize that my flesh was frozen where his fingers had pinched close to my bones. Then, those stony fingers were closed around my throat, pulling my neck straight, pressing the back of my head into the still-closed courtroom door. James’s face was close to mine, close enough to kiss. But he had no intention of kissing me.
His fangs were bared—twin incisors, glinting like teeth in some nightmare toothpaste commercial. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, a growl that vibrated in the back of his throat, that chilled my blood to Jell-O.
I wanted to fight. I wanted to thrash my way free. I wanted to claw at his fingers, to strike at his face, to force him to let me go.
But I knew that I had no chance. Not that way.
A sour splash across the back of my throat shocked me into critical thought. I could kick the side of his knee. If I did it quickly enough, hard enough, he would hit the floor beside me. I’d have a chance to grapple for some advantageous hold, exploiting the instant before he regained control. It wouldn’t be much, but it was something. After all, he was the one who had taught me. He was the one who had demonstrated how I could use surprise to best his obviously superior strength, his sudden, immeasurable fury.
He’d taught me something else, though. Something that would be less dangerous, here in the open corridors of a public courthouse. Something that would make human discovery of the Eastern Empire far less likely than a brawl in the marble hallway.
Another growl rose deep in James’s chest, and I forced myself to take the steadiest breath that I could. I filled my lungs slowly and evenly, easing the cooling air down my throat, past his stony grip. I closed my eyes, shutting out the terrifying vision of his fangs. Consciously, I slowed my heartbeat, doing my best to calm myself. Hoping to calm the predator before me.
“James,” I whispered when my lungs were full. I needed to remind him that I knew him, that he knew me. I wasn’t some anonymous victim, some nameless feeder that he could drink from and discard.
He snarled again, but his fingers loosened slightly. I forced myself to look into his eyes, to stare into the almost-violet haze of blood lust. “James,” I repeated.
He shoved himself away from me, staggering back a full two steps. I gulped a full breath, ignoring the rush of relief that threatened to melt my limbs. It wasn’t enough to be free, though. It wasn’t enough to escape the attack. I needed to bring James back, restore him to his unflappable Director of Security logic. I needed to lock away the killing machine before some innocent human discovered us here, before something terrible happened.
Trembling more than I cared to admit, I raised my left hand between us. I spread my fingers wide, trying to pretend that they were made of stone, that they belonged to someone else, someone strong, someone confident. I placed my palm on James’s chest, across the plane where his heart would have beat if he were still a human man. “James,” I said one last time, focusing on my coral ring to keep my voice even.
I felt his name shudder through him, reverberating as he consciously unhitched the fury from his muscles. Staring at my fingers, stark against the white broadcloth of his shirt, I heard a wet click, like a skeleton swallowing hard. Somehow, I knew that he had reabsorbed his fangs, and for one insane moment, I regretted that I hadn’t been watching his face. Regrets were absurd, though. I wasn’t about to enrage him again, solely for the purpose of a little Show and Tell.
He closed his fingers around my wrist, and the iron touch made me wonder how I’d dared to spread my hand over his missing heart in the first place. He bowed his head and stood there for three of my breaths. Finally he said, “I’m fine.”
I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me or to himself.
Firmly, he lifted my fingers off his shirt, tightening his grasp even more around the small bones of my wrist. He moved my hand to my side before releasing it cautiously, as if it might spring back toward him all by itself. I resisted the urge to rub my wrist with my other hand, to try to restore the blood flow to my fingers.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes as he said, “You caught me by surprise. Never touch … us without warning.” Now that the danger was past, he was conscious of eavesdroppers again, aware that ordinary humans might overhear our conversation.
“I didn’t mean —” Strike that. My voice was sharper than I intended. Sharper than was safe. I swallowed the rest of my retort.
“You didn’t,” he agreed, and he edged another half-step away. “I know that, Sarah. My reaction was purely instinctive. I… I’m sorry.”
I heard the hitch in his voice, the way the words sounded foreign on his tongue. I was pretty sure that he hadn’t apologized to anyone—and especially not to a human—for a very long time.
I resisted the urge to touch my neck, to check myself for bruises. Instead, I said, “Fine,” And then, because we could have stood there until sunrise, uncertain of each other, unsure of ourselves, I said, “Are we going into the courtroom?”
I saw him start to argue with me. I saw him start to say that it wasn’t safe, that I wasn’t safe. I saw him start to make excuses, to escort me back to my office, to keep me away from all the other vampires, maybe once and for all.
But again, he beat back his instincts. If I were truly going to be the Eastern Empire’s clerk, I needed to deal with all sorts of disruptions, all types of distractions. We both knew that the sudden threat from James was truly past. Now we needed to prove to each other that it could be forgotten.
He pulled out his keys and worked the lock with typical efficiency. The well-oiled hinges swung silently, and I ducked inside the courtroom while James closed the door behind us.
