He didn’t listen. She didn’t press the issue.
Everything was going fine until he woke up with a dick in his mouth.
Sometimes the first dose would wear off before the Doctor made it back to his room to check on his levels, and he’d come out of it for a few minutes, practically sobbing in pain until she brought more. It was a depressingly familiar situation; back in California he had been no stranger to opiates, and begging for a fix was not new.
Neither was this.
His first impulse was to ignore it and drift back off—he was just high enough yet to do that, and pretend he’d dreamed the whole thing. But the stink of sweat on an unwashed body and the raw feeling in the back of his throat that told him his guest had been at it for a while hit him all at once, and the high evaporated into something far less pleasant.
Rage.
The man molesting him swore up and down that the marker by the door said “open,” and that the room was designated for E-21…or at least that was what the Doctor interpreted from his screaming, sobbing denials as he scrabbled on the floor in his own blood after Deven bit him and nearly severed his penis.
Deven ignored the screaming long enough to fetch a bottle of vodka and wash his mouth out. Then, he stood over the man, impassive, until footsteps ran down the hallway and the Doctor threw the curtain open.
She was a petite brown-skinned woman with a potent mind and an odd sort of compassion for her patients, even through her desire for profit. She knew that the only thing that would make a vampire lay in a clinic for twelve hours was intense and interminable suffering.
She did not, however, have compassion for people who broke the rules. There were two very large, very muscular vampires with her—security staff.
“Get him out of here,” the Doctor snapped. The thugs seized the man from the ground and dragged him out of the room, leaving a long smear of blood behind.
She turned to Deven. “My sincerest apologies…I caught that scumbag humping one of my clients six months ago and put him on the blacklist, but we have a new girl up front and she must have missed him sneaking in. I’ll comp you the night—can I set you up in another room for now?”
“No, thank you.” He walked out without another word. He knew he wouldn’t be back.
It was hardly the first time he’d experienced that kind of thing—he had, after all, spent half a century as an opium whore, offering whatever was asked for in return for drugs. It was just business—he wanted something, they wanted something, he didn’t care all that much about what they wanted from him, so why not let them have it?
Even as a human, he had learned that the Inquisition might burn every faggot it could find, but when the clergy wasn’t looking few guards would turn down a blowjob—a mouth was a mouth. No one in those cells died without having been raped or, at least, traded sex for food or protection and preferential treatment. Prison math: sucking one dick willingly instead of five forcibly.
Something about this was different. He stalked off down the street, angry—not even at being violated, but at having his one respite from reality ruined. He wouldn’t be able to relax there now, thinking someone might ignore the door marker again and he’d wake up being gang-banged or worse. That, too, had happened before. Now he had to find something else, something else to make it all go away, before…
He paused, dizziness rocking him back and forth.
…before he started to feel. Before he felt the barrier he had built with the steel of his will start to crack; before he could feel the sadness and isolation he had inflicted upon the pure and beautiful soul on the other side. He had to make it stop…or it would build, and build, and destroy him again.
He returned to the Black Door and tried a few other drugs, but none of them worked like heroin. He had to settle for another clinic, this one less comfortable and its staff less professional; but its rooms had doors that locked.
The drugs, at least, were grade-A quality, and as soon as he was hooked back up, he shut his eyes and started to slide…
…until he ruined everything.
“Seventy years,” came the voice, “And in all that time I never realized what a fucking idiot you are.”
Deven spun around, confused—but this wasn’t reality, it was dreamtime. He shouldn’t be here—the drugs should have sent him deeper into unconsciousness, past the reach of either memory or dream. He didn’t want either. He didn’t want…
“Me,” Jonathan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree—a redwood. “You didn’t want me.”
Deven backed up, shaking his head, shutting his eyes against that face, slamming his heart shut against that voice. “No. Go away. If I can’t see you in the real world I don’t want you here.”
“Are you sure you aren’t just ashamed of your spectacular lack of coping skills?”
He had expected, if he dreamed about Jonathan, it would be full of longing, tears, and the comfort of the Consort’s arms; instead, he felt only anger. “You left me, you bastard. You knew you were going to die and you left me alone—alone, in this world I wanted more than anything to leave. Now I’m trapped here for God knows how long—forced to fight, every waking moment, for sovereignty over my own soul. How I cope is none of your goddamn business anymore. You gave up all right to approve or disapprove.”
“Hate me then, do you?”
“Yes!” Deven took another step back, both hands fisted at his sides. “Yes, I hate you. I hate you for loving me. I hate you for showing me I could be happy when you knew you were just going to take it away!”
“No,” Jonathan said reasonably, “you’re the one who’s refusing happiness now. You could take that barrier down at any moment, open yourself up to him—to all of them. You could have a whole host of Consorts, every last one loving you as much as I ever did, if not more. Listen to me, Dev...” He stepped away from the tree, coming closer—like all the ghosts of this plane, he didn’t have feet, but glided, his form just translucent enough that the wisps of trees beyond showed through him. “I loved you with all my soul, but you could never give me all of yours—and that’s how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t your ending.”
