Garthelle waits at the door, watching me in silence, hands buried casually in his pockets. His gaze flicks over me critically and I get the impression he observed my progress in excruciating detail. “Your sister said she would stop by this afternoon to check on you.”
I nod, but don’t feel words are necessary. Despite my semi-lucid state the evening before, I clearly recall her comments. They spoke for themselves, despite Jhez’s cryptic nature.
Please, give me a reason to trust you.
Only one door along the corridor is open, gaping the room’s innards to public view. A huddled collection of observers loiter near the narrow doorway, either denied entrance or lacking the nerve.
Garthelle pauses a moment to study them. Then I feel his aura flare, a brief spike of energy. As one, the small crowd of vampires turns and faces him, clearing a path.
Impressive, I decide, trailing after him. This composite slice of vampire society that’s descended upon Dragulhaven has some strange notions about demonstrating respect, hierarchy, and power. They defer to him now, yet last night more than one blatantly disregarded his limitations. Is there a nuance I’ve not yet identified? Is this beautiful vampire with a cruel streak in possession of more than one contradiction? Or perhaps the difference has to do with the fact that last night their disobedience revolved around me and Jhez. The notorious chi-thieves, put on display. That’s not all of it, though. Ferdinand, in particular, comes to mind. And Desmonde.
Is it possible the vampires perceive humans to be even lower than I initially assumed? My expectations were low. Very low. To think I aimed high is horrendously depressing. And makes me feel cold. I hug myself as I pass through the flanking ranks of vampires, not caring if I appear uncomfortable or self-conscious. I’m both. And they expect me to be weak, so they’re not likely to even notice.
I’m also feeling like a convict who just received a conditional stay of execution on the whimsical fancy of someone wielding more power than they’re aware of. Which is, fundamentally, precisely what I am. Except Garthelle is acutely aware of the power he possesses. It’s simply that I’m only now beginning to appreciate the breadth of it. Becoming rather intimate with what his control of this metro—and all of York territory—means, exactly.
I check my pace at a surge of profound reaction emanating from Garthelle. His aura is cool, still, ice-blue. I barely avoid slamming into his back and steady myself with a hand on his arm.
He stands three strides into the room, a monolith of stunned immobility. Given the fact that I’m practically breathing down the back of his neck, his shoulders are broad enough to block my view. I sidestep.
Bile swells up the back of my throat.
The nubile form of a woman—Soiphe, my aunt—stares at me from the bed with colorless eyes in a translucent face. Both scream of energy drain. A torturous method of expiration, even when swiftly executed. If not for that, she could be sleeping; curled on her side, her arms and legs bent into comfortable poses. Except for those eyes and the contortion of some inconceivable expression in her last moments.
Her black hair fans out over the crumpled ivory sheets, and it hits me.
Gaia. I didn’t even get a chance to do more than meet my aunt, and vicariously at that. Any chance I had of getting to know her was drained away hours ago.
I pivot immediately, presenting my back to the morbid display. My gaze flicks over the curious observers still loitering in the doorway.
“Who found her?” I need something, anything, to distract me from the image freshly emblazoned in my mind. Not a single vampire bothers acknowledging me. Their attention doesn’t waver from Garthelle.
“Answer his questions,” he snarls.
The silence stretches out for another heartbeat.
“We came together,” one says finally. His pale blue eyes don’t turn in my direction. I can’t blame him. Here I am, a Nightwalker straight off the boulevard. What am I doing? I don’t have the first clue what questions to ask.
Because, as Garthelle so kindly pointed out, I don’t know half of what I think I do. And I know next to nothing about vampires. No, not vampires. What was the term he used yesterday? Lyche.
“Did any of you enter the room, touch anything, when you arrived?” That gets their attention. As one their heads swivel toward me, brows furrowing in confused frowns.
“No, we did not.”
“Monsieur?” I turn only enough to catch a glimpse of Garthelle’s profile. “Is it possible to sense any sort of energy residue on her?”
