In fact, David considered code an art form in that same vein; music had its precision and its poetry, and programming did too. Even though it still made about zero sense to her, the Queen still loved the way his eyes lit up as Novotny pointed out the subroutine that the 3rd Floor kid had created that apparently solved all their problems.
“That’s perfect,” David muttered. “I’ll get that inserted into the primary code as soon as I’m back at the Haven. It might need some tweaking but I think it will work.”
“There,” Miranda said. “Maybe you can be a little less bitchy now.”
He snorted softly and came over to kiss her on the forehead. “Perish the thought.” Then he looked over at the doctor again. “I want to meet this prodigy of yours. He might qualify for a security clearance sooner than planned, if he keeps up this kind of work.”
“As you will it, Sire.” The grey-haired, lab-coated human went over to a phone and sent out a page for Mr. Murida.
A few minutes later, the elevator chimed, and Miranda couldn’t contain her laughter as the young hacker stepped into the lab. She looked over just in time to see David shake his head and roll his eyes heavenward.
“Ah, yes, here we are,” Novotny said. “Sire, I’d like you to meet John Murida; everyone calls him Mouse. Mouse, I’d like to introduce David Solomon…your boss.”
MORAL:No act of mercy is ever wasted.
(Originally written for a fairy-tale/folktale blog challenge.)
Battle Dress
“My Lord, the night’s patrol reports are on the server.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Jonathan said. “Please remind the lieutenants about our meeting Tuesday.”
“As you will it, my Lord.”
The Consort looked across the room to where his Prime stood up on a stool, arms extended and eyes closed, waiting, while a tailor, a leather artisan, and one of their myriad weapons fabrication contractors hovered around him.
Still watching Deven, Jonathan added into his com, “Also have the Elite we’re bringing with us to Austin assembled at start-of-shift tomorrow so I can go over a few things with them.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Jonathan lowered his wrist and sat back, hands folded and elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He couldn’t seem to look away from the slender figure in the center of the room. The new look was undeniably sexy, as was watching what amounted to a team of squires outfitting their knight for battle, but he knew quite well why Dev had really decided to completely change his image two weeks before heading to Austin for the Magnificent Bastard Parade. The Prime would rather drink squirrels than admit he was feeling insecure, but Jonathan had decades of practice seeing through all his shields.
“What do you think, love?” Dev asked Jonathan, lowering his arms as the man fussing over the coat stepped back to admire his handiwork.
It was, in fact, a thing of beauty, due in no small part to the thing of beauty wearing it, and Jonathan said as much.
The fun thing about being Paired to a billionaire was that when one of them decided on a makeover or new hobby, they could go all out without hesitation. Deven had until recently tended toward a less flashy, sophisticated but a little bit boring wardrobe; he was an assassin, after all, and disappearing was part of the lifestyle. But the prospect of walking into the Austin Haven and confronting David Solomon again—not to mention meeting his new Queen—had been causing the Prime considerable anxiety until he decided he didn’t need camouflage…he needed armor.
“I still can’t believe you cut your hair off,” Jonathan said. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s hot as hell, but have you ever had it this short before?”
Dev got the “accessing memory” look that meant he was thinking back, which usually took a moment. “No. It’s never been much shorter than shoulder length.” He reached up with a fingerless-gloved hand and tugged lightly on one spiky strand. “I like it, though. I should have done it years ago. I won’t have to tie it back anymore to fight.”
Something in Jonathan’s expression made the Prime lift an eyebrow. “But you think I’m being silly.”
Jonathan shrugged. “You dress however you want, baby, although if you go for a clown suit or something you might be traveling alone. Were all the piercings really necessary, though?”
A sly smile, and Deven flicked out his tongue, the silver spike flashing in the firelight. “You didn’t have any complaints last night.”
The Consort laughed. “Well, no. I just hope this is all helping you feel less vulnerable…if that’s really what you need.”
