Unrequited

by Camille Oster

  "Yes, it is. At least be honest with yourself—we deserve it. People are dying and you can't even be honest about the reason," she said harshly. This wasn't true. He moved toward the door, but she appeared in front of him. "Others must die so you can live, and you won't even acknowledge that. Perhaps that's the biggest insult."

  Castran felt hemmed in, still battling with an irrational desire to save her. Subconsciously he'd be searching for some way to restore her, or at least to find some way of co-existing, but the truth was that there was no escaping her death—one he'd caused. He'd killed her and there was no use wanting that undone. "I'm sorry I killed you," he admitted.

  She blinked. "You think I'm after an apology?" she laughed.

  "What are you after?"

  "My objectives haven't changed. I want you ended, destroyed."

  It hurt to think that she was so close to him, knew him and still wished him ill. She fed from him and he wanted her, and she still felt nothing but cold hate. "You've always had the power to. Didn't you realize that?" Somehow, he'd expected that she wanted something more from him, because the truth was that he'd wanted something more from her.

  "Just been gathering my strength."

  Castran forced a lopsided grin, because she'd been zapping his—not just his blood, but slowly his confidence and peace of mind. It had all been a clever trick. She'd forced him to look at himself and what they did. Just like the soothsayer had told him to do to her. Now he felt tired. She had been better at this than him.

  "Who'd you kill today?"

  "Some kid," he admitted, unable to lie anymore. "Not much different from you." She moved closer and he still wanted her, wanted her near, wanted comfort from the one who would never give it to him. "I tried to make him stop."

  "See, you can't. It's you they object to." She was close now; he could feel goosebumps rising all over his body. He just wanted her warm, coming near him—accepting him. But that was the point: she didn't, fundamentally rejecting everything he was, and it wasn't just his position, it was him.

  "You're cruel."

  "You're cruel," she accused. "I'm just pointing it out. You've always been heartless, and you always will be. Things will never change. You will keep killing, anyone who stands in your way; our lives just a passing side-note in your stellar existence."

  She was moving toward him and he was backing away, feeling cornered. Nothing she said was a lie. He felt his own weakness. She was growing strong and he was weakening. Also aware that if he bested her, weakened her, he had to become much harder, colder—the way Tarquin was. Youthful arrogance didn't cut it anymore; this was the sacrifice. There was no fairy tale ending here where they would find some compromise and learn to exist, maybe even thrive. There was no way he could continue this existence with his conscience intact either. This was kill or be killed, and he would be unrecognizable on the other side. He could feel the chill of it already, emanating from the future, where hope didn't exist.

  "I can't," he said, more to himself.

  "You will. I won't stop. It will never stop, unless you are defeated, or you defeat me. Looks like I'm winning."

  He could feel her now, the chill growing, her rage cresting, but he still wanted her. She would never forgive him, never save him from the sheer loneliness that lay ahead. How desperate was he if he clung onto a ghost to save his own humanity?

  His fingers touched her and she felt solid, but cold as ice. There was icy wind, whipping around the apartment. This was her doing. She was gathering her forces, ready to rip him apart.

  "Just do as you will," he said, feeling utterly defeated, and the truth was, it wasn't her—she was just the mechanism. He didn't have the heart to fight her.

  The pressure in the room built painfully. He felt it pressing on his chest, on his eardrums. It still wasn't as scary as the future he faced.

  Icy fingers dug into his chest. This was it. He felt the chill around his heart. It would be over soon. He was giving in to her, placing himself in her hateful hands, because the alternative seemed a worse option. On some irrationally hopeful level, he wished she did this with some empathy—but maybe the wish for it was enough. Pain seared through him, so harsh he couldn't even vocalize it, then blackness encroached.

  Chapter 14:

  * * *

  Castran woke with a start, his heart pounding painfully. Twisting sharply, he searched for her, wondering what was going on. Sun streaming into the room. There was nothing, empty. His eyes roamed the space, but he couldn't see her. Pushing off the bed, he strode to the bathroom, but she wasn't there, either. Not a trace of her.

  As he returned, he knew full well that she wasn't there. He strode out of the apartment, searching for a sense of her, the feeling he had when she was there, but there was nothing. Not by the pool, or in the hall, or downstairs. There was nothing.

  He felt abandoned. He'd been abandoned. Last night, he'd given in, expecting… He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting—to die, maybe—probably. Everything he had, he'd given to her last night, and now there was complete emptiness.

  This couldn't be it. It couldn't be over. He wasn't ready to be alone again.

