Blacker than Black

by Rhi Etzweiler

  Besides, there’s always a possibility that I’ll manage to escape unscathed even if she does notice me. How invasive or disruptive can the sound of a metal spoon clinking against porcelain actually be?

  Very, apparently.

  “Do you really think you can keep playing him this way?” Her tone makes the question sound like the tail end of a long conversation I totally missed.

  The spoonful of sugar hovers over the black depths of my coffee mug for a moment. I finish creating the perfect blend of milk and sugar, then cradle the mug in both hands as I turn to prop my hips against the edge of the counter.

  Steam rolls up and caresses my face, the aroma making my mouth water. I blow on it for a moment, using it as an excuse to take a few deep, measured breaths. My pulse races, and I take a cautious sip, let my eyes drift shut. At least if she turns and glares at me, it will be moderately ineffectual. “Playing him how?”

  “You know he’s not pleased with that concoction Blue gave you. I’m not saying I disagree with that alternative. But it’s not a long-term solution. That crap has side effects—”

  “Yes. Like not being able to feel him, you mean?”

  Silence. The knife slaps down onto the cutting board. Jhez’s feet scuff against the linoleum. “One useful aspect. How many other side effects will there be, though? It’s not healthy. And it’s not safe. For all you know, it will be worse when you stop taking them. Because you’ll have to at some point, right? Otherwise you won’t know when—or if—the pull wears off.”

  I keep my eyes closed as I take another sip of coffee. It’s too early in the day for me to come up with a witty retort. She does this on purpose, forcing me to have serious discussions when she knows my brain isn’t out of first gear yet.

  Then again, who wouldn’t take advantage of that fact?

  She waits. I give up and open my eyes. “Yes, I hate taking Blue’s hits. My other option is to have them shot into my vein for me. He’s my friend. He isn’t willing to stand by and watch a vampire pull on my strings like I’m some street corner marionette. Because he can, you know. He hasn’t thus far, but he can if he wants to.”

  Well, he hasn’t except to demonstrate his point, like last night. Or . . . that’s the only incident I’m aware of. I’m still puzzled by why he blamed that one on me. That, and the one in the hallway back at Dragulhaven. My palm tingles against the porcelain of the mug, energy-memory of the feel of his warm skin beneath my touch.

  I take a longer drag on my coffee, not caring that it’s still hot. It scalds my tongue a little, and I can’t really taste it. But right now I just wish I could mainline the stuff.

  Jhez braces her hands on the edge of the counter and her knuckles stand out pale against her skin. Her lips thin into a tense line in the uncomfortable silence.

  “What’s my alternative? To stop taking them and trust him to be ethical, levelheaded, and considerate? Let’s be realistic here.” Not that I don’t think he’s capable of it. It’s not a question of capability or capacity, but of motivation and impetus. Lyche. Lyche are not renowned for their self-restraint. I’m surprised Jhez is having this conversation with me.

  “I don’t expect you to trust him.” She stares up at the ceiling and chews on her lower lip, then trains one of those intense gazes on me that I’ve forever been helpless to escape. “If he can do that to you, though,” she whispers, “perhaps with a little practice you could do the same to him. It must go both ways, this . . . whatever it is.” Jhez makes a motion with her hand that encompasses this thing she can’t put a name to. It frustrates her.

  Obviously. The kitchen looks as if some slave has scoured every inch with meticulous precision.

  There must be a window open somewhere, because a chill crawls over my skin and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

  Her idea has a measure of merit, I guess. He did crank my dials that first evening, but it didn’t go further than that. Object lesson? I truly didn’t expect the level of restraint he demonstrated. He was so angry. I’m in a very troublesome ethical quandary here, though. Turning the tables on him doesn’t sit well with me at all. I can see the benefits of it. Gaia, Leonard’s already accused me of manipulating him a few times now. Problem is, I have no idea what I’m doing or how to control it. If I were careful, subtle even, he might not even notice that I was influencing or manipulating him.

  What are the odds of that, though?

