What if Quentin was right all those years ago?
What if Father did kill Mother?
It had been arrogance in the extreme to assume that Icky was talking out of his arse, but after the funeral it was as though Icky had forgotten the entire thing, and Frederick couldn’t get any sense out of him on the matter, so it was dropped.
Now it transpired that Icky had forgotten the entire thing. He’d blacked out and lost it all, just as Laurence had explained to Ethan, and there was no way for Frederick to recover those memories — not if Icky’s thoughts were as impenetrable as they were back then.
Frederick used to think it was because he wasn’t skilled enough, he hadn’t practiced enough, but now that he was twenty five years old and considered himself incredibly puissant with his ability he still couldn’t read a damn thing from either his father or from Nicholas. Either the d’Arcy line had an inbred immunity to telepaths, or it was some kind of learned protection against having one in their midst. It was safest to operate on the assumption that he did not share that protection, just in case.
He whiled away his time by re-reading the information from Laurence’s background checks. None of it was particularly pretty, and on paper the boy seemed to be the absolute opposite of what might be appealing to Icky: a small-time marijuana dealer; a frequently-relapsing heroin addict; a source of financial burden to his mother; willing to sleep with just about anyone. The only long-term relationship the boy had managed — if it could be called that — was with a surfer who had disappeared around the time Icky seemed to have settled in San Diego. The fellow had quite literally vanished off the face of the Earth.
All the files were in stark contrast to the man Frederick had met. He was a passionate creature, eager to leap to Icky’s defense, desperate to help him grow without pushing beyond what Icky could tolerate. It remained to be seen whether that was to Icky’s benefit or detriment, but for goodness’ sake, Icky was in a relationship! That had to be progress, surely?
The buzz of the doorbell shook him from his reverie and he closed his laptop. Hotel staff shouldn’t bother him without a request to do so, and no one else had his address.
Could it be that Laurence had persuaded Icky to come?
Frederick slipped the laptop away into a desk drawer as he hurried to the door, and when he opened it there was the brother who refused to speak to him for five years.
He hadn’t filled out in the slightest.
Oh, certainly he’d aged. Of course he had. There were the faintest of lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, and if Icky’s vanity hadn’t abated then those tiny traces of aging would drive him absolutely beside himself. He still dressed as though he were a fashion icon, and if Twitter were anything to go by that certainly seemed to hold true. His hair was still every bit as black as Father’s, eyes clear and gray as Frederick’s own.
“Icky,” Frederick said in greeting.
“Freddy.” Quentin frowned awkwardly.
“Come on in.” He ushered Icky into the hotel suite, and offered a smile of gratitude to Laurence as the florist followed suit.
Laurence’s thoughts scattered with awe at the suite’s interior, but Quentin was like a void. If Frederick couldn’t see his twin with his own eyes he wouldn’t know he was present at all. Not a single thought escaped his cranium, and Frederick couldn’t peer into him in the slightest.
It was a little unnerving.
He turned toward the drinks cabinet and poured a glass of Ardbeg Galileo, then turned and offered it toward Icky. “Something to drink?”
Temptation lit Icky’s gaze, but he declined. “No. Thank you.”
Frederick couldn’t help his surprise, so he offered it to Laurence instead.
Laurence shook his head. “No, thanks. We don’t drink anymore.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” Frederick stoppered the decanter and carried the whisky with him to the vast, gray couch, where he settled and took a sip himself.
Icky snorted softly and sat within arm’s reach. He waited for Laurence to sit by his side, and then regarded Frederick. “I presume,” he murmured, “that this will be another attempt to have me go home?”
“Ouch.” Frederick placed the glass on a small occasional table by the end of the sofa. “Honestly, Icky, you’re twenty five years old. You have duties. You are heir apparent. You’ve left us in the bloody lurch, and you don’t give a toss about anyone other than yourself. So, yes, I would quite like for you to go home. But at least hear me out as to why I would ask that of you.”
