Riptide Publishing
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Hillsborough, NJ 08844
http://www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Blacker than Black
Copyright © 2011 by Rhi Etzweiler
Cover Art by Del Melchionda, http://bit.ly/wHbzTg
Editors: Aleksandr Voinov and Rachel Haimowitz
Layout: L.C. Chase, http://bit.ly/zDvvLM
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-937551-05-6
First edition
January, 2012
Also available in paperback
ISBN: 978-1-937551-25-4
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For BL
In memory of
All the stories untold
The beauty that went
To the grave, trapped
In the writer’s mind forever
Because the words
Outnumbered the days
Of the writer’s
Life.
I promise to tell them all.
To die doing it.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
About Blacker than Black
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Acknowledgements
Also by Rhi Etzweiler
About the Author
Apparently, my twin and I are two of York’s most notorious criminals. We’ve been Nightwalkers in the blue-light district since the vamps took over the world. Don’t know how many years it’s been. Long enough that a stream of fellow ’walkers have come and gone. Most don’t last long selling their chi. End up face-down in the gutter, or worse.
For us, one night and one sale change everything.
Monsieur Garthelle is the first john to hunt me down. He calls me a chi thief in one breath and offers absolution—servitude—in the next. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I like living and breathing. Strange that such a powerful vamp would show leniency to a mere human. And something’s not right with the chi I took from him. It won’t go away.
Neither will he, and he’s forcing us to spy on his peers. Then a vamp turns up dead, and we go from playing eyes and ears to investigating a murder. This isn’t what I signed up for. All I ever wanted was to sell a little chi, maybe steal some in return. I should’ve kept my damn hands to myself.
This is my story. Look through my eyes.
Music surges from somewhere down the block, a thrumming background rhythm. The vibrations send a chill up my spine, and I let it roll through me, absorbing the wave of anticipation and adrenaline. Kenna shifts nearby, stepping closer. I feel her proximity, the weight and heat of my fellow Nightwalker, but she’s no more substantial than a shadow.
I look back over my shoulder at her. The loud pink latex of her right sleeve is hiked up, wrinkled around her biceps. Clothing serving as a tourniquet, Kenna pulls the trigger on the sleek hypno-hitter she scored earlier from a street dealer a block over. The fluid injecting into her vein isn’t the vivid blue of the usual hallucinogens the dealers are pushing, though. Instead, it’s a pale fuchsia that, disturbingly, matches her outfit.
So that any unintentional overspray doesn’t show. She glances up, notices me watching, then slips the small hitter into her back pocket and pulls her sleeve down, intently focused on smoothing the material and smudging any traces of the drug from the edge of her cuff.
I want to tell her she missed a spot, but bite my tongue.
A john won’t really care that she’s masking her chi, synthetically amping it with a temporary surge. It makes her look healthier than she is, like steroids for the aura. She has a few sales left in her, but at the rate she’s going, none of them will be worth much. And then she’ll be so much offal for the regeneration plants to absorb.
Because when the drug wears off, there won’t be anything left in her.
I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. I used to warn them, wanting to help those who walk the blue-lit boulevard with me, but over the years the futility of my efforts has left me jaded. And it’s been a lot of years. The other ’walkers either have the strength to figure it out on their own, or they don’t. It isn’t something I can teach. The frustration depresses me, but it hurts less if I mind my own business.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the night sky, wondering if I’ll be able to see a star tonight. I never have, not with the glow from the buildings so close. But I always try.
And that’s when I feel it. With my hands crammed in my pockets, head back to stare at the dark gray wash of the sky. Someone’s looking. The sharp gaze studying me is razors along my nerve endings, a probe of my aura like the fumbling grope of a homeless drunk.
Maybe tonight will be interesting, after all. I scan the street to the right, in the direction of oncoming traffic. A small vehicle slows as it draws nearer, veering toward my side of the boulevard across empty lanes on a street devoid of life.
Activity, yes. Plenty of that.
It’s a lightweight two
-seater that crawls along the curb, glowing an alien hue of blue in the illumination from the cramped buildings lining the street.
