Though neither of them had known how bad it would be before they had entered the city. The court had been virtually bankrupt for years. In those first few months they had slept in a leaking cellar without electricity or even a roof over the structure above them. The few paranormals remaining in the territory who had served in the old court had either been too corrupt or too vulnerable to leave.
Taking on Tirana had not been a prize, his chances of success had been slim and when he chose to take it, he had known one of the few things which might make it possible, bearable, was Jen’s promise to come along. Fabian had not realised, could not have foreseen, that something here would harm her without anyone noticing.
Jen was a wizard with organisation and had, by the age of twenty-six, carved out a reputation for considered, and profitable, investment advice in her position as financial manager at one of the main Italian banks. Even though, the first year had been harsh, whilst he had worked to consolidate his power and root out the last vestiges of the old regime she had tried to reinvigorate the court’s finances and establish an actual court for his vassals.
By winter she had managed to put a roof over their heads but it had still been outside their means to pay for electricity for more than a few hours a night. They had run most of their business needs from a laptop piggybacking on unsecured internet hotspots across the city. If he had not been so tired in those first few months, it might have been fun watching Jen replenish their dwindling finances by applying her not inconsiderable strategic ability to gambling with tourists. But they had made it — or so he had thought.
Fifteen months after entering Tirana he had realised something was wrong, that he might be losing his best friend over gaining a territory court. As life settled, it became more and more apparent it was not only the constant exhaustion which affected Jen — but something more fundamental. The warm and happy woman he had brought with him had turned into a quiet, cold, even distant, member of his court. After that one afternoon when he had found her in her study, dozing and unwell, he had set his mind on discovering what was happening to her — without avail. He had even consulted three doctors, medical and psychological, but the only result had been a further withdrawal when she had found out. He had had his suspicions, even then, and now he hoped, with all his heart, it had not been his own egotism which had kept him from acting on those. He hoped he had only acted out of concern for her as he dithered.
Then, two months ago she had fainted and he had realised time had run out. In desperation, Fabian had turned to Lady Justitiana, asking her to recall Jen under her care. Instead, she had suggested he offer his best friend to someone who was better placed to take advantage of the situation. That was why he was sending her away.
“I am sorry, Jen. Your train leaves tonight — he insisted on your arrival before Thursday, before the 14th.”
“Well, I have always dreamt of Valentine’s Day in Paris.” Bitterness suffused each word. He hated the resignation in her eyes, a capitulation to a hopelessness he could not explain. When she spoke, he realised he would be unable to spare her even more pain. He hated the position he, they all, had forced her into and with a sinking feeling he admitted to himself that he was to be blamed for it, at least to a large part.
“You have not left me a lot of time to pack my things. I will get on with it then. Don’t expect me to say goodbye, Milord.”
He had not. He could have argued it was all because he had so desperately searched for another solution, but in the end it did not change the facts. She did not look at him, dismissing him and her anger at him. Her hand had reached for the computer bag at her feet, the constant companion of her life. How often had he offered to replace the threadbare bag with something more durable or stylish? How often had she told him she loved that bag and its patches because it was a record of her life? How could he take the last bit of safety, of dignity, from her? But he had to.
“You won’t be able to take anything with you.”
She had already risen, turned to the door but his words halted her, drew her back to face him seemingly against her own will.
“What?!?”
He took a deep breath and realised, with a bitter sense of amusement, that his shoulders had tensed in a discomfort bordering on fear. He was a vampire, for Christ’s sake! And she was nothing more than a slip of a girl, no matter how much he loved her. At least so he told himself as he tried to find his spine. Then he exhaled with his own, personal realisation of defeat. Five years ago she might have exploded, yelled, given him a precious spark of temper before cutting him down with cold sarcasm and sharp logic. Today, he would be lucky if she raised her voice, though he was certain her fear, the source of the temper, would be nonetheless real. The tight control she did not let him break was strangling her.
“I am sorry. Lord Adrian has requested you bring nothing with you — he will provide all you need.”
Fabian saw the disbelief in her eyes, held them and watched the emotion be replaced by terror and anger as she realised he was not in jest, that she would be leaving her home, being handed over into the charge of a man she had met only a few times before, without even the comfort of her own possessions. He saw how the realisation of utter vulnerability, of the loss of control and the trepidation of what was to come settled on her shoulders, tensed the small muscles around her mouth into hard lines, darkened her eyes and he cursed the orders he had been given. Adrian, the Lord of Paris, the man he entrusted with his best friend because in reality he had no choice either, had known exactly what he demanded, what he would be doing to her with those demands. Her new liege had wanted her completely at his mercy — physically, emotionally and mentally. Fabian could see the beginning of it settling into her subconscious now.
“You cannot expect me to simply leave everything behind. My whole life.”
“Everything you leave behind will be kept in storage for you, safe and sound, until you can return for it or have it shipped to you.”
“So you have not only sold me; you have also robbed me of all my possessions. Has someone reminded you that you are not God — and that I am not your slave?”
