Close Quarter
Page 8
They’d sent him to kill Anaxandros. Of all the soulless, they should have named Anaxandros to him. If he’d known…
If.
If was the reason. This wasn’t the first time the Messengers had neglected to inform him of some important piece of information just to see what he would do, what path he would take. Free will, they said.
After all this time, he didn’t need one around to hear their words. Would you have gone, had you known it was Anaxandros you faced?
And Rhys?
Would you have avoided him or sought him out? Should we have kept him from meeting you? Or encouraged it?
He didn’t have answers. He never did.
Quam minimum credula postero. Trust not the future.
Silas forced himself to his feet. The Messengers could take their free will, carve it into a phallus, and shove it in their assholes. If they even had assholes.
Oh, he’d pay for that thought later, because they always knew.
His nose itched, and he rubbed at it. The brief interaction with Rhys had healed the bridge and some of the wounds on his chest. Good thing he’d forced Rhys to leave when he did. He was too much temptation. Time would heal his other wounds.
The best medicine now would be to take a shower and then a nap.
After that, he’d sit in the garden and figure out how not to die when Anaxandros’s soulless came for him.
And how to keep Rhys safe from the soulless. And from me.
Rhys scanned another lounge, the third he’d checked so far. Still no Vasil. Maybe he hadn’t survived the night? But then, the ship would be in an uproar, wouldn’t it? He resisted the urge to shudder. Maybe not. No one seemed to care that three passengers had been turned into piles of ash.
The artificial sound of a digital camera’s shutter clicked nearby. A woman in a bright yellow sundress tucked a phone back into her purse. He caught several other people watching him, whispering.
Right. He’d forgotten about that. No one noticed him when he was next to Silas. But now? He was Rhys Matherton, newly minted shit-for-brains millionaire, rather than quarter-fae and tasty vampire snack.
Damn it all, where was that waiter? Rhys slipped out of the lounge. Too bad Silas’s clothes didn’t come with fae glamour.
He’d put Silas’s jeans and shirt back on, added a pair of sandals. Casual clothes were fine for the day, and he felt better carrying a bit of Silas with him.
His throat tightened. When this was over, would that be all he had left? Clothing?
Shit. Not what he wanted.
Time to look for Vasil in the one place he’d been avoiding—the garden. He stalked down the hallway toward the elevators.
He wasn’t going to let Silas go that easily. Not over something as stupid as him thinking he was anything like a vampire.
He wasn’t. Rhys could turn over every moment of the time he’d spent with Silas. Nothing Silas had ever done had made Rhys uncomfortable. Fucking horny? Yes. Last night had been the only time Silas’s touch had caused pain, but they’d both been badly hurt. And he, not Silas, had been the one to reach out. Because Silas needed him.
A memory of Radmila’s pale face hovering over Rhys flashed through his mind and set his heart racing, and a rock of cold fear sank into his stomach. The vampires had loved his pain, and encouraged his fear. Drunk his blood.
He’d touch Silas again—if the stubborn fae would let him.
The vampires? He would rather die.
Rhys exited the elevator with three other people. None of them paid him much mind. Good. The sooner his fifteen minutes of fame were up, the better.
Rather than take the inside path to the garden, he chose to walk the deck, a route that took him past the table he’d lain across last night. The table was still there, exactly where it had been. A family sat in those chairs now—a mother, father, and young daughter, eating ice cream. No ashes on the deck. No sign of violence.
A cold chill rose up Rhys’s back, along with the memory of being pressed against that metal top. He’d screamed and screamed, but no sound had come out.
Rhys gripped the railing and stared at the knuckles of his hand.
Silas had slumped here against these bars. Dying. And Rhys had risen from that table and crossed that short span of deck to be with Silas, to save him.
Rhys touched his shoulder where it met his neck. Radmila had bitten him there. It had been Jarek who’d moved lower.
Rhys exhaled and took a deep breath of the ocean air. No more memories came. Beyond the hull, the ocean swelled and fell, little caps of white forming and disappearing into the deep blue water. Salt water dotted his face.
