Blacker than Black

by Rhi Etzweiler

  Leonard heaves, pushing Noire backward onto the ground. “Then perhaps you should give serious consideration to the possibility that Black is not, in fact, your get after all?” He steps in front of me, blocking my view of Noire, and reaches a hand back toward me, fingers flexed, palm up.

  I’m confused. Noire alluded to me being pure-blood while we were driving away from Dragulhaven. Did he truly just say it to throw me off balance, believing it false?

  Oh, this is Vincent Noire we’re talking about. Of course he would do that. Without hesitation.

  I weave my fingers through Leonard’s and step in close, resting my forehead against the back of his neck. I’m not sure what the ramifications are, or why he’s doing it, but it sounds distinctly like he’s maneuvering my sire into disowning me. Denying my parentage formally.

  “This lyche cannot possibly be my blood. My wife was human.” His voice is flat, a hint of shock threading through his tone.

  “And thus the one he calls sister, his twin, is not your blood either.”

  “If one is lyche, they both are. They are not my blood.”

  “Not of your blood, not of your household. Not yours to take.” Leonard’s shoulders droop a fraction of an inch and he exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed from his body as he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. He dips his head. “My thanks, Premier Noire, for assisting me in resolving this situation.”

  I hear the scuff of stones as the Alpha lyche shifts and regains his feet.

  “You’re welcome, Monsieur Garthelle.” Noire returns the nod of acknowledgement. Respect between equals, then. A truce.

  Though only Gaia can possibly understand how a Monsieur could match a Premier.

  “One minor detail, though.” Noire’s voice purrs, thick with humor. “One of the mutts—or whatever they are—has something of mine. I require its return.”

  Leonard straightens, fingers tightening in mine, aura twining up my arm to meld into me, crawling up my shoulder, into my torso. He tugs me close against his back, and the connection between us flares sun-bright in my eyes for a heartbeat.

  “And what might that be.” The Monsieur of York is tense and cautious.

  I cant my head to the side and watch as Noire nods toward the vehicle. “I hit her with a substantive burst of energy. I invoke retrieval rights.”

  “You seem to have difficulty grasping this point, Premier, so I will reiterate. This is no longer Alpha territory. Such rights do not translate.”

  Noire sheds the mask of civility with such speed that I take an involuntary step back. The raging inferno is back in his eyes, the transformation to primal creature terrifying to behold. Leonard releases my hand, but his aural connection remains, strong and solid. Anchored deep, twining around the throbbing ball of tainted chi in my core. He can feel it; he must know it’s there. That it’s not his. Not what he put there, shared with me.

  He steps toward Noire and pulls on me, channeling the energy into his arm as his fist connects with the Premier’s face. Noire has the weight advantage, though, and encircles Leonard with his arms, immobilizing him. They struggle, twist, grunt; Leonard batters at Noire’s kidneys with dogged persistence, despite not having the space to get much force behind the blows. Noire twists again, snarling, and suddenly the pair are rolling around in the gravel.

  It’s something out of a nightmarish bar brawl.

  Leonard’s face is utterly devoid of emotion—calm, collected, thoroughly in control of his faculties—as he gains the upper hand, straddling Noire, both hands wrapped firmly around the lyche’s neck. The pulsing glow of his aura reaches all the way up to his elbows.

  “You will not take back what is given, Vincent Noire. Not on Modere lands. I protect what is mine.” Not even a hint of strain in his voice, though I expected to hear something.

  “They’re mutts,” Noire rasps. His voice sounds different, the lilt not unlike Farken’s, the register eerily similar as well. “Just because I disown them doesn’t mean I don’t have every right to claim one if I so choose.” He arches up violently, attempting to dislodge Leonard, fingers digging into him, grasping, clawing for a counter-hold.

  “You will not relent?” Leonard moves his head, shifts his body, easily avoiding Noire’s hands.

  “Never.” Noire’s voice is deeper, hoarser, with that edge of a rasp that made my skin crawl when Farken first spoke to me. Leonard pulls again, the connection between us flaring thick and strong. “I am Alpha Premier. I’ll do whatever I please, where I please, when I please. And not even you can stop me. You don’t dare.”

  “Don’t I.” Leonard sounds sad, and the emotion feels counterintuitive with every inch of his body straining. He glances up at me. “This is going to sting a bit, mon noire.” One corner of his mouth twitches up. “Come put your hand on my neck, would you?”

  Despite my reluctance—and it’s strong—to get within arm’s reach of a violent dominance struggle between lyche, I trust him implicitly. His gaze is calm, steady as he looks at me. As though it’s not the Alpha Premier he’s got pinned to the gravel drive, but a mangy stray with a thorn in its paw.