  Icy tightness gripped his chest when he returned to his room, not knowing what to do, but he set off down to the garage. The iciness had nothing to do with her. It was an altogether different dread. Making his way to their private airfield, he went in search for the cave in Iceland. Physical iciness hit him now. In his rush, he hadn't dressed. The airplane was warm, but as soon as he landed, cold seeped into his bare feet and snowflakes prickled as they landed on his bare shoulders. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

  "Where is she?" he demanded as he marched into the cave. It appeared empty at first, but he wasn't accepting that. "Where is she?"

  A rustling sound came from the back and he waited. This was the only source of answers. There had to be a way of fixing this.

  "You succeeded," the woman said after a while.

  "This isn't how it's supposed to be." It was all he could manage to say. "I didn't succeed. I wasn't trying to destroy her. I… " He couldn't go on, explain what his intentions had been. The fear to appear weak was too ingrained.

  "She has released you," the woman said with a dismissive wave.

  "I don't want to be released," he said through gritted teeth.

  She stopped and watched him for a moment. "The connection is broken. I can see nothing of it anymore. She has released you."

  "How do I get her back?" he asked carefully, wary that he wanted to hit something.

  The woman sighed. "You cannot. It was always her hold on you that secured her here. She is gone now, absorbed by the ether."

  This wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. "How do I reach her?"

  "She is gone," the woman repeated in a stronger tone. "Probably no longer sentient. Just get used to it. Count yourself lucky she released you. Perhaps she forgave you, after all."

  Castran's mouth hung open for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts.

  "Lucky indeed," she said, shuffling over to a pile of junk and lifting something off it. "Hauntings can go on forever."

  Castran closed his mouth. That's what he wanted. He wanted her back, wanted her there in his rooms, waiting for him to return—to spar, to feed. His very own tormentor. It was an existence he'd been fully prepared to embrace. He clenched his teeth together. Loneliness stretched out before him, years and years of it.

  Closing his eyes, he shifted his head.

  "Can't make a life with a ghost, boy," she said. "A creature of vengeance, she was, and she exacted her revenge on you. In the good graces of the fates, you survived."

  "She didn't want my death," he finally said. He snorted. "She wants me to live with her death." He turned to leave.

  "This will pass in time," she said. "You will forget."

  "No, I won't," he muttered as he left the icy cave, almost preferring it to the emptiness at home. Bitterness filled his insides, but it couldn't entirely quench the
hopeless ache in his chest. Suddenly he wanted to gather every trace of her, but the landlord would have disposed of her things by now. Why hadn't he taken steps to preserve them? He'd seen it all as trash at the time, that apartment that smelled like her, held all the things she'd treasured—except the journal. He still had that. The only proof she ever existed at all.

  PART II – TARQUIN

  Chapter 15:

  * * *

  Cassandra Wilkes got into one of the sleek, black Chartrice Inc cars after Ramone, her superior, sitting down on the stiff, cream leather and closing the door. They were driving to Geneva. The boss, the real boss, in a car ahead had some kind of meeting today. It was expected to be a low key affair without much incident, but they always had to be vigilant. The rebels were always trying to get Tarquin Chartrice, above all others—seen as the symbol for the strength of the current regime. Every regime had its opposition. It has always been that way. Someone always lost in a power structure, and they were sore about it. Greed pushed people to action, even if they told themselves some altruistic reason for what they were doing. Whatever pure aims the rebels had when they’d started, they had been corrupted by their own violence, forcing a more violent response. It was a never-ending circle, which Cassandra couldn't see an end to. These things didn't end; they were a constant battle.

  It would be a nice world when everyone could sit down and talk through their problems, but the world just didn't work that way. And someone had to keep the regime intact. So many people would lose if this regime fell, including her family.

  Tarquin Chartrice was a brutal man. He did the things that were necessary, and some of it wasn't always pleasant. With the exception of the rebels, the Chartrices and the larger regime behind them kept the peace. Families prospered and societal structures kept everything going. Dealing with the dark underside was necessary, and she was a part of that operation.

  Growing up as part of one of the lesser families, it had always been expected that she would serve in some capacity, and her skills and intelligence had soon been discovered. She had a knack for anticipating the enemy's tactical plans, which Ramone appreciated. He listened to her when her gut told her something, and the job paid well.

  The countryside flashed by as they traveled fast down the motorways. There were faster ways to travel, but the boss preferred this. It did give one time to think, she supposed, checking yet again that her guns and knives were safely tucked into their holsters.

  "Is there anything particular we need to watch for?" she asked.

  "We've had no specific intelligence. It appears the rebels aren't aware of this meeting, but you never know."

  Not even she knew what his meeting was about, but it wasn't their business to know—they just ensured there were no interruptions and to swiftly deal with them if there were.