His shoulders twitch, but he turns to face me after a moment. “Yes, it is. Though whether the signature can be identified is another matter altogether.”
“Is there some service you can call to handle the investigation?” Obviously it’s not suicide. And I’m far from qualified for this sort of thing, in my personal opinion.
“There is.” One corner of his mouth twitches up in an empty grin. His gaze shifts past me to the five loitering lyche. “Return to your respective suites, if you would. Do not talk to anyone. Do not discuss this. I will speak with each of you when I’m done here.”
Their departure is immediate. They just turn and leave as one. A wheeling murder of ravens.
I study Garthelle, take in his features, his body language, looking for any trace of what I’m missing. Because I really don’t understand.
He glances at me, a lopsided smirk pulling his lips. It makes his face resemble one of those dramatic masks. The yellow eyes are cold, hard, unresponsive.
“Ironic, don’t you think,” he says, glancing at the bed, “that I’m the one responsible for supervising investigations of this nature.” He moves toward Soiphe’s inanimate form with palpable reluctance, hands braced on his hips.
“Don’t you have a team of assistants at your disposal?” Seems there’s a blatant conflict of interest here. Dead body of one of his peers, on his property and all.
His head swivels as he scans the entire room, even the ceiling. “Not for this sort of thing. With lyche, the process more closely resembles the culinary art. The more hands involved, the less likely one is to uncover the truth.”
“For what sort of thing?” I blurt the question while struggling to wrap my brain around it. I’m still half-asleep here. Coffee wouldn’t be entirely remiss. “A death? Or the possibility of a deliberate act as opposed to an accidentally excessive theft?”
“Our nature tends toward the devious.” His shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m not the sole person overseeing such matters within the metro. If I were, I’d never find time to sleep.”
Even chefs have assistants. In large restaurants, they have many. I’m still confused.
Garthelle pivots to face me and folds his arms across his chest. “One of the other reasons, I think, that I’ll be grateful for your employ.”
What does he think we are, the Black & Red Detective Agency? Fuck. “I’m sure my sister and I would be of some assistance to you in dealing with our own kind in this matter—”
He studies me with a hooded gaze, but the yellow eyes burn into me all the same. Either that or Garthelle’s emotions are slipping their leash. “I don’t concern myself with such. This victim is lyche.”
The enormity of it hits me, then. Someone drained a vampire. The thought screams in my head like one of the e-mag hovertrains hurtling through the metro. I try to wrap my head around that for a few moments, the influx of energy it would entail—the caustic sensation that burned through me with just a sliver filched from Garthelle, multiplied indefinitely.
Images slam into my head, a hundred Nightwalkers and more I’ve seen over the years, discarded in the gutters, lifeless and drained to the dregs. Nobody cared because they weren’t lyche? The need to vomit almost overrides everything else and I close my eyes in an attempt to calm down. My thoughts are all over the board. This is not going well.
I need to focus.
Wait just a second.
“You’re willing to completely rule out any measure of . . . h
uman involvement?” Assumptions can be dangerous disabilities to one’s perception. Garthelle proved as much to me not very long ago. Left me curled in a ball on the floor, begging for mercy.
A black brow arches up his forehead. “A lyche drained in this fashion does not suggest human involvement. Such a conclusion seems safe to me.”
“And so it would appear.” Not direct involvement, at least. But I’m not really interested in arguing with him. The sooner he lets me leave this room, the better we’ll all be. “What of the signature?”
“It’s not immediately familiar.”
“And who does that rule out?”
“Everyone currently within the walls of Dragulhaven.”
I mirror his surprised, doubtful expression. “Another broad assumption, I think. The presence of the corpse suggests otherwise.”
He smiles. “I doubt whomever is responsible would linger for the purpose of amusing themselves with our investigative process.”
“An assassination, then? Or is this the accepted definition of lyche punishment?” Seems a safe assumption. It’s no less than he threatened me with, after all. So casually done.