“It’s not about that,” the Prime said, but the words were halfhearted at best. “Fine, it is. Whatever psychological or symbolic meaning you’re sitting there attaching to all this, you’re almost certainly right. But if it’s all the same I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
The leather artist turned his attention to the impressive and impressively complicated boots he’d brought—everything Dev had on had been custom made, and thus had to be adjusted and evaluated carefully to meet the standards of both the makers and their client.
It wasn’t purely for vanity; the coat alone had at least seven weapons slots, holsters, and sheaths, and was made to drape over the line of a sword and essentially render it invisible. The gloves looked merely decorative but in fact had a flexible palm grip and were made of a special thermal material that helped ease the periodic ache in Dev’s hands that was mostly psychosomatic but always worse in the cold. There was at least one knife built into each boot; the boots themselves had only a slight heel and were far more flexible than they looked. Deven didn’t really mind being short, as his size gave him an advantage when it came to fitting into tight spaces; he preferred keeping his feet as close to the terrain as possible.
Meanwhile the young woman here on behalf of Volundr the metalsmith was testing the fit of several new blades that had been commissioned specifically for the coat.
Outerwear, for a Prime, was a loaded subject.
The tailor had his work cut out for him too; even Dev’s shirts and pants had to be made with hand-to-hand combat in mind. Ease of movement was a must, but so was looking the part of one of the most powerful vampires on the planet. No one confronted with Deven would ever mistake him for anything but what he was…and if they did, well, they would most likely not live to regret it.
Paranoia? Perhaps. Jonathan had seen Deven take out a would-be assassin while wearing nothing but a bath towel without breaking a sweat—or dropping the towel. But it wasn’t about actual battle so much as it was about making him feel safe. Night to night, whatever made the Prime feel secure out in the world was more than all right with Jonathan; he’d spent enough centuries feeling hunted. This was no different. If he needed metal spikes and new weapons for this, well, he’d bloody well have them.
“You just had a discussion with yourself,” Deven said with another smile, producing a thin black pencil out of nowhere; he rolled his eyes upward, but before Jonathan could be offended, Dev began deftly tracing an onyx line around the bottom of one eye. “Did you come to a satisfactory conclusion?”
“I think I decided you’re right, and I’m overanalyzing the whole thing.”
“You? Never.”
“Yes, I know.” Jonathan chuckled. “I think too much.”
“No, David thinks too much. You worry too much. I still haven’t decided which is more irritating.”
The words were tempered by a smile and an affectionate tone, and Jonathan opted to change the subject. “What do you think she’s like?”
A sigh. “The new flame? Perfect, of course. That’s how it works. She’s everything no one else could ever give him.”
“No one else, meaning you.”
This eyeroll was genuine. “It’s all starry-eyed teenager nonsense anyway, the idea of a perfect soul mate. If it were possible you’d never have been saddled with me.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Jonathan often had trouble keeping an edge out of his voice when Deven said things l
ike that. “We are as perfect as any couple can be.”
“Meaning not at all.” Now, Dev smiled—a much gentler expression than Jonathan would have expected. “Don’t worry, my darling. I will be on my best behavior—”
“God save us all,” Jonathan muttered.
“—but I don’t have to tell you how hard all of this is. I choked the life out of everything that grew between he and I, and sowed its ashes with salt. He’ll never have any idea what I’ve done to try and make it right, and that’s as it should be, but it’s not easy facing him when I know every ounce of grief it causes me is of my own making.”
“Best behavior, my ass,” Jonathan realized, shaking his head. “You’re going to go in there, act like a dick to drive him away, probably do your best to make sure the Queen hates you too, and then torture yourself for it.”
“So?” Deven didn’t quite snap the word, but it was close. No, he wasn’t feeling secure at all—all the leather in the world couldn’t protect him from himself. “We can’t ever truly be friends, Jonathan. I forfeited the right to his friendship long ago, and there’s no way in hell I can have any kind of relationship with this woman without destroying it out of jealousy I have no right to feel. We’ll go to Austin, pay our respects, deliver a sword, and that’s it. The best I can hope for is maintaining our alliance in Council and not undoing the progress we’ve made in the last few years.”