  “I’ll think about it.” It’s my ass on the line, not hers. Yes, she works for him. But that’s a purely temporary arrangement. I may be stuck in this for the long haul, but I doubt she is. Whatever decision I make, it would behoove me to wait until my sister is safely beyond the lyche’s grasp.

  Less leverage for him that way. He will have nothing to hold over me but my own existence. She won’t like that, but surely she shouldn’t expect me to attempt something so dangerous and unpredictable right now. When it would jeopardize both of us. When this whole thing might wear off and blow over in its own time.

  It could also get worse.

  Leonard alluded to the strong possibility of just that last night.

  That damned draft blows over my skin from somewhere again, and I take another drink of coffee. Jhez is staring at me, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Not sure if she’s trying to peer into my brain and catch my thoughts, or trying to convince me to do it now and lose the whole drawn-out suspense thing.

  I can tell this is going to be a bristling thicket of briers between us. She can be a mongoose when she sets her mind on something. It’s obvious she’s already decided this is the optimal course of action. Highly doubtful she’ll relent before I do.

  So I retreat with my hard-earned java and head for the bathroom. Maybe a long hot shower will help?

  Probably. Especially since I’m not the one footing the water bill anymore.

  I chug the last of my coffee and crank the water, undressing one-handed. The temperature of the shower spray is a shock, the hot water hitting my skin meshing with memories of Garthelle amping the sensation of pain. I’m huddled on his black carpet again, breathing in the smells of leather and dragon’s blood, arms wrapped around myself as if trying to keep my innards from exploding out through my skin. I feel fragile. On the cusp of shattering. Closing my eyes, I shove my head under the water and focus on the sensation of it running over me, down my face and neck, over my chest.

  Wet clumps of hair cling to my cheek. When I brush them away from my eyes, my nerve endings recall the faint touch of Garthelle’s fingertips as he tucked my hair back behind my ear so he could see my face.

  A shudder wracks my body and I shift in the spray, trying to chase the chill off my skin.

  He’s powerful, ruthless. There’s no way I can hope to control him. How could she even think me capable of it? Even if I could, I would have to stop taking Blue’s concoction to do so.

  Which would leave me vulnerable. He’d be able to do the same thing to me, if he wanted. And he’s had years more practice at it.

  His very survival depends on his ability to manipulate the minds of others. For how long, I don’t know. I have no idea how old he is. Cats. For the love of Gaia. Really? How did he go from a la feline to threats of fin tap so . . . easily?

  Why does Jhez think I can do this?

  Leonard’s face fills my vision, hovering over me on the couch. The look in his eyes.

  Was it just simple lyche hunger? Or something more? Nostrils flaring, drawing in my scent. Arms trembling. From his grip on the back of the couch. An effort to keep from touching me?

  The furniture had creaked audibly under the strain, after all. And he’d just fed. So it wasn’t purely a hunger for more energy. What then? I wish I understood what happened—what went wrong—when he fed from me.

  I still think it’s his fault. This never happened before him. I grimace. Well, not at this caliber, at least.

  I’m trying to negotiate my damp skin into my favorite pair of leather pants when I hear Jhez call from the living room. “The l
imo is downstairs waiting for us.”

  Because I’m in a rush, I hardly notice I can’t sense a single vampire in the vicinity. It’s invigorating and refreshing and utterly frightening all at once. Standing with my hand on the top edge of the limo’s door, I stare at the opaque shades blocking my view of Muscle’s gaze. The fine hairs all over my arms rise.

  I know without a doubt that the metro’s lyche didn’t collectively crawl back under the rocks where they came from. They’re still there. The pedestrian walking down the sidewalk, silhouetted in the flaring colors of sunset. The limo driver, whose reflection in the side mirror is frowning at me.

  In the back of my mind, I’d been convinced this was a temporary thing when it happened. That if I kept taking the dampener, I could find my way somehow to “see” through the side effects.

  “Damn it, Blue,” I mutter, and clench my teeth so hard my molars grind audibly as I climb into the dark interior of the vehicle. It smells of leather and merlot, tobacco smoke and cologne. The urge to escape is strong, even after the door latch engages and the locks all click into place. Jhez is glaring at me. My hands feel moist and clammy. I feel drenched in sweat. A very attractive concept, let me tell you.