He’d wanted to run from Jarek. He remembered the steel grip of the vampire’s hand, his whispered words.
Damn it, why couldn’t he remember more?
He let go of the railing and turned his back on the sea. The ocean wouldn’t help him—nor help Silas. The garden might.
One foot in front of the other, then.
The glass doors slid open as he approached. Across the threshold, the scent of mulch, fruit, and crushed leaves wove into his body. Rhys stumbled but caught his balance a moment later. Everything smelled of summer. Or spring. A forest. A field on a hot August night.
Silas.
The garden felt like Silas. Rhys drifted to the closest empty table and lowered himself into a chair. Or perhaps Silas felt like the garden.
A mass of green towered above him, though two palm trees had turned brown. Dead, like the tree in Silas’s cabin.
Drained.
How had that happened? What had Silas done? Why had the vampires taken Rhys in the first place? Damn it! He’d burst from all these questions!
Rhys scanned the bar and caught sight of Vasil. The waiter gave him a quick nod before he turned back to his patrons.
Well, hell. Now that he had him, how would he ask?
A few moments later, Vasil hurried across the tile floor, menus in hand.
“Mr. Matherton!” He placed a drink and a lunch menu on the table. “You’re…well? Yes?”
“Yes.”
The waiter dropped his voice. “And Mr. Quint?”
Rhys chewed on his tongue. Truth? Yes. “Not nearly as well. But he’s alive.”
Vasil spoke under his breath. It sounded very much like a curse. “If there’s anything…” A waitress passed the table and nodded at Vasil.
“You can tell me what happened last night.”
Vasil took a pad from his apron. “Order something. Anything.”
Rhys spied the same waitress watching them. “Coffee.” He glanced through the lunch menu. “And a Reuben.”
“Fries or coleslaw?”
“Coleslaw. Will you tell me?”
“What I know. But I can’t now. I’ll be off shift in an hour and a half.”
He handed the menus back to Vasil. “Thank you.”
Vasil retreated to the bar under the gaze of the waitress. Probably a supervisor.
A few minutes later, Vasil returned with a large mug of coffee. “Here you are, sir.”
“You’re not in trouble, are you?”
He dumped five creamers onto the table. “Reprimanded. I closed the bar too early last night.”
“I’m sorry.” Rhys wrapped his hands around the mug.
“Nothing to worry about. Sweetener? Anything else?”
“No, I’m good.”
Vasil gave a little bow before returning to the bar.
The Reuben arrived in the hands of the waitress—Erin, her tag read. She also cleared his table once he finished, took his key card, and brought the receipt. “And how was everything?”
“Excellent.” It had been. He left a reasonable tip and pocketed his card.
Vasil still served at the bar. A check of his watch told Rhys it would be another hour before he got off shift. With the supervisor hovering around, Rhys wasn’t about to go up and speak to him.
He chose to meander slowly into the garden, toward the inner door to the
rest of the ship. Hopefully Vasil would see and follow when he came off shift.
Rhys ducked down the first side path and sat on the nearest bench. The location gave him a reasonable view of the main path, but no one could see him from the bar.
Unfortunately the spot also reminded him of the bench he and Silas had used the previous night, and he hardened at the memories.
Silas’s fingers tightening in his hair as he urged Rhys on. The hard length of Silas’s dick sliding between his lips, the scent of his balls, and Silas’s sublime shout of abandonment.
That cry he wanted to hear again, preferably with his cock as deep into Silas as he could drive it. With that thought, the scent of the garden grew more intense. His pulse thudded in his hands, his ears and his dick strained against his jeans.
Silas’s jeans.
Rhys wrapped his hands around the edge of the bench and shifted forward. Had he a glamour like a fae’s, he’d slip farther into the garden and jack off to the fantasy of Silas mouthing his balls or to Silas sucking the head of Rhys’s dick into his hot mouth.