The room looked almost the same as it had eight nights before. Judge DuBois presided from his high seat, scarcely flicking a glance at me as I settled in the front row of the gallery. Alex Bennett typed away on his stenography machine, giving no sign that he was aware of my presence. Eleanor Owens edged her fingers away from her holster, relaxing into her normal watchful stance as soon as she identified us newcomers. She blinked hard as James sat beside me, and I was almost blinded by the fluorescent lights reflecting off her sparkling ruby eye shadow. Once again, she’d matched her makeup to her jewelry—giant crimson beads that clumped like fresh blood on a bracelet and choker. I shuddered, only partially because her fashion choice was a disaster for her coloring.
The only difference in the courtroom was the presence of four muscle-bound men. Not men, I corrected myself. Imperials. James had hired extra guards to keep watch over the proceeding. A male griffin—even larger than Eleanor—hulked just inside the doorway to the hall. A vampire shadowed the defendant’s table. Another creature, something vaguely feline, lurked next to the railing around the trap door, and a fourth oaken guard stood next to the witness stand.
Each imperial was larger than the last, well-muscled, eagle-eyed. I was pretty sure that Ernst Brauer would never have gotten near me if those four goons had been present to knock him to the floor. James had clearly learned from his mistakes.
Frederick Teller, the vampire prosecutor, stood beside his table. His suit was rumpled, as if he’d slept in it for weeks. His balding pate gleamed. I was surprised to discover that vampires could sweat—and in such copious amounts. Teller fiddled with a pencil before direc
ting a question toward the front of the court. “Permission to treat this witness as hostile, Your Honor?”
Judge DuBois looked like someone had just used a truly foul word. “Permission granted,” he said.
Teller ignored the judge’s obvious displeasure. Instead, he turned to the young woman on the witness stand. I knew that apparent age meant nothing with vampires; she could have been Turned any time in the past several centuries. Her dyed black hair, though, made her look young, like a teen runaway. That image was only enhanced by the tattooed dragonfly on her painfully thin neck, and by the quintet of piercings around the cartilage of each ear. She had an eyebrow ring, too, and it looked like she’d removed some sort of lip stud before she’d taken the stand. She’d obviously dressed up for court.
Or maybe not. She tugged at her leather bustier, threatening to spill her minimal cleavage over the top. She glared at Teller as he shuffled to stand in front of her.
“Miss Thornton, were you employed as a courier on March 2nd of this year?” The witness merely glared at the prosecutor. After nearly a full minute, Teller turned to Judge DuBois. “Your Honor?”
Judge DuBois leaned forward ominously. He’d clearly drunk from his blood cordial—his face was vibrant, and a shrewd spark lurked within his agate eyes. “Miss Thornton, you are required to answer the questions put to you in this court. If you do not answer, you will be held in contempt. And in a silver cage.”
The girl glared at the judge before turning back to Teller. “Yes,” she spat. She clearly had no intention of volunteering a syllable more.
“And on March 2nd, were you hired to carry a message by anyone in this courtroom?”
“Yes.”
“Who hired you?”
She pointed at Karl Schmidt, her fingernails looking diseased because of her chipped black polish. The defendant sat next to his attorney, the unflappable Clarice Martin.
Teller nodded, as if Miss Thornton had spoken aloud. “Let the record reflect that the witness indicated the defendant, Karl Schmidt.” Alex’s fingers flew over his stenography machine, completing the record in style. He was dressed entirely in green, a dark forest shade, with impeccably synchronized shirt, tie, and suit. The monochrome acted like a uniform, making him fade into invisibility.
Teller persisted. “Miss Thornton, were you paid to deliver the message?”
“Yes.”
“How much were you paid?”
“My arrangements with my clients are confidential.” Miss Thornton flashed a smug smile toward the prosecutor.
“Miss Thornton, reminding you that you are under oath, were you paid ten thousand dollars to deliver a message from Karl Schmidt on the night of March 2nd?”
So much for smugness. The girl looked panicked, absolutely astonished that anyone had access to her financial data. She raised chipped fingernails to her lips, and I realized that she had the bad habit of playing with her jewelry, even though her lip stud was gone. “Miss Thornton?” the prosecutor prompted.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, you’re listening to me? Or yes, you were paid ten thousand dollars to deliver a message from Karl Schmidt?”
Her eyes flared. She might have been surprised by the question initially, but she’d recovered quickly. And she didn’t like being pushed around by a vampire who was almost definitely slower than she was. Slower and less fashionable, but a hell of a lot more persistent. “Yes,” she snarled. “I was paid ten thousand dollars.”
“Miss Thornton, do you know the content of the message that you carried?”
“No.” Her tone managed to convey that the question was the most absurd one she’d ever heard.
Teller was indifferent. “And where did you deliver the message?”
“I told you. My client records are confidential.”
“Did you deliver the message to 1729 Charter Street, in downtown Philadelphia?”
Miss Thornton glared. Teller glanced meaningfully toward the judge. “Yes,” the witness finally conceded.
“And did you deliver the message to Maurice Richardson?” This time, Miss Thornton’s swagger was replaced by a flash of fear. “Miss Thornton,” Teller prompted after a long wait. When the witness remained silent, the prosecutor turned to Judge DuBois. “Your —”
“I don’t know!” the witness spat. “I gave my message to the guy that answered the door. I didn’t ask his name.”