  I can’t feel him. There’s no tug of tension in my chest to tell me whether he’s sitting in the front seat next to the driver or waiting at the chateau. I can’t tell. It’s going to drive me crazy, I just know it. Luckily, that dose I took last night should wear off in two or three hours.

  Not going to dose myself again. Not even if Blue threatens me with bodily harm. Just no. I can’t function this way. I’ve tried, hoping I would acclimate to not feeling them, to not knowing. Learn to work around it. Or through. Over. Under. Something.

  My pulse hammers through my temples, and my left eye is twitching. Odd. Leonard’s does that rather often. I rub at it, but it doesn’t stop. So I lean back into the seat and close my eyes, trying to relax. The adrenaline and panic of my racing heart make it a struggle to breathe deeply, but I shut out everything else and focus on pulling my chi down into my core, with the hope that it will calm me. Emotion feeding energy, and finding peace. Grounding.

  The limo comes to a halt and the black stone estate looms outside the tinted windows, a shadow within a shadow. It’s that brief moment when the world seems blurry. Not quite there. Not yet night, no longer day. That instance of suspension when everything and anything feels possible. No matter how fantastic or ridiculous, like maybe we’ll both survive another night with our sanity and appendages intact. And chi. That would be nice also.

  Jhez slides out of the limo in my wake and glances at me. Her expression is far from encouraging. Great. I glare at her in warning, but she brushes past me into the foyer, pretends to be oblivious.

  She stops just inside, and I practically run into her. Don’t blame her though; translucent black silk shrouds every inch of the walls, drapes every piece of furniture—tables, chairs, vases, mirrors, paintings. Not an inch of the interior remains untouched. The midnight cloud of despair—are they all attempting a flagrant display of gothic cliché “vampirism”? Or is the Monsieur of York making a formal demonstration of mourning?

  I cross my fingers and hope for the latter, although he has in my humble opinion gone completely overboard.

  Perhaps his mental scales have finally stopped teetering and tipped in the wrong direction. The thought is humorous. I hide a smile behind my fist and force a cough out to cover the giggle tickling the back of my throat.

  There isn’t much I can think of to say that doesn’t sound utterly sarcastic or inane as it bounces around inside my head. For instance, I was on the verge of saying, “Did someone die?”

  Must be another side effect of the drug cocktail or something. Yeah, that someone was my aunt. And this shouldn’t feel so ridiculously funny. Don’t want it to.

  I glance over at Jhez to see if I’m the only one getting a very strange—eerie, even—vibe about the interior design. Her face is scrunched up on the verge of laughter. Much as I had been just moments before.

  Great. Guess I should count myself lucky that she didn’t bust out when I did that cough.

  “It has a very . . . airy . . . feel to it, don’t you think?” I say finally, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially.

  She hiccups and squeezes her eyes shut, lips pursed in a tense line.

  Well. I thought of something to say after all, it seems.

  “Yes,” my sister declares, gasping. “Airy. Yes. Rather . . . free. Almost intangible.”

  “And no doubt difficult to clean.” I frown and try to look somber. Most likely I’m only succeeding in looking constipated. I don’t do serious well.

  Still, his dry-cleaning bill is going to be absolutely phenomenal.

  “Monsieur Garthelle awaits your presence in the parlor, if you will follow me?” The butler’s icy gaze seems blind as he bows in a smooth, precisely measured movement and swivels to lead us through the maze of Dragulhaven.

  His every footstep lands with obsessive precision on the tiled marble floor. I bet if I measure, his tread would be perfectly centered in each square.

  Slightly compulsive. As are the placement of ancient urns, whose locations appear haphazard. Far from it, I’m certain. I wonder what would happen if I moved them, at random, an inch or so out of position?

  Laughter tries to bubble up again.

  Sure as hell beats obsessing over the fact that even though I’m descending into the viper pits, I still can’t sense a single snake. I spend the next few moments mentally stringing together a colorful collection of expletives to suit the occasion, until I’m left with no recourse but to begin reusing some.