A rush, like pricks of static electricity, passed through his body. A fern swayed and bent toward him. Leaves rustled as if in a breeze, though the air around him barely moved. A plant to his left that hadn’t had any blossoms on it now had lush white blooms. Their sweet scent washed over Rhys. Ivy snaked over the edge of the bed, straining toward him.
Holy shit.
Rhys sat back. That had never happened before. He’d run off into the woods to masturbate as a teen but he’d never made plants grow. Or bloom.
Quarter-fae. Being with Silas must have unlocked something in him. God only knew what. When he cornered Silas again, there would be a long conversation, this time with his rules.
He touched the nearest plant and felt that same buzz of tiny shocks. An elemental reservoir, Silas had said. What did that mean? Silas had said Rhys couldn’t use the energy, just collect it. Except his collecting of energy—and that must have been what had happened—hadn’t caused any of the plants around him to die, as they had when Silas had taken their element.
Every green thing around him had grown, increased in health.
Each time they’d been together, he hadn’t drained Silas. Nor had Silas drained him. Far from it. Every encounter but the one after the vampires had left him spinning with energy and feeling more alive than he ever had before.
Silas implied he was a battery, something to be tapped and drained. But the plants, leaning toward him as they were, suggested something else. Amplifier? Transformer?
For the first time in his life, he regretted sleeping through physics in college. Not that science would help much with magic.
Magic. Rhys raked his hands through his hair. That was worse than physics. Magic wasn’t real. This can’t be real.
Except it was. Silas, the vampires, and the flower-laden plant next to him. All real.
So now what? He still had forty-five minutes before he could speak to Vasil. Daydreaming about a certain fae was out, unless he wanted to cause the whole damn garden to overgrow. Too bad Silas wasn’t here. With all his element floating about, Silas’s wounds would heal up pretty much instantly, he bet.
Rhys touched the striped leaf of some kind of vine. Now there was a thought. He had a connection to Silas, one that worked across a room. But across a ship?
A tingling flowed up his arm. The scent of sweet blossoms filled the air.
Worth a try. Rhys closed his eyes and thought of Silas—his voice, the color of his eyes. The feather touch of Silas’s hand against his own. The warmth of Silas’s body next to his as they stood at the bar. The bell-like sound of Silas’s laugh.
Silas. I want you to be well. The buzz in his body increased, stretched, flowed out. Two things existed in the world. The garden. Silas. Nothing else.
“Mr. Matherton?”
Rhys started and opened his eyes. Shit! How long had he been out?
Vasil peered at him from a few feet away. Rhys followed the waiter’s gaze to his own wrist. The vine he’d been touching had wrapped itself around his hand and trailed up his arm. “Oh. Um…”
“You’re like him, aren’t you? Like Mr. Quint?” The waiter’s accent made him sound calm—at least a damn lot calmer than Rhys felt.
“No. Yes.” Rhys swallowed. “Sort of?” He unwrapped the vine from his arm and tried to still the wild beating of his heart. “You’re taking this in stride.”
The waiter glanced back at the main path and edged closer. “I grew up in the mountains, in the forest. Near old places. I know.”
“Then you’re ahead of me.” Rhys stared at his hand and wiggled his fingers. Everything worked, despite the tight wrap of the vine. “This is all new.”
“Mr. Quint. I saw him last night. He asked for you. Touched me, and I”—Vasil stumbled over his words—“I saw him.”
As fae. Rhys wet his lips. “What about the others? A man and woman?”
Vasil paled, and his mouth pressed into a thin line before he spoke. “Upyr. Of darkness and death.” His hands trembled before he clasped them behind his back. “The man asked after Mr. Quint, though not by name.” Vasil looked away. “I sent him to you. My deepest apologies.”
“If it was anything like what happened to me, you had no choice.”
The waiter stared deeper into the garden. “It was nothing like what happened to you.”
The waiter’s words opened a yawning chasm inside Rhys. Icy threads of fear washed through him and tightened his throat. An attempt to speak only resulted in a croak of sound.
“But as you say, I had no choice. Not until Mr. Quint came.”
Rhys tried again. “What happened to me?”