“I see.” Teller nodded his head in apparent acceptance. His voice was mild as he said, “You just rang the bell and delivered your message. No verification. No confirmation. Now, that sounds like quality work. Obviously worth ten thousand dollars.”
“Objection!” Clarice chimed in from the defense table. “Your Honor, he’s badgering the witness.”
Teller scarcely glanced at his opposing counsel. Instead, he shook his head, as if he were the most confused attorney who had ever set foot inside a courtroom. “Your Honor, I apologize. I’m just trying to make sense out of what Miss Thornton has told us. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, when a first class stamp would do the same job. Unless, of course, Mr. Schmidt was actually contacting someone who has invested substantial resources to remain hidden from the authorities. Someone like Maurice Richardson, who has been tried in absentia on at least five separate occasions —”
“Objection!” Clarice shouted. “Your Honor, Mr. Richardson is not on trial here!”
Teller looked astonished. “Of course he isn’t! If this court had managed to gain jurisdiction over Mr. Richardson, after his alleged crimes— “
“Your Honor!” Clarice shouted.
Judge DuBois leveled a rocky gaze at Frederick Teller. “I think we all understand your point, Prosecutor. Move along.”
I hadn’t realized that I’d caught my breath—and not in the good, controlled, fighter-on-the-edge-of-power way—until Teller sighed and shuffled back to his table. I finally exhaled as Clarice took her seat with a distinct air of victory. As if Karl Schmidt could hear me—and maybe he had—the defendant looked over his shoulder. He raised a pale eyebrow in recognition of me, darting his tongue over his lips in a distinctly predatory manner. I thought that he mouthed the word “feeder”, but I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. I tried not to think about tiny white mice, dropped into the cages of hungry snakes.
The vampire guard standing by the defense table shifted his weight, a silent reminder that he stood ready to enforce security in the courtroom. I steeled myself and met Schmidt’s ice eyes without blinking. I refused to be intimidated by an insolent defendant. I had every right to be here. This was my territory, the location of my job. I wasn’t giving that up without a fight.
I was astonished when Schmidt looked away first.
Sinking back onto my bench, I forced myself to look around the room as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Only James’s fingers, brushing lightly over the back of my clenched fist, told me that he had witnessed my little battle. He knew that I had won a round. I told myself that I was stupid to feel such a rush of pride. But I did.
The rest of the testimony wrapped up quickly. Miss Thornton didn’t know anything else of substance about her message. She had never worked for Karl Schmidt again. Clarice Martin didn’t have any questions on cross examination. The witness was excused.
Judge DuBois sat back in his chair. “All right, counselors. Let’s leave things here this morning. We’ll resume tomorrow at midnight, absent anything pressing from the human court.”
Eleanor Owens recognized her cue. “All rise!” The shimmering red of her eyeshadow flashed like a contradictory traffic signal as we all scrambled to our feet. The judge quickly disappeared through a door at the back of the room, presumably heading off to his chambers. Two of the new guards followed him, moving with military precision. James and I remained standing as everyone else waited for Eleanor to open the trap door. The stairs slid into place silently and two minutes later, James and I were alone in the abandoned courtroom. Even the last two guards had gone.
“So,” I said, because the silence felt like it weighed more than a room full of imperials.
“So.”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me anything about Maurice Richardson?”
“And ruin all the progress you made tonight, facing down Schmidt?” Taming his own fanged reaction, too, he didn’t bother saying. “No. There’s no reason to frighten you with truths, half-truths, and outright lies. Richardson inspires all of them, and none of the stories are comforting.”
“I’ve already pulled the cases together. You might as well tell me now, unless you want me to take work time going through the old case files.”
James snorted at my bravura. “All of the supporting documents for Richardson cases are sealed. They’re too dangerous to leave open to the public.”
So much for “progress” acclimating myself to vampires. The thought of files too dangerous for the imperial public made my stomach turn. I tried to keep up a brave front, though. “But you know what’s in them.”
“I do. I worked on the last three cases.”
Three. I struggled to remember the dates I’d pulled together. When was the third Richardson case? Nineteen twenty-something? I clutched at that snippet of information, that hint of background about when James might have Turned. Nevertheless, I pushed for more. “Worked on?”
“Maintained security for the court.”
That didn’t tell me any more than I already knew. I tried another tack. “Teller said that Richardson was tried in absentia, but I thought we didn’t do that. It’s a violation of the constitutional right to confront witnesses.” I was proud that the words leaped to my tongue. I had paid some attention during my one year of law school.
“It’s a violation of the U.S. Constitution. We imperials have different rules.”
Of course. I knew that. Everything about imperials worked by different rules. I rubbed goosebumps from my arms and tried one last time. “What was he tried for?”
James eyed me for a full minute, obviously weighing whether he should share even that basic information. Shaking his head, he finally said, “Intimidation of witnesses. Corrupting members of the Clan. Impressment—among other things.”