  The nape of his neck is warm, soft smooth skin radiating heat into my palm. His aura flows out, enveloping me, and though I dare not close my eyes, I relax into the sensation. A hug, a lover’s embrace, manifesting intangibly. The connection between us, his aura rooted in my core, pulses and strengthens, then pulls Noire’s energy out of me.

  I watch the aural glow on Leonard’s arms mute from that familiar golden hue into something like an overcast, dreary fall evening. He pushes the energy down into Noire, and the Premier relaxes into the connection, opening himself.

  A triumphant sneer curls his mouth, and the struggle goes out of him completely. “I always get what I want in the end, Leonard Garthelle. You’d be wise to remember that in the future.” His hands fall away, arms lax, sprawled there, letting Leonard do all the work.

  “I shall, Vincent Noire. I certainly shall. Forever.” Leonard tenses, hands tightening, legs clenching tight against the body of his former childhood friend. And I watch him wrench at the flux of energy between them, reversing the flow.

  Pulling the chi from Noire in a torrent of screaming shadowy aural energy.

  The Alpha’s scream of anguish is enough to flay every nerve in my body, and I struggle to stay relaxed, to keep standing there with my palm hot and moist now against Leonard’s neck. Noire flails and writhes, pushes, resists, but he relaxed when Leonard pushed and the connection is seated too deeply.

  There’s nothing he can do to dislodge it, now. The flow of chi fluctuates, surging, staggering, but doesn’t reverse again, fueled by Leonard’s determination. Pulling, and then pushing it through our connection, back into me, because the cumulative power of a Premier is too much for one Monsieur-level lyche to contain alone. The filth too much of a burden for a Modere to carry alone. I want to turn my face away, to close my eyes, my ears, against what I’m witnessing, but I don’t.

  Because the man—the lyche—down there on the gravel trapped beneath my lover isn’t my sire. Bears no resemblance to the father I knew in my childhood. Perhaps once upon a time, he struggled against the darker edge of the forces manipulating him. It’s apparent he doesn’t any longer. He stopped being my father long before he spoke the words to disown me.

  And because Leonard is doing this to protect me.

  A Modere, of all things. The feline connoisseur. “Leonard?” I tighten my hand on his neck, trying to get his attention. “What are you doing?”

  Noire makes a disturbing gargling sound, like he’s drowning. Or choking. His face is pale and sickly-looking beneath the natural flush of his complexion.

  If Leonard doesn’t stop soon—real soon—he’s going to fin tap.

  From cats to killing. That speaks volumes to the nature of my influence on him, in . . . what? One week? Two, at most? I’ve lost track of how much time has passed.

  I get no response from Leonard, though, not even a nonverbal one
. Grabbing both his shoulders, I try to leverage him back. Away from Noire. To break his hold, distract him, something.

  He only growls and leans forward, the flow of chi thickening noticeably.

  No. I can’t stand by and watch him do this. Shred every last vestige of his ethics, of what and who he is. Not even in my defense. Squatting behind him, I wrap my arms around his torso and wrench him off Noire with all my strength.

  He struggles against me, and we roll sideways onto the gravel, the weight of his body crushing my arm into the sharp stones. The aural connection between us pulses thickly with the energy he’s absorbed, trying to find a balance, but the tension in him, the resistance in me, keeps it from occurring. It sets off an ache behind my breastbone that’s all too reminiscent of the incident with Ardienne. Heartburn, indigestion, the burgeoning need for release.

  When Leonard continues to struggle against me, I twist him away from Noire and release him, pushing to my knees to stare at him. “Do you even realize what you almost did just now?”

  There’s fury in his expression, determination, but I know the emotions aren’t aimed at me. I can feel them echoing in his aura, ugly puddles of dark red and hunter green, muddied by the sludge of what he’s siphoned off my sire.

  “I protect what I love,” he growls, regaining his footing. Slowly. Despite all the energy he’s drained from Noire, his body hasn’t absorbed it. He must’ve depleted his own chi to dangerous levels.

  “But you don’t have to kill to do that. Please.” I glance back at the Alpha Premier, still prone on his back. Breathing and alive, but just barely. His aura is as pale as the sickly cast in his face, and in some spots nonexistent. I almost didn’t stop him in time. “Do you truly believe that this will solve the problem? Becoming what he is, sinking to his level? Gaia, eye for an eye, fin tap for fin tap? He’s not going to be Premier of anything anymore, not anytime soon.”