A distant and haunted expression transformed Vasil’s face. For a moment he looked far older than Rhys would’ve guessed. “I didn’t see, but when Mr. Quint brought you back…there was flesh missing. Bites.” He shuddered. “I saw a dog maul a man’s leg in my village. Awful. Never healed quite right. You looked far worse.” His gaze finally settled on Rhys. “That you are alive—it’s a bit of a miracle.”
For a moment, Rhys couldn’t breathe. Eaten. Literally. He drew a breath and spoke. “I don’t remember most of it. I woke like this.” He held out his arm, palm up. No bites, no marks.
“Mr. Quint’s doing.” Not a question.
Rhys nodded anyway. “Healed me. Didn’t heal himself, though.”
Vasil’s smile was thin and strained. “Last night his only thought was for you.”
“That make you uncomfortable?”
Vasil huffed. “Far from it.”
Oh. Warmth touched Rhys’s face. It was—it seemed—true what they said about assumptions.
“But a leshii on the sea? I can’t imagine what brought him, but had he not been here, the upyr would’ve killed us all.”
Rhys ran a hand through his hair. Could he trust Vasil? Silly question, really. He already had. Too late to second-guess now. He plunged ahead. “Silas knew the vampires were here. Called them soulless. Said he was sent to hunt them.”
“Sent?”
“By the Messengers. But I can’t think of what they are.” Rhys hiccupped a laugh and glanced down the path. “I mean, who could send a fae after vampires, anyway?”
Vasil had lost several shades of color in his face by the time Rhys returned his gaze to him.
“Messengers?” Vasil whispered.
“Yeah,” Rhys said. “You know who they are?”
Vasil opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. Then he spoke a single, heavily accented word.
Rhys understood. Then he understood. Blood drained from his face as well.
Of course. Messengers.
Angels.
Chapter Eight
Silas woke when his door lock whirred and unlatched. A moment later, someone entered. Tendrils of energy slid around the bed, brushed against and into him.
Rhys. Footsteps sounded in the foyer but not enough for Rhys to fully enter the room.
No ache. Not even a twinge. Silas didn’t know which was more shocking, that or the sight of Rhys.
He leaned against the wall closest to the foyer entrance, his hair more copper than it should’ve been, face too lean. Fae-like. Stunning.
Silas sat up. “What have you done?”
“I don’t know.” Rhys’s mouth quirked upward. “But I see it worked.”
Quite. Legs, arms, chest—any part of Silas’s skin not covered by his robe—were pristine. Healed. Probably all the skin underneath too. He wasn’t about to disrobe to discover whether he was correct.
Gods above and below. Even he couldn’t manipulate the element like that. Silas balled up the bedclothes beneath his hands. “It more than worked.”
Rhys’s expression turned sharp. “I thought you’d be happy.”
That wasn’t one of the emotions churning through him. He clung to anger, because fear and awe would do neither of them any good. “Go look at yourself in the mirror.”
Rhys pushed himself off the wall, strode toward the dresser, and came to an abrupt halt. “Oh shit.”
Silas snorted. “Indeed.”
“But I’m not fae.” Rhys touched his face. “What the hell?”
“Enough of you is.” The half-fae could change at will—a trick of breeding and power. But a Quarter doing it? Silas had never heard of such a thing.
“I don’t underst—” Rhys looked away from the mirror. “Can you fix it?”
“Fix it?” Silas couldn’t quite keep the scorn from his voice. “Not I.”
Rhys’s stricken look and reddening face tempered Silas’s wry and dark humor. Impulsive though Rhys might be, he’d—somehow—healed all of Silas’s wounds, and pushed so much element into him that he could last for weeks in the middle of the ocean even if he decided to glamour the whole damn ship into a giant squid.
Silas exhaled. His next words were soft. “Did you kill the plants in the garden?”
“No,” Rhys said. “If anything, they’re better than they were. I even fixed the palm trees.”
All amusement fled Silas. He craned around to examine the ficus he’d drained. Lush green leaves sprouted from every limb. It had grown taller as well. Dea Dia.