Garthelle’s body tenses, hands resting on his upper arms, grip looking painfully tight. “It is one form of judicial punishment,” he admits, glancing over his shoulder. “But this would not be the venue of choice.”
I force myself to look at my aunt’s face, try to dredge up details from the previous evening, but my memories are vague, slurred into hazy, dim recollections by lowered energy levels. And I’m too tired.
“Who is she, then?” It’s becoming obvious that the Monsieur of York is indulging my simple line of questioning in hopes it will spark . . . something. I suspect who she is to me, but in his circle that means nothing. And I have no way to confirm my instinct.
“She is the Madame of Venice, Soiphe Noire. You’ll recall her, I think. She wasn’t scheduled to be in attendance. Her appearance last night was unexpected.”
Noire. So Jhez and I were right. And this is going to dredge up some ugly. I can feel it in my bones.
No, no, and no.
A herd of chills race up my spine, and it takes every ounce of effort to tamp down the questions multiplying and bubbling up inside me. “What other physical evidence is there to be collected here? Whose room is this?”
“The blue-eyed gentleman that just departed, Monsieur Fillun. It seems apparent he didn’t return here during the early morning hours. He’s already been moved elsewhere.” Garthelle’s gaze flicks over the suite again. “I will, of course, have one of my staff dust for fingerprints.” He walks toward the mirrored vanity in the far corner. “And Fillun will need to ascertain if any possessions are missing or out of place.”
I can’t help but snort. “I doubt you’ll find theft. They may have left something though. Besides—” I choke, clear my throat, and continue speaking carefully. “Besides the lyche on the bed there.” Something, anything, to suggest the reason for Soiphe’s presence. “Does Fillun have any connection to the madame?”
Garthelle remains focused on the vanity. “I cannot say for certain. That’s something we’ll need to determine.” His yellow gaze finds mine in the mirror and his eyes narrow. He turns to face me. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
“I’m standing in a room with a dead woman. A dead vampire, no less. The first one I’ve seen of your ilk.”
Fuck him. I walk out into the hall. The room hadn’t smelt of death, but the air outside feels fresher and carries the noticeable tint of life. Here, I don’t feel the past closing in on me, don’t feel trapped by a reawakened awareness I don’t want to think about.
I don’t see how it could possibly be any of his concern that the dead lyche just so happens to share a surname with my father.
I don’t know Dragulhaven. Not even enough to find my way back to Garthelle’s quarters, which would be nice. I wander down the empty hall and take the next turn, strolling aimlessly. A place to curl up and nap in a spot of sunlight would be just the thing right about now. It takes a bit of walking to locate a sunroom devoid of voices carrying from nearby rooms. Strong daylight pours into the space, and cozily crowded greenery fills the air with the rich, heady scent of earth and nature.
I curl up in a chair and don’t care if I’m invading some place in Garthelle’s domain that he would prefer I avoid. Heat and peace relax me back into sleep.
“Black.” The sound of my name in a husky whisper rouses me from my nap. Jhez crouches beside me, one forearm propped on the side of the chair.
“Hey. Thought you would’ve been here sooner.” I uncurl and chafe the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my hands. They feel glued shut.
“Been here a while.”
“He brought you up to speed, then?” I can feel his presence, the faint resonance of energy in my veins, like calling to like. I glance past her, gaze drawn by a shift in the shadows at the entryway of the solar. He’s standing there, shoulder against the doorframe.
“Yeah.” She grimaces. “I’ve been sifting through some information. He said you were taking a nap. Didn’t tell me you were balled up in a knot on a chair, though.”
I lace my fingers and stretch my arms, then roll my head to loosen the kinks from my muscles. “Never make assumptions.”
Jhez smirks at the sarcastic edge in my voice as she straightens. “Come on. I want you to see a few things before we start interviewing lyche later this afternoon.” She glances at the Monsieur of York as she drawls the unfamiliar term. I get the impression they’ve been going rounds with each other. It gives me a little surge of pleasure.