Even here in the slums, the city’s lighting doesn’t fail. Block after block down the boulevard, the shabby buildings radiate a steady, azure glow. It reflects off the vehicle’s glossy surfaces, and for a moment, however brief, the sight feels ethereal. Magical. I soak up the sensation, willing the stranger not to move or speak; I want to stay right here for a while. To freeze this pristine instant of unrealized potential before the vampire flaps his lips and makes an ass out of himself. It happens every time, without fail, and every time I manage to conceal the sigh of disappointment and refrain from putting voice to whatever sarcastic comment pops into my head.
Silence, magical energy. May it last, please, for just a little longer?
No such luck. The potential john, with his unblinking yellow eyes, shatters the spell. I can see him now, sharp gaze above a smile on his dark lips, but the expression isn’t warm or friendly. It’s not that kind of smile; all the same, it embodies something I understand.
“So strong,” he murmurs. His voice is barely audible, the comment clearly not intended for my ears.
“And it will cost you,” I purr back. Looks might not matter all that much, but a twist of coy charm never harmed a sale. I curl my lips in a lopsided smile, bending over a fraction so my gaze is almost level with his. And I get a better look at him, in the dim interior of his car. Not hard on the eyes, that’s for sure. Clean-cut and nondescript, he looks like one of those people who could melt into a crowd. Only the vivid color of his eyes would set him apart.
He blinks as if surprised, then narrows his eyes. The piercing sensation increases, a wave of pain flooding my body that triggers a rush of adrenaline. Jhez would just call me a thrill junkie. Turning the tables on the predator. I live for that brief moment when they hesitate and question who’s hunting who.
The john’s wide mouth curves, but this time he’s definitely leering. His craving is strong. It radiates from him, thrumming along my skin feather-light, a strange contrast to his careless probing. I can slake his thirst. It’s definitely going to cost him, though. More than he realizes.
“Get in.” Pure confidence flavors his tone; this man knows what he wants and intends to acquire it. Giving him a slight nod, I glance over my shoulder at Kenna. She’s retreated from her spot along the curb, her form a silhouette against the glow at her back. In the harsh blue lighting, she looks faintly purple.
“See you tomorrow,” I call, but Kenna doesn’t respond. She rubs at the cuff of her sleeve again, engrossed by some imagined stain.
Walking around the front of the vehicle, I take care not to brush against it. Don’t want to mar that glimpse of magic from the surface, the refracting glow of the buildings in its glass-bright curves.
The door slides back long enough for me to settle into the soft plush interior, and then the vehicle moves off down the street with a subtle revving purr.
The car smells of incense, the heavy cloying smoke saturating every inch. My john lounges in the driver’s seat, long legs and broad shoulders on a lean body, dark hair sharply contrasting a pale complexion. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit, and the material looks kissed with moon dust in the boulevard’s illumination. He’s a better prospect than I’ve seen trolling for quite some time, and this transaction looks to promise a bit of pleasure, even if it’s only of the eye candy variety.
One thing bothers me about this, though. Yeah, this vamp’s the best I’ve seen in a while. Most of the time, it’s the flunkies who troll the streets. The stronger vampires, like the one beside me guiding his little fiberglass coupe through the sporadic traffic, are rarely seen. They don’t need to resort to Nightwalkers to get what they need. They have little harems of humans stashed away, eagerly waiting to offer their chi free of charge.
Ugh. Just the thought makes me gag. It’s as bad as having a pimp. Your body isn’t your own anymore, traded in for a bit of comfort and security. I don’t blame the ones who do it. Jhez and I, though, we found a different way. It works for us.
Although, this particular john is stronger than any I’ve wrestled with lately. I’m starting to get slightly nervous about whether I’ll be able to pull off my usual trick. Most of the time, it’s like taking candy from a baby.
Jhez is standing sentry on her stretch of pavement as we drive by, but my twin’s expression startles me. Brow furrowed, lips twisted into a grimace, she gives her head a curt shake. I meet her dark gaze, and she reaches out with her aura, tendrils of energy drifting along the fringes of mine like fingers trailing over the surface of water.
The hue of fear radiating from her is nothing short of strange, but it’s contagious. I turn away from the window, trying to shake it off. It’s not like I haven’t done this a thousand times before. I won’t let the creeping misgivings undermine my confidence. I can’t afford to show any emotional weakness around a john. Any john, not just this one, but I need to be hyper-vigilant this time. This vamp’s a good bit more sensitive, aware, than my usual fare.
Perhaps he had a bad day and decided slumming it would make him feel bigger. Not that it matters. He’ll pay. Even if I fluff the price, I doubt he’ll bother with haggling.