  “I’m feeling the urge to detour, I think.” Jhez doesn’t take the news of my inspiration very well, and even the butler striding ahead of us falters.

  “To where, exactly?” Is that a hint of resignation? Or curiosity? My sister has the inquisitiveness of a cat, most days. Maybe she’s off her game a little. Or maybe, like me, walking through the heart of lyche society just doesn’t sit well with her strong sense of self-preservation. Can’t blame her, there. She should try doing it sense-blind.

  “You remember Desmonde from that first night, I’m sure. There weren’t any good vibes going on there between her and Soiphe.”

  “She refused to be available when we were there yesterday, what makes you think she’s going to make a greater effort at any point in the near future?” Jhez laces her question with disdain the way an assassin would lace their victim’s food with arsenic.

  “Difficult to make yourself unavailable when you’re given no forewarning of invasion.”

  “So we just don’t knock?”

  I grin at her and catch the butler staring back at us over his shoulder. Slightly unprofessional, the wicked twist at the corner of his mouth. But he diverts down a side hallway without missing a beat, and I’ve no doubt where he’s leading us.

  “Something tells me Garthelle will be more explicit with the details of his requests for the foreseeable future.” Jhez is more amused than concerned, judging by the giggle of laughter she lets slip out.

  “Indeed,” the butler assures her in a dramatically mournful tone. “That only makes circumventing him a greater challenge though.”

  “I usually enjoy a good challenge.” Leonard’s butler is a man after my own heart. A pleasant surprise. And it’s a wonderful feeling to have an ally in this place. Not that it’ll get us very far, but I’m not about to complain—allies are in short supply here, where every lyche would as soon fin tap us as look at us. Never mind listen to the words that come out of our mouths. Which seriously makes me wonder what I’m planning to accomplish, confronting a decidedly hostile lyche on her own territory.

  “Stop overthinking it and second-guessing yourself. We’re doing this now, because there’ll be hell to pay for our indirect route as it is.” Jhez smacks me in the chest with the back of her hand—hard enough to sting—and I glare at her while rubbing at my abused pe
ctoral muscle.

  “Fine. Don’t blame it all on me when the shit hits the fan.”

  “Right. But if we somehow manage to pull this off, you’ll take all the credit for the idea.”

  I grin. “Of course.” Which gets me smacked again.

  The butler halts and turns to face us, gaze playing back and forth between us as he follows the verbal tennis match. He points at a vaguely familiar door a few dozen feet down the hall. “These are the assigned quarters of Madame Aidalisa Desmonde. I’m certain she’s still present within, as she’s not ventured out since . . . the incident.”

  Jhez arches her brows. “Hasn’t she.”

  “Nein. They all come to her.”

  “Like a queen holding court, if you ask me.” I grab Jhez by the elbow and move past the butler. “Wait here, if you would?”

  “I would not.” He trails in our wake, and Jhez grabs the door handle and twists without any preliminaries. “Not only don’t I wish to miss such a confrontation, but the Monsieur of York will have my neck in a noose if I leave your company prior to seeing you into his presence.”

  I glance at him, surprised at the man’s attentiveness to the nuances of his duties, and help Jhez muscle the heavy doors open. Talk about following the letter of the law instead of adhering to the spirit of it.

  Then again, all things considered, Leonard does enjoy a challenge. And a bit of spirit. I rub my fingers over the small bald patch hiding in my hair, and grind to a halt at the scene before me.

  Jhez straightens, her back stiffening. I recall Desmonde’s features and vivid hair color rather well and pick her out easily from the mass of bodies writhing on and around the couch. They’re everywhere. On the furniture, the floor, and a number of in-between combinations that train-wreck all rational thought. Has to be something like thirty of them, bodies gliding, humping, shuddering, glistening with sweat, and emitting occasional moans of pleasure. Desmond is at the center of their midst, half-clothed, one bare breast being palmed by the individual laving her neck with enthusiasm, while the male whose cock she’s sucking rather avidly is giving her sheathed breast some rather rough treatment.