“Interviewing?” I follow in her wake and arch a brow at him. “Do they know why we’re going to be talking to them, then?”
He pushes away from the entry, hands slid casually into his pockets, and turns to lead the way down the hall. “I expect so. Not a lyche present could have failed to notice the taint once it began radiating out from the crime scene. Most of them are anxious to depart as swiftly as I give them leave to.”
Right. Doesn’t sound like any of them care much for meting out justice. Self-serving gutter trawlers. “I can’t see that gives them any motivation to respond honestly to anything we ask.”
“I highly doubt that will be a hindrance for you two.”
I glance at Jhez and roll my eyes. She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Are you going to sit in on these little interviews?” The lack of restraint I’ve witnessed thus far isn’t at all reassuring. Lyche don’t seem to possess the capacity to keep their hands, or auras, to themselves.
There’s a distinct pause before Garthelle answers. “I’ll be with you.” He stops walking, pivots to face us. “Unattended, you two would probably start a war of some kind.”
Well. That’s a relief. “We appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Mighty considerate of the big bad vamp to think of the poor little humans. Jhez can tell I’m stuck in between biting my tongue and choking on it. She clears her throat, drawing Garthelle’s attention.
She nods down the hallway. “There’s a good bit I want him to look at before then, though. Not to mention we’d both like a chance to go home for a short while before jumping into the interrogation thing.”
Definitely. I need to get a hold of Blue. I’m in desperate need of a chi-booster. I normally wouldn’t bother; I just stay off the streets when I’m in this condition. Avoidance isn’t an option now, though, and my Bruise Brother is the only street dealer I’ll buy from.
I doubt Jhez will like it, but I’ve little choice in the matter if I want to be of any assistance. And I refuse to kick back and let her do all the grunt-work herself. Not this time. This isn’t the street.
“What is there for me to look at?” I keep my voice keyed lowed, but even with Garthelle resuming his pace down the hall, the vampire angles his head to watch us over his shoulder. I have no desire to perform an autopsy on our deceased aunt. “Was Le Gross not helpful? I found him most insightful.”
Yea
h, he’s danger incarnate. It’s not that I’m not aware of that. I have a bare spot just above my nape to remind me, but I’m quickly realizing that, for whatever reason, Jhez and I are more valuable to him alive. And as a result, I’m finding the backbone to let him know just what I think of his manipulation. Granted, the odds are good we would’ve refused if he simply came and requested our services. A vampire, desperate? It doesn’t compute in my brain. How does the benefit of our assistance, our temporary employ, outweigh our years of crimes? How does he quantify that?
Jhez studies me, her expression carefully blank. I sigh. “Right. What have you learned so far?”
“According to Garthelle, the brother of the deceased is a prominent member of lyche government, has been since the vamp disclosure decades ago. Fillun’s one of his staunchest supporters. It feels like a warning.”
“Yes, a warning . . . of an unclear nature from a source we’ve yet to identify.” Garthelle throws that contribution over his shoulder, then pushes open a door along the left side of the hall and stands aside.
“Cryptic communication. Lovely. If a man has supporters, he has detractors. Enemies in equal—if not greater—numbers.” Jhez bumps her shoulder into mine again, and then moves ahead of me through the doorway, her stride charged with eagerness. I stop short of the door and study Garthelle. “Although,” I continue, narrowing my gaze. And hesitate. The vamp has his aura pulled so close it barely registers past the edge of his suit, brushed silk that shimmers a gunmetal gray. “I know very little of lyche, so it’s possible I’ve got it completely wrong.”
His expression is entirely unreadable. The still surface of some puddle of caustic acid. “Surely you don’t think that.”
No, I don’t. But just a few days ago, I didn’t think a vampire was capable of doing the things Garthelle did. No use saying that, though. I just arch a brow, quirk the corner of my mouth, and move past him into the room. Its panels of blonde wood radiate an aura of light and spaciousness without the glare of excessive illumination. The theme of washed-out hues, though, feels lifeless. Muted.
Blacker than Black Page 8