“Why?” Icky reached for Laurence’s hand and took it. “What is there to say that you didn’t say in London?”
Ah, yes. London.
That had been awkward. He knew Icky was preparing to flee the country. Icky was not a subtle man, and his incessant questions about travel visas, entry requirements, and other long-term concerns such as health insurance gave him away long before he so much as packed a suitcase or called for that bloody piano to be crated.
The confrontation had not gone well. Icky was allowing his fears to rule him, and there was no getting through his thick skull. All Frederick could do was hope that time — and Laurence — had mellowed him.
“An awful lot, as it happens.” Frederick leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He would get one shot at this, and it meant revealing some cards he preferred to keep close. “It’s a complete shambles there, you know. Father refuses to allow me to assist with running the estate. He insists that it must be you. If the old boy drops dead there will be no one who knows what the hell to do with the place, how it’s managed, who does what around there. We’ll probably end up forced to sell it to the damn National Trust, and you know how much they do love to get their hands on our homes. We’ll lose the pile just to cover the damn inheritance taxes. Do you know how to avoid this?” He huffed. “You. I don’t know why he’s so bloody insistent, but it has to be you. Once you’re able to run the place properly he’ll transfer everything into your name. That skirts the tax issues and keeps it all in the family for another generation. But I can’t help you in this. I don’t know why.” He sat back and threw his hands up in frustration which was only partially exaggerated. “He refuses to let me sit in on meetings, to even let me get a whiff of the books. He won’t introduce me to the staff on the business side, only the household side. I haven’t a clue who schedules all these county fairs and fetes on the grounds, I don’t know who sets up the antiques fairs or how much we charge for stalls. I haven’t any idea who manages the petting zoo or liaises with schools to organize their day trips. If you wait until after he pops his clogs I won’t have a clue and I cannot help you figure it all out.”
Icky huffed at him like a petulant child. “I will not go back there, Fred. I’m not doing it.”
Frederick had no choice but to hit where it hurt. “Nicky’s joining the RAF, you know.”
Icky gasped. “No!”
“He’s eighteen, Icky. Eighteen! Do you even care? He was a child when you walked out, and now he’s going to go and get himself shot out of the bloody sky!”
Icky stared at Frederick’s drink.
“You lost track of time. It happens.” Frederick snorted. “Well, I’ve spent all these years reading law, since I’m clearly going to be homeless and destitute unless I get off my arse and take care of myself. And you? What have you done to earn yourself an income once it all goes to hell?”
“I—” Icky broke off.
“Fuck all, just as expected. My God, Icky, when are you going to grow up?”
Quentin’s cheeks burned bright red.
“No, don’t answer.” Frederick jabbed a finger toward Laurence. “And this?”
“Hey!” Laurence scowled. “I’m a person!”
“You are,” Frederick agreed. “And Father won’t see things that way. He will utterly lose his rag if he finds out about the two of you. Where do you think this is going, Icky? You can’t ever marry the lad, that
’s for certain. By all means keep him on the side, but your primary duty is to find a suitable match and produce some heirs of your own, and Father will—”
“I don’t care about Father!” Icky launched to his feet, releasing Laurence’s hand on the way. “And I certainly don’t care for what he wants!”
“You bloody fool!” Frederick stood more languidly as he prepared one last sucker-punch. “Stop and think for one minute, will you? If you are so utterly certain that he killed Mother, what the hell makes you think he won’t bump your delectable little florist off to make you do what he wants you to?”
The result was a trifle more immediate than Frederick had imagined it might be. Icky’s gaze hardened, and his mouth opened. The scream which emerged from him was almost inhuman.
And then the wind came.
God, it came. It tore through the penthouse suite and flung his whisky against the wall so hard that the glass detonated. Vases and flowers met messy ends.
And then the furniture itself began to move.
Icky’s scream broke as it tore itself to shreds, and it was all Frederick could do to maintain his footing.