Jonathan sighed. “All right.” He had learned by now that there were only a few arguments truly worth having with Deven; anything else was the emotional equivalent of bashing his head into a wall.
One thing he could agree on: The sooner this whole trip was over, the better. He’d been fighting down the creeping chill of foreboding about it for weeks now. He knew just enough about what was going to happen that he wanted to both laugh and sob over Deven’s words, but as usual, there was nothing he could really do that would change the course of things. He was finally learning, now that he’d been “gifted” with precog for sixty years, that fate would find a way to unfold as it wanted to—he could spend every waking moment giving out dire warnings, but all that would accomplish would be to sabotage any happiness found before the world fell apart. Some visions were worth confessing—some, in fact, he felt compelled to speak about, but he was pretty sure that in doing so he wasn’t changing fate so much as ensuring it. Most of the time it was better just to keep silence.
All he knew for sure was that there was no “deliver a sword and that’s it.”
Whatever was coming, it was going to hurt. But it had to hurt.
It always had to hurt.
Jonathan reached over for his glass of whiskey and finished it off without tasting it. He grabbed the bottle and refilled, and by the time he set the bottle back down on the table, Dev was done with his fitting and all his various attendants had backed off. All of them looked pleased with the results of their labors. Grateful for the distraction, Jonathan returned his attention to the tableau.
“Well done, all of you,” Deven told them with a nod. “Expect a bonus by the end of the week, and we’ll discuss additional orders after our return from the South.”
The Prime hopped down off the stool, took a few steps closer to Jonathan, and turned in a slow circle. “The full effect,” he said. “Do you approve?”
Jonathan stared at him over the rim of his glass, suddenly unable to muster a complete sentence.
He’d been enjoying the show, of course, but it wasn’t until Dev’s eyes were lined in black, making the violet undertone of his irises stand out so intensely it was actually dizzying, that Jonathan understood what he meant by “the full effect.” That slight shift of posture, from casual—or what passed for casual with Deven—to the vampiric combination of relaxed and fully alert, chin tilted down, eyes focused with a predator’s intensity, would be difficult for a human to define, but was absolutely electrifying.
Clearly enjoying his mate’s reaction, Dev drew back one side of the coat, letting him see its blood red lining as well as Ghostlight’s hilt, his Signet…not to mention the muscle definition that Jonathan was oh so well acquainted with beneath the snug black shirt. In addition to the Signet he wore a variety of silver jewelry from all over the world—and despite his insistence that he felt no loyalty to the Order of Elysium Jonathan noticed a black velvet choker bearing a carved silver pomegranate with ruby seeds. Each wrist bore a leather cuff embossed with knotwork—one of them was actually a case, of sorts, for his com, making the nondescript metal band decorative without interfering with its actual purpose.
Experimentally, Deven reached under the coat and drew Ghostlight; he swung the blade in an elegant arc, spinning where he stood and ending in a familiar post-beheading position. The coat swung around him beautifully but didn’t twist too much and get in the way of whatever the next move might be.
The sight of him holding the sword like that was all Jonathan could take. “Mr. Brooks, you said your leather is the sturdiest in the world, correct?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Brooks replied, looking offended that Jonathan would doubt him. “It could practically stop a bullet. Why do you ask?”
Jonathan locked eyes with his Prime. “Because I’m about to rip it off of him and I’d hate to ruin all your good work.”
Slowly, Deven smiled. He sheathed Ghostlight; then his eyes darted toward the others. “Out,” he commanded, causing them to all but scurry to gather their things and exit the room, bowing as they left.
Once the door had shut, the Consort let out a slow breath. “You and those damned anime eyes,” he said. “You’re like what would happen if the Terminator and a Disney character had a baby.”