  Leonard wavers, unsteady on his feet, and I lunge to catch him before he falls, hooking my arms around his waist and standing up slowly. His gaze remains on Noire, whose every breath is a shallow, rattling pant, whose eyes stare unfocused and unseeing at the sky.

  “He won’t stop until you’re dead. Do you realize that?” Very little inflection in his tone, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not willing to risk that. Even if it means I have to forfeit my association with Modere.” He turns and looks at me, finally, chest lifting beneath my encircling arm as he inhales deeply. Calmer now.

  The prospect of calm, rational violence from him frightens me even more. The logic circuit didn’t disengage. He knew precisely what he was doing a few moments ago, and why, and what the consequences would be. And planned to do it anyways.

  “No.” I shake my head, shove him toward the car. Weak and unbalanced, Leonard catches himself against the quarter panel and braces his hands behind him on the slick hood, his brows furrowing down in confusion. “I won’t let you do it.” It takes less effort this time to channel energy up through my shoulder, down my arm as I stretch it toward Noire. I let it build in my palm for a few seconds. “As you protect me, Leonard Garthelle.”

  Leonard’s eyes widen, and he tries to push away from the car, toward me. Shakes his head, lips moving wordlessly.

  The burst of energy, recycled from Farken and Noire himself, is a darker hue of ethereal yellow, like sunlight through heavy smog. It slams into my sire’s chest, a burning, searing flood of energy channeling through my arm, and I’ve no idea what it’s going to do to him but I’m rather certain it’ll be a while before I have feeling in any of these nerve endings again.

  Vincent Noire closes his eyes, then opens them and stares at me as his entire body goes ramrod stiff. A wordless scream from his gaping mouth, and he arches up off the gravel drive until the only thing touching are his heels and head.

  “You invoked retrieval rights, Premier. Here, you may have it.” I smile at him, just before his eyes roll up into the back of his head.

  “Shit, Black.” Leonard grabs my arm, hard, and I have no idea how he does it, but his aura twines into mine and cuts off the flow. “Enough. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”

  He deserves it for what he almost made Leonard do just now. For what he did to Jhez earlier. For what he did to us decades ago. Being too weak to stand beside us, walking away. The path of least resistance is rarely the best.

  Leonard leans into me, looping his free arm around my back, grip relaxing on my arm but not letting go. The heat of his body and the flushing tingle of his aura suffuse me with a flood of emotions and pheromones.

  I know Noire was my sire, despite his revocation of the claim. I recognize him. Dead, now—I watch his chest for movement, not daring to look away yet, but there’s nothing—but that doesn’t matter.

  My mother lied to him? Did she somehow keep her true nature a secret? Or were all those claims of full lyche blood just manipulation and maneuvering between Monsieur and Premier? “Thank you, Leonard.” I hook my arm around his neck and rest my forehead against his temple. I wouldn’t have made it out of that room alive if he hadn’t intervened.

  “You’re welcome.” He pulls back a fraction, gaze trailing over my face before meeting mine again. The hue of his irises is pale, like the splash of yellow in a watercolor wash. “I protect those I love,” he whispers, tilting his head to brush his lips against mine.

  “So do I.” I tighten my arms around him, letting my chi bleed into his, basking in the mesh of our auras, and glance around at the destruction and rubble.

  Always, endless gratitude to my siblings for their unwavering belief.

  My thanks to: Aleks, Gil, Audra, Oleg, Mike. This wouldn’t have happened without each of you. It takes a village to raise a child, and you have been that to this story as it took on a life of its own.

  Finally, my gratitude to the professional staff of Riptide for their unflagging dedication to this project. Their efforts are what have brought this vision to fruition.

  Dark Edge of Honor, with Aleksandr Voinov

  Rhi Etzweiler’s formative years were spent steeped in military culture, and many writing inspirations bear that mark—with a definitive twist. Though focusing mainly on science fiction and fantasy, Rhi enjoys spicing things up with a speculative mixture that sometimes defies an easy label. Next to Elizabeth Moon and Meredith Ann Pierce, Jane’s Defense and Popular Science are counted among still-strong influences. “I used to read these articles about cutting-edge technology and science, and wonder what impact it would have on society and culture. How it would change us.”

  Rhi’s biggest failing is the inability to write a “short” story—they may begin that way, but they rarely stay small. “It’s like asking someone to tell you about their life,” Rhi says of the muses. “Like any real person, once you get them talking, it’s unlikely they’ll shut up any time soon.”

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  Table of Contents

  Title page

  TABLE OF CONTENTS