He’d been right. All those years ago at the funeral, he’d been right.
Icky was the eye of the storm.
4
FREDERICK
There was no benefit to being right if Icky killed him where he stood. The penthouse was several stories above ground level, and it covered two stories itself. The windows which overlooked the bay ran from the ground level to the very ceiling of the upper floor. Icky could very well kill them all if he didn’t stop screeching like a banshee.
Frederick really should have thought this through more fully.
Laurence leaped to his feet and stood in front of Icky to cup his cheek. “Baby? Quen, you have to calm down. I’m right here. Nobody’s gonna hurt me, baby.”
Icky’s only response was to pause in his screaming long enough to draw another breath.
“Quentin!”
Frederick stood stock still. Laurence had a plan, and while the boy had doubts over whether it would work, it was a hundred percent more plan than Frederick had right now.
Laurence leaned in and kissed Icky, which deflated the earl like a pricked balloon. “Calm down,” he said urgently, while Icky grabbed at his arms. “Or it’ll be you who kills us.”
“If he—”
“Calm down.”
Icky’s eyelids fluttered. Rage still whitened his skin.
“Goddess, Quen, the man isn’t even here,” Laurence hissed. “Get a grip.”
Icky licked his lips, then closed his eyes and began to regain some rhythm in his breathing.
Frederick did his best to look utterly unruffled as Laurence looked toward him. “Well,” he said. “This explains a few things. What is it, exactly? A haunting? Possession? A curse?”
Laurence swallowed. “No. None of those.” He glanced to Icky, who was still pulling himself together. “He’s telekinetic.”
Result!
Frederick maintained his unflappable demeanor as Laurence confirmed his own suspicions. “I see.” He turned toward the sofa as it finally settled a meter or so away from where it had been, then idly smoothed his hair back before he regarded Icky. “And when he loses his rag it goes off?”
“Yeah.” Laurence bit his lip. “You seem to be taking this all pretty calmly.”
He gave a faint tut. “I was at the funeral, Laurence. It was near-identical. He went bonkers, started screaming, and impossible things happened. I am neither blind nor stupid.”
The last of the breeze settled down, so Laurence turned back to Icky. “Baby?”
“I am all right.” Quentin’s voice was hoarse. He took his hands from Laurence’s arms and rubbed his eyes lightly. “I can’t… I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Well you’re going to have to learn,” Frederick said.
“He’s been trying!” The rush of protective anger which surged through Laurence’s emotions broke against Frederick’s barriers.
“Then he shall have to try harder.” Frederick gestured around himself. “How much of this can you fix, Icky?”
Quentin looked to the room around them and, one by one, furniture dragged itself back into place. Sofas settled down in the grooves their weight had dug into the carpet. Tables and chairs returned to their former locations. Shards of glass cut themselves loose from the pile and came to rest on the largest table in the room, along with shattered pieces of table lamp and decorative vase.
It was almost magical. Far more outwardly impressive than Frederick’s power, but then he supposed that suited Icky. The man was a show-off.
Laurence coughed into his hand as a flicker of arousal tinged his thoughts, and he sat on the couch. His hands rested loosely in his lap, and he crossed his legs to hide his erection.
Frederick chose not to delve into that particular mess. Icky was his brother, for God’s sake. He didn’t need Laurence’s turgid sexual fantasies interfering with everything. “Good. Well then. It seems obvious to me that you had better bloody learn to keep a lid on that temper of yours. We cannot risk the media discovering any of this.” He checked the sofa with a sweep of his hand and it seemed free of anything which might cut him, so he sat.
Icky blinked quickly. “The media?” He sank slowly into his seat.
“Of course. The media control mass belief.” Frederick shrugged. “If the media start to believe in this nonsense, then the public will. We were fortunate with the funeral. Everyone present wrote it off as a confluence of weather and a child throwing a tantrum. The more frequently it occurs the less of a coincidence it is.”