“No, you’re not. But you swore an oath of fealty for five years, so until the time when the oath expires in three months, you are under my protection and under obligation to follow my orders. All my orders.”
“It’s archaic. It is not even legal.” Even though she had grown up in a vampire court, her modern mind was unable to truly comprehend some aspects of their lives. She would learn. Unfortunately, she would have to. In the end, she would not have a choice but to learn. No human court would be able to enforce the oaths she had sworn, but any paranormal would, and there was no place on this earth she could have run to in order to escape their rule. She knew at least that much.
“I truly am sorry, Jen.”
There was a long silence, not any less bitter for the empty space it seemed to fill between them.
“You bastard, you utter bastard.” And then, so quiet a human would not have been able to make it out: “I hate you.”
He did not doubt the honest depth of feeling in her voice.
“I know.”
Did his voice hold even a modicum of the pain in his heart? He doubted it. No matter, she did not react to it anyway. She turned to leave, her steps stiff and ungainly as if she were an old woman. In the door she hesitated for a moment, her hand on the doorframe and he hoped, just for a moment, she would say something, anything, to indicate he had not destroyed their friendship entirely.
“Please send my possessions to my parents. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
As the door closed behind her he felt a tear on his cheek, its heated path so unfamiliar it took him a moment to identify its source. He had not cried since he had been a young child but then, his heart had never broken before.
Paris
The train entered Paris’s Gare de Lyon with a ten minute delay, a circumstance which gave Jen a strange kind of satisfaction. It was 22.34 on the
evening of February thirteenth. She had taken the latest possible train which would get her to Paris in time to meet the deadline imposed on her. The small, childish gesture gave her a peculiar sense of satisfaction. It was a rebellion of a kind and it felt good. She might be helpless, might have no way to resist the order, the summons; but at least she could stretch it to its breaking point.
The first impression she carried of Paris as she stepped off the TGV she had boarded at her last change in Karlsruhe, was that of cold misery. Tirana was further south and its proximity to the Mediterranean made for a milder climate than that of the rainy February night in Paris. She shivered, realising the last few years had spoiled the continental weather for her. The icy wind plastered her too thin black coat to her body, the rain drenching the platform, penetrating almost painfully to her skin within seconds. Her shoulders hunched in misery when the icy drops infiltrated even her heavy hair, running in glacial paths along her scalp and into her nape.
The temperature in the train carriage, which had seemed to rise with every kilometre they had come closer to the French capital, had left her skin overheated, making the sudden exposure to the elements even more miserable for her. At least here her lack of luggage was of advantage — she was able to weave her way through the crowds of passengers greeting relatives, or collecting their belongings, to hustle out of the cold rain on the platform into the station proper.
Her eyes searched for the signs denoting the closest taxi rank when she spotted a short man holding a placard with her name in large cursive script over his balding head. Jennifer Ashton. It seemed the court of Paris had at least sent a car for her — or was it a jailor to ensure she made it all the way to the palais at the Tuileries? It mattered little; she had grown up among the paranormals and knew too well that there was no escape from this, no place on this earth she could run to where they could not find her, if not the vampires then any of the other races owing allegiance to the courts. A broken contract, a forsaken oath, was no laughing matter in her world and the punishments were severe.
Still, for just one moment her crazy brain dangled the image of her ducking out the side entrance, disappearing into the crowds never to be seen again, before her eyes. She had been travelling for almost twenty-three hours across four nations and at each change, each stop, the same fantasies of simply disappearing had risen — and had been discarded. It was not even because her chance of success would have been so low, or the practicalities of an escape so complicated. On TV it might be easy to get fake id and escape the badies in an untraceable car, but Jen was a normal middle class woman, or as normal as you got growing up among paranormals. She had no idea how any of this would work but the fact she had considered it said something about her state of mind. She also had discarded any each and every half-formed plan.
The problem was, she had been formed by the paranormal courts just as much as their non-human members had been. No matter how much she had raged at Fabian, how she had scoffed at his oaths and talk of the responsibilities of a vassal to his liege, in the end she was not willing to forsake her word, or her honour, either. The realisation brought a smile to her lips but not even the most absent-minded passer-by would have considered it to hold even a hint of amusement. The realisation of not being human enough, not where it counted, was hard to swallow for Jennifer. With a sigh, Jen turned towards the sign proclaiming her name to all and sundry.
“Mademoiselle.”
The man had the look shared by a thousand drivers of a thousand car services all across the world, only the little bow held a distinction one was tempted to call French. And even though her inner critic wanted to accuse her of stereotyping, it was hard to ignore a thought already formed, in particular in face of the automatic charm the small, moustached man exuded. She bet he made lots of tips with the older crowd of the female persuasion. Not being above eighty and on a shopping spree to spend her pension and amuse her poodle, Jen was left cold by his practiced demeanour. She offered him her hand instead, daring him, with her eyes, to even consider kissing it. With one look at her face he refrained from it. Smarter than he looked then.
Despite his too practiced charm he was polite, and mildly amusing, as he led her through the bustling station hall towards the exit.