“You were to me!” He found himself batting at his eyes, and realized he was impatiently wiping back tears…of shame…of anger…and above all, of sorrow, that he had once been happy, once the most powerful of his kind, and now here he was, a drug addict and pathetic mess. “I don’t want any of them. I just want you.”
He was still, now, and felt the ground hit his knees; the scent of dust rose up though there was no dust here at all. He looked up through his blurred vision to the man towering over him.
“Well, you can’t have me,” Jonathan said gently. “I’m gone, my love. I’m gone. And you can hang on to that hate you have for yourself, for the world…but please…for me…don’t punish the others for it. If you had any idea how much they love you…all of them…” Jonathan reached out and caught a tear, held it up, and as it fell, it brightened until it shone like a star. “I can’t give you the love you deserve now…but I can take you somewhere you might start to find it. So what do you want?”
Down on his knees, shaking, arms wrapped around himself and fighting sobs, he whispered, “What do I want?” The question made no sense—what he wanted had never really mattered.
“Do you want to go on living like this, whoring yourself out for a fix and being degraded by lesser men…and you know that’s what’s coming, you’ve done all of this before…or do you want to take a chance that maybe…just maybe…there’s something else out there worth living for?”
He lifted his head. It felt like his heart had been reamed out with a wire brush, leaving a great cavernous space in his chest that echoed even as the ragged edges of flesh fell down like leaves from the tree of his ribcage. “I can’t let him in,” Deven whispered. “I can’t. It will kill me.”
“I thought you wanted death.”
He knelt in silence for a while longer before slowly straightening. He
honestly couldn’t tell what would be worse, waking up in the middle of being fucked by strangers or waking up knowing he was surrounded by people who loved and treasured him—because if they could see the reality, if they could see what he truly was, he would lose that love as violently as he had lost Jonathan.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jonathan said, moving closer.
Now, they were within a couple of feet, and Deven found himself memorizing his Consort’s face, the way he stood—yes, just so, unless he was on duty he tried to pretend he was shorter than he was. The scent of him—books, leather, whiskey, cigars…the faint strains of Amy Winehouse…It was all so much a part of the section of Deven’s brain roped off and dedicated to Jonathan…how could he let anyone else have even an inch of that room?
Jonathan saw the vision Deven had created and smiled. “That’s a very sweet way for you to hate me,” he said. He reached down and touched Deven’s face, and Dev had to drag up every ounce of strength not to try and crawl into his arms.
He couldn’t look Jonathan in the eye right then, and fixed his gaze on the Consort’s hand…his wedding ring. The real one had been badly damaged, unfixable without melting it down. It was locked in a trunk in his room back at the Haven with the few other items that had been salvaged from their home. As with the ring, so with Deven.
“I’m broken, Jonathan,” he whispered. “I’m broken. Just pieces held together with spite, torn off one by one by the wind. Nothing can fix me—not Elven magic, not you…I can’t help them. I’m not worth hanging on to.”
“Like I said,” Jonathan replied, the harsh words tempered with an all too familiar tenderness, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Defeated, Deven bowed his head. “What do you want me to do?”
“Straighten out your coat a bit. Try to look presentable.”
“Why?” Dev asked, but he let Jonathan move him around like a doll until the Consort was satisfied. When Jonathan found the IV port, he stared at it for a moment in silence.
“You had one of these when we met,” he said softly. “You were hiding it from David.”
“What are you doing? No, don’t—”
Jonathan took hold of the cannula and with one quick movement pulled it out of the vein, causing Deven to gasp at the sharp pain. Black-shadowed blood fell in rivulets over his fingers, into the pale ground that looked like either snow or dust; either way, the blood shone out like it was on fire. Jonathan dropped the needle on the ground as well.
“I just want to go back to sleep,” Deven said, bending to try and grab the discarded needle, but before he could reach it, it vanished. Deven whimpered, desperate—he had to leave here, now, so he could get a new one put in, or he was going to wake up sober and scream his life out.
But Jonathan was leading him somewhere, he realized, deeper into what turned out to be Muir Woods. There was a particular part of the forest path that wound through the Cathedral Grove, a stand of trees that stretched so high their tops were barely visible, especially at night. Inside the Cathedral even the human tourists fell silent; there was something there, even if they had no idea what to call it. He had known what it was…but he had lacked the language to name it. He had the words now but would not speak them aloud.
He followed Jonathan because he didn’t know what else to do. There was no place to go, no drug that would end this…he understood that more and more with each step. To return to the Haven in this state was unthinkable.
The paths through Muir were man-made and smooth, as were the bridges that crossed back and forth over the stream that had been burbling its same song for at least a hundred years. He had seen that stream grow and shrink, overflow its banks and dry down to a near-trickle, but it, like the trees above, was always there.
They walked without speaking for a while until the path rounded a bend and he suddenly realized there was someone else there—a dark figure on the next bridge, leaning on the rail.
He started to ask Jonathan what was going on, but looked around to find the Consort was gone.