Laurence took Quentin’s hand and stroked it slowly with his thumb. “I’m all for keeping it secret,” he said. “But what’s your motive?”
Ah, that old chestnut. Motive. People spoke of it as though it were a static thing, immune to evolution. Still, in this instance, his requirement for secrecy was reasonably obvious to himself. The key would be to sell it to Laurence without showing his hand, so he raised his head and looked the florist in the eye as he spoke. “Likely the same as yours.” All the best lies, he felt, were true. “What will happen once the vast majority of the eight billion people on this planet realize that some of them have impossible superpowers? Icky cannot be the only one, so his is not the only safety at stake here. Worse, we all know what humanity is like once it detects a threat within itself. The few who have such talents will not be the only targets. History does so love to repeat itself. Think of the sheer number of innocents murdered in the name of witch-hunting, or the Japanese Americans sequestered away in concentration camps for the crime of having ethnic ties to a defeated enemy. Look at how, when a civilian wishes to rush off and murder some Muslims, they go kill a bunch of Sikhs because they can’t tell the difference between one set of brown people and another. They don’t even consider that white Muslims exist, or that only a tiny percentage of an entire faith have decided to use that faith as an excuse for murder. Human beings are, en masse, violent and petty creatures who will rush out to murder anyone who is remotely unlike themselves.” He crinkled his nose. “Imagine how they will respond to those who are indistinguishable from themselves yet who differ in such a terrifying way. They will murder innocents over small coincidences. Thunder cracked while he spoke, so he was clearly a freak and I shot him! A wind came out of nowhere, so I shot him! Clouds appeared, so I shot him! Bloody hell, if this gets out, mankind will tear itself apart on an unprecedented scale! There is nothing people covet so much as power, and when others have it and they do not it turns from desire to fear.”
“Man, that’s bleak.” Laurence shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Frederick shrugged. “And this is before we even take into account the fact that Icky is aristocracy. We have been eroded for a century and the only way that we survive is by keeping out of the way and remaining generally inoffensive. It has become fashionable to scream ‘privilege’ at families who have dedicate
d centuries to gathering such might. Hundreds of years spent in loveless marriages, serving our people, unable to simply retire once we pass a certain age. We are slaves to our inheritances, and all the commoner sees is a big house or a flashy suit and they make erroneous assumptions about our lives while lauding forgettable celebrities and actors who make millions of pounds a year entertaining the masses. Now imagine what might occur if these people get it into their heads that the aristocracy is filled with Übermensch. It would be the French Revolution all over again. Beheadings in the bloody streets.” He shook his head. “And that is before we even consider the personal risk to Quentin from others like himself. There is clearly a will to remain hidden. I do not believe that in the entirety of the world’s population he is the only one, yet we have not heard of any. Why? Because they’re not idiots either. They know on a deep, intrinsic level that the world will eradicate them if they reveal themselves. They don’t exist. They haven’t had their Stonewall and they don’t want it. So how long do you think Quentin will survive once they see him as the source of the leak?”
Icky’s fingers tightened around Laurence’s, and he sighed softly. “That’s a rather negative outlook, isn’t it?”
“He’s right though, Quen.” Laurence shook his head. “Man, I wish he wasn’t, but he is. I got bullied all the way through school just for being bisexual. Imagine what kids would do to each other over psychic powers. That’s what this guy Kane’s all about isn’t it? Protecting these kids from the world. And that’s what you’re helping him with. You go over there and you teach them because you know he’s right. You know they need a safe space.”
Quentin pursed his lips.
“Keeping this a secret is for the best,” Frederick said quietly. “I’m sorry, but it is. You must learn better self-control, Icky. You cannot indulge yourself with these little outbursts of yours. I do not care what causes them. Until you are able to comport yourself properly you are a danger to yourself and to others, and not merely to those who are physically nearby when you go off, but to those halfway around the world who have never even heard of you.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line and shifted his expression toward sympathetic sadness. “That is simply how it must be.”
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 3