The smile turned into a grin—oh, rare expression! “Hasta la vista, Bambi.”
Jonathan burst out laughing. “Oh, shut up and come here.”
Dev returned the laugh and came over, climbing nimbly into Jonathan’s lap, one knee on either side. The coat fell around them both like wings. Dev brushed the back of one hand against Jonathan’s face. Jonathan’s hands slid up around his waist, trying for a frustrated second to find any bare skin. The best he could do was press his palms into hard muscle and try not to impale himself on a stake.
Deven leaned forward so their foreheads touched.
“You know no matter what happens next week, I love you,” Jonathan told him seriously. “Best behavior or worst.”
“That’s because you’re an insane person,” he replied.
“See, then? We are perfect for each other.”
Another smile, and Dev kissed him on the nose. “I love you too.”
“Are you planning to go pick a fight tonight to test drive that outfit, or…could I talk you out of it?”
“Well…I was going to head down to the training suites and try it out on whoever’s in session, but…” He trailed off, sighing, as Jonathan ran his hands up Dev’s back and withdrew one to curl around and rub the back of his neck. “Bastard.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Actually, now that I think about it…I think you should go—get all worked up, get all sweaty and hot-blooded, and then come back here to me.”
“You’re hopeless,” Deven said, pushing himself off Jonathan’s lap. “But you’ve got a deal.”
“Oh, no, I’m extremely hopeful at the moment. The surest way to turn you on is to turn you loose on some poor unsuspecting Elite recruit.”
“I’m sure they’ll be comforted to know their asses are being ground into the dirt as an aphrodisiac,” Deven replied wryly. “Do you think that should qualify for hazard pay?”
“Anyone who fights you is already qualified for hazard pay,” Jonathan pointed out. “All they have to do is submit a form to HR.”
“You’re joking…right?”
He shook his head. “Sparring with the boss is part of the job description for anyone lieutenant rank or higher, but anyone below that who doesn’t piss himself and run at the sight of you drawing a sword qualifies for a bonus. I instituted that back in the 50s—you forge
t, sometimes, how absolutely fucking terrifying you can be.”
Deven blinked at him for a second, then laughed. “My God, that’s fantastic. Fine, then—allow me to go terrify someone into a new car. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Jonathan swatted him on the ass as he left, and Deven was still laughing as he paused just inside the door, blew Jonathan a kiss, and disappeared.
Blackbird
I’m not some kind of saint, and I’m not a doormat.
I get angry. Good God, I get angry. We’ve had some bitter fights in the past few months, some I regretted and some I didn’t. Anger rose up over me and swept away rational thought; I never used to feel that way, but being a predator apparently makes it easier to give in to the darker emotions, especially those that could draw blood.
But I have to let it go. Do you know what happens to an empath who can’t stay balanced? She goes insane. It doesn’t take much to push her off center, and then all the shields and mystical bonds in the world aren’t enough. Add to that a half-trained telekinetic ability and you get a big green rage monster that can crack foundations with her brain.
I can’t lose myself like that again. The thought of going back there is too horrible to contemplate. This time I know it would kill me. This isn’t some kind of “men stray, women pray” bullshit—it’s self-preservation. I’m worth more than a grudge.
Most of the time I deal with it fairly well. It’s been months, after all, and I’m not one of those wives who constantly brings up her husband’s transgressions to remind him what a terrible person he is, emotionally blackmailing him into behaving the way she wants. I’ve seen that kind of mind game played out in couples and I think it’s disgusting.
Besides, even if I wanted to punish him, there’s nothing I can think of that would be worse than the amount of guilt he’s piled on himself. In fact it’s worse than guilt—it’s bordering dangerously on self-loathing, and I don’t want that, if for no other reason than he and I are stuck with each other until we die, and living with someone who hates himself is a special kind of hell. Just ask Jonathan.
Met by Midnight: Shadow World Stories and Scenes, Vol. 1 (The Shadow World) Page 12