I take measure of the man’s broad-shouldered body again, every detail that whispers of privilege, power. It’s possible I’ve tackled more than I can handle.
I inhale, slow and deep, and finally push the worry away. There’s no way I’ll know for sure until it’s too late to matter. It’s the same chance I take any other time. The possibility always exists that a vampire’s craving will be greater than my ability to slake it. Like I have any other choice in the matter; submitting to a pimp’s whims is not an option. It’s a dead end.
This is their world. People like Kenna, Jhez, and me—we’re nothing more than a few unremarkable pieces of an inexhaustible resource. There will always be Nightwalkers milling the edges of my blue-lit boulevard, desperate enough to sell themselves. I’ve seen more of them come and go in my time than I want to think about.
I need to focus, find my Zen. If I don’t, it won’t matter how strong I am. I won’t live to see sunrise.
Hiding behind that beauty beside me is a heartless beast. In my experience, a single-minded, selfish creature whose efforts to ease its appetite know no bounds. I don’t pretend to understand vampires, and I don’t pretend to like them.
“A rare gem,” the man beside me murmurs.
Panic swells at his tone, but I let the reaction wash up through me and dissipate without acknowledging it. Can’t afford that sort of emotive response, especially not with a john who seems to be fishing for a weakness, a crack, no matter how small. He doesn’t intend it to be a compliment, I’m sure. Did he actually sense something . . . different?
He falls silent then, and I get the odd impression my lack of engagement frustrates him. By the time I surface from my internal meditation, he’s climbing out of the vehicle. It’s not a matter of trust that permits me the safety of being unresponsive in a stranger’s company. Far from it; every john I’ve dealt with has understood what meeting their demands entails. A certain amount of preparation goes into feeding a john and being able to walk away afterward. That same preparation makes their experience more satisfying and reduces resistance.
Most of them prefer it that way. I steer clear of the ones that don’t.
Most of the time, anyways. It’s usually a simple feat to spot the ones that like their meals screaming and fighting—they don’t tend to offer to pay for it, for one.
My door is open, my john waiting for me to climb out. Chill, untainted air steals the warmth from my skin as I follow in his wake. He pauses long enough to glance over his shoulder at me, but his yellow gaze doesn’t hold that same piercing edge. He merely observes, eyes drifting up and down my form with appreciation. And then he licks his lips.
Despite his obvious anticipation, he seems content to bide his time. I glance up at the
monolith of a building, following its austere lines up into the night sky. A glittering glass eye glowing in the darkness, the illumination a strange hue that brings to mind oxygen-rich blood. No soothing blue tones for the wealthy and well-to-do. There’s no trace of expediency as we pass the security barriers at the entrance and go into the lift.
“Greetings, Monsieur.” The disembodied voice is flat and metallic. A building more intelligent than any I’ve frequented thus far. I mean, it’s speaking to him? Really? I didn’t realize vamps were such Space Odyssey fanatics. “You have a visitor this evening?”
“Indeed.” Humor laces his voice.
“Very well.” The lift moves smoothly. “Enjoy your evening, Monsieur.”
Who is he to warrant such lavish opulence? And why is someone like him—with a residence that greets him by title, with resources to burn—bothering to troll the Blue District for some easy chi when he likely has it readily available?
Whatever his reason, this one gig will net me and Jhez enough to pay the rent and utilities for the next month. At the very least it will give us some breathing room, and a little extra to squirrel away for that vacation out to the countryside we want to take.
Upstairs, the hall is immaculate. It radiates the same red glow from the ceiling, floor, and walls. A single doorway mars its seamless lines. The vampire palms his security panel, stepping aside as the door slides open soundlessly. He meets my gaze, and his craving sluices over me again. Like it did back on the boulevard, but stronger this time. The wave of hunger is so immense, so powerful, so endless . . . No doubt about it, he had it masked when he approached me on the street.
I step through the door and wonder if I’ll ever see Jhez again.
Everything is black. Obsidian, onyx. Unrelieved. My favorite color, and its unexpected appearance relaxes me. The absence of all light, the presence of all color. The philosophical insinuations of this vamp’s lair soothe my agitation. Lull me. I close my eyes and take a slow breath. Stirring air, the faint rustle of cloth, lets me track my john as he follows in my wake.
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