Gone again. Gone.
Wake up. Wake up now. Don’t think about it…
“How old would you say this tree is?”
Deven frowned. It was a woman’s voice, smooth and oddly familiar, and he moved a little closer, not sure what to make of the situation but sure he didn’t like it.
Out of habit he reached down, but there was no hilt at his belt. He hadn’t picked up a weapon in months. Still, edged metal and wood weren’t the only deadly implements he had.
She looked over at him and smiled, and again he felt something familiar about her; the way she stood, perhaps, or the glint in her black eyes. She was wearing a long cloak of some sort that hid her clothing, but had a long tumble of hair the color of old wine. The ends of it faded into the darkness, as did her cloak.
Another spirit, then. Someone dead. That wasn’t helpful; he had lived seven centuries. Nearly everyone he’d ever known was dead.
When he didn’t answer, she said, “Eleven hundred fifty-three years old. It sprouted the year Paris was burnt by the Vikings. Imagine that.”
Wary, he joined her at the rail, keeping several feet between them. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my mind?”
“It’s a lot like you,” she went on, ignoring the question. “Well, much older, but still—you were born in the year 1248—right around the moment the Aztec empire was established. You’ve outlived entire civilizations. That’s amazing, when you think about it.”
“I try not to,” Deven said coldly. “Where did you get that year, anyway? Not even I know what year I was born.”
“Or the exact date, I know. It must be infuriating trying to throw you a birthday party.”
He just stared at her.
Again, a smile. “May 10,” she said. “So you are, in fact, 766 years old—and a Taurus, which would not surprise anyone who knows you. If you don’t mind my asking…how did you do it?”
“What? How did I live this long?”
“Yes.”
He put both hands on the rail—they were paler than they should be, almost translucent, and shaky. He started to say something sarcastic, but the sight of his hands made him pause, and in total honesty, he said quietly, “I don’t know.”
There was something in her expression that made him feel afraid—small, ashamed. But it wasn’t an accusation, or disgust, or anything like that. It seemed more of a mix of sadness, affection, and humor, covering an endless reservoir of what could only be love. He shrank away from affection…from any feeling that might make him feel warm again. “I can only imagine how painful it must have been,” she said.
He rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s life is painful. But for most people life is only temporary. There’s an end in sight, so they can tolerate the wait.”
“But you’re a constant,” she said quietly. “The world turns around you and, like these trees, you stand even if the forest burns down.”
He nearly smiled. It hurt his face. “You make it sound so noble.”
Who did she remind him of? As she smiled again, he got it—Miranda. No…Cora. No, it was definitely Miranda. He imagined her holding a guitar and the picture made sense. Something about her reminded him of the Queen.
Or perhaps it was the Signet that did that.
He caught sight of it as she turned toward him: a heavy chain, a faint glow…and red.
“Who are you?” he asked again, this time throwing authority into his voice. Very few people survived ignoring that tone.
Or they hadn’t, back when…he shook his head, confused. Too many lifetimes in one mind. Too many decades crammed together, too many memories clamoring to be heard, and out of the chaos, nothing.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “I think a better question is, who are you?”
He groaned. “Oh my God, you’re the fucking Caterpillar. I knew this was the drugs.”
She laughed. It was a ringing sound, especially here in the silence of the wood.
Yes, very like Miranda indeed, though physically they didn’t really look much alike. Miranda had leaf-green eyes, and of course the curls. This woman’s eyes were…
Black…
No delineation of pupil and iris, just endless black, and they had stars in them...stars that went on, and on, and if he looked at them the right way, they formed…
They formed a Web.
“It’s You,” he said softly.
This time, She didn’t smile. “It is.”
“What are you doing here, then? I thought you couldn’t talk to us yet.”
“In dreams,” She replied, “and other altered states, the distance is shorter.”
“Close enough to show me visions of my dead husband, but not close enough to actually lift a finger to help him survive.” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but failed, and let each word be a dagger if it wanted.
None of them seemed to cut Her. She nodded, obviously having expected something of the sort. “I gave him knowledge. Perhaps if he had shared it, you could all have found a way to avert fate—or perhaps not. My children have free will. Jonathan made his own choices. There is only so much I can do without violating natural order.”
“That’s a pretty pathetic excuse.”
An eyebrow lifted.
“If we’re supposed to be Your little private army, and destroy the people who were strong enough to put You in the ground last time, You’re going to have to do better than some vague theological platitudes about free will. We need help,” he said. “Real help. No more codes, no more dreams—a plan. Information. Firepower.”
He was trying to provoke Her, of course, but instead She looked amused again. “We? I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
Deven shook his head and turned back to the rail. “I didn’t. I don’t.”
“Or perhaps you understand, underneath all your attempts at self-destruction, that eventually you will come out of this and take your rightful place.”
He had to hold himself upright with all his will; exhaustion and sorrow were never more than a step behind him, but the thought of living again…it was too much.
Shadowstorm (The Shadow World Book 6) Page 3