“Is Mademoiselle on her first visit to our beautiful city?”
“Yes.” He seemed little perturbed by her taciturn answer.
“Pleasure of business? I hope pleasure. A beautiful, young woman like you should never come only for business.”
She was drawn into his ridiculous banter despite her best intentions. Still, it was not designed to make her forget the reasons for which she had come to town for.
“Business. Only business.”
“Ah, but it is the city of love. You might be surprised by it.”
There was a gentle self-mockery in his saccharine tone which invited the listener to take part in the joke at his expense. It made her grin, even if only for a split second. It also made her think.
He was human. It had taken her a little time to be sure of it, but she now was. Moreover, she was sure he was unconnected to, even unaware of, the paranormal courts. The second puzzled her. It helped, helped to keep her mind from running endlessly over the fact that her best friend had sold her vassal contract to another. It helped with the impotent fear and loneliness boiling in her mind.
She wanted those churning emotions to stop, to go away so that her mind could think again. She knew this world, even knew her new liege a little. As long as she fulfilled her duties, there was no need to be afraid. What was the difference, if she did her job in Tirana or Paris? Well, she assumed the inhabitants of both cities might object to her cavalier treatment of their beautiful towns, but to her, there was no difference where she worked. She did her job, curled up in her room, then repeated the process. Sun in Tirana, rain in Paris — not much of a difference for her life.
But for the first time in her adult life she would be without her best friend. She should hate him, wanted to hate him, but somehow was unable to. Under her fear, under her anger, her mind was constantly trying to find excuses for him. Flashing back to memories of their shared past. The laughter when he had found her dancing in the library, his face so grave and serious before. The times he had quizzed her first few dates until the Lady herself had told him to leave her be. Not that it had helped her dating life much — it was interesting how many cousins, uncles, friends of the family (none of whom looked anything like her) one could run into when going to the cinema. The joys of growing up among apex predators with overprotective tendencies. The thought made her smile in homesick appreciation.
It was strange to be here without Fabian, to start a new chapter of her life without him. She never had had to. Jen remembered the way he had celebrated her first job with her, ridiculously pleased at her success, and the times they had rested in each others company. How could this man, her confidante of so many years, have deserted her, given her away like a piece of furniture? As so many times over the last months, emotions became too much to bear, her ability to disengage her mind failing every day more.
She had no idea when it had started but by now there were times when touching an object, running her hand along the side of a table for example, became an agony of overload. She felt everything, unable to filter out even the smallest aspect of awareness. The sound of her skin on wood filled her ears, the cold of the surface was strong enough to make her feel burnt, the texture grated on her fingers. Emotions, good or bad, had become her enemy, swamping her mind with relentless, and conflicting, pressures. Headaches became her constant companions.
Jen struggled to fix her mind on the important things, had started to limit her human interactions simply because she could not face the stimulus. And none of the doctors she had consulted, not the one Fabian had been aware of, nor the five others, had found anything wrong. When the last one wanted to commit her to the psych ward for a few nights, for her own good he had said, she stopped going and concentrated on the
coping mechanisms she had developed over the months. The most successful tool in her mental repertoire was to detach herself from sensation and emotion by concentrating on something innocuous with all her might. She grasped for that now, concentrated on wondering about her driver’s human condition in more detail.
It was not impossible for a human to be part of a paranormal court, her parents were proof of this. In general, if the human had useful skills he or she was inducted to the court with an oath not dissimilar to the blood oath of a courtier, acquiring the protection and care of the Lord in exchange of exclusive use of their talents in service of the court. It provided lifelong security and the positions were highly sought after. Though, the emphasis was on lifelong here — betrayal or non-performance of agreed duties could easily shorted that life. Among the paranormal set a contract dispute did not end up in the justice system, at least not a human one.
The pertinent point here was that her driver had shown none of the telltale signs of a man used to dealing with paranormals, with Others. He was treating her as a job and she was almost certain that he truly was what he appeared — a hired driver without any connection to the paranormal world. So the Lord of Paris had sent a car for her, but had not seen it necessary, or prudent, to send a member of his court. To the soundtrack of the car door falling closed behind her she wondered if it should insult or frighten her.
It took less than twelve minutes for the limousine to travel the five kilometres between the station and the Paris court in the centre of town and with each metre she felt the presence of the lord of the city more. It worried her. Not even in Venice, under the presence of Justitiana, whose power levels were considerable, had she felt the mental presence of the liege holding power in the town with such intensity. She felt smothered, slowly subsumed, a pressure rising, collecting as a weight on her chest, turning each breath into labour. The cold sheen of sweat rose uncomfortable on her skin, collecting as a salty layer. No matter how often she licked her lips, how convulsively she swallowed, she could not dispel its taste from her mouth, the scent of her own fear from her nostrils. By the time they reached the old palais in the Rue Bonaparte her knees were shaking. Her hand on the door handle, Jen had to wait for a moment, collect her thoughts, before she could allow the chauffeur to open the door.
By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) Page 2