  She wouldn't go so far as to say she liked her job. It was a good job, with privilege. People respected her position, and it was expected she would make a good marriage one day. The Wilkes were trying hard to secure her a good match, someone who would elevate the family prospects. This job also allowed her to see how the very elite were. Tarquin Chartrice was at the very top of Parisian, even continental European society. If he told a joke, everyone would laugh—not that he ever did. He did very little that was superfluous or unnecessary. It was ironic that he least appreciated his high position in society, or appeared to. He went to events when he needed to represent the family, but rarely stayed a moment longer than necessary.

  Crossing her legs, she rested her hand on her thigh, palm up. Ramone was stuck in his own thoughts and Nolan was silent in the front. There were another two cars of their people following, ready to protect the premises when they arrived. The guys were alright, but they honestly didn't have much between their ears.

  Her thoughts turned back to the boss. He wasn't stupid; he just didn't show what he was thinking most of the time. That glacial face of his rarely showed any thought, much less emotion, but once in a while, when they entered new properties, she saw him inspecting the art if it was interesting. It was the only thing that indicated he had any personality of all, other than being supremely attuned to violence. In truth, he both fascinated and repulsed her. Having his attention was uncomfortable, as if you didn't quite trust what was going on behind those cold eyes.

  They were coming into Geneva now, heading south to a manor located at the edge of the lake. She didn't know who it belonged to. It could be Chartrice property for all she knew, but she'd never been there before. It was old and white, large glass windows along the front—squarish in a typical European way, almost like it had French influences.

  They got out and the gravel crunched under their feet. "Secure the east perimeter," Ramone ordered. "Nolan, you take the south. Henri will take north, and Polish west. You take the lake front, Cassandra." The others had joined them. "The rest of you form two concentric circles within the perimeter moving in opposite directions. Keep in communication. I want to know quickly if one of you is taken out of action."

  "Yes, sir," Cassandra said along with all the others. Janet, an older woman on their team, threw her an acknowledging look as they spread out to guard their respective areas.

  The boss entered the house without looking back, a shorter man carrying a briefcase right behind him. It wasn't her business to wonder what this was all about. Regime business—that is all she needed to know.

  The air was chilly, but the sun shone. It definitely felt like spring and this location was beautiful. Leaves had budded. Maybe spring came a little earlier down here than in Paris. There was still snow on the Alps further away, reflecting off the still, dark blue water. The house sat back a bit from the water's edge, but it would have absolutely stunning views.

  Stopping herself from being distracted, she watched the horizon, seeking any sign of movement or reflected light indicating someone was there, but there was nothing. If the rebels were there, they would hit quickly after arrival, usually before security had a chance to take their places, but again, you never knew.

  Cassandra tucked a stray curl of her shoulder length, dark blond hair behind her ear and responded to a call to check in.

  *

  They were there all day and the sun had warmed the air a little that afternoon, which also suggested it would be a cold night. Cassandra had to take her dark navy jacket off and hang it on a branch. She really wasn't used to the heat and rarely did well in it. Summers wasn't her favorite season, truth be told. The heat always made things harder.

  She'd eaten the two protein bars she’d had in her pockets and was now starting to get hungry, but their hunger was a secondary concern and she'd grown used to its ache. When she was relieved, she could eat her fill; until then, she just had to shut up and put up.

  There were voices further away which drew her attention and she made her way through the shrubbery toward the disturbance, ensuring she stayed out of sight behind a copse of pines. They weren't supposed to be seen if at all possible.

  A group of three men were there, apparently having appeared through the open white doors at the back of the house. The gravel they stood on surrounded the house and there was a rose garden in the back, stark and spindly this time of year.

  A man with a round belly and a cigar between his fingers was talking animatedly as if he was trying to impress or convince. His attention was exclusively on Tarquin, whose perfectly cut, dark hair shone in the sun. Someone was trying to improve their position or get a contract, or whatever. Tarquin was impassive as always, but he obviously felt comfortable enough with these men to take his jacket off, standing there in just a white shirt and his hands tucked into dark pants. Compared to the other man, he was trim, not perhaps surprising as Cassandra never saw him eat.

  The other men bowed and turned to leave. She followed their movement to inform the others that two guests were heading north to the back of the property. She stepped further back into the pines, which pricked her back as if resisting her intrusion.

  S
he heard Tarquin's feet crunch on the gravel, but he seemed to be heading away from the house. He was on the move and she wondered if she should inform the others. This was not scheduled. Peeking her head out, she searched for him, finding him walking toward the lake shore. Alright, he wasn't going anywhere, just checking out the views, which also put him nicely in the target for any long range weapons. It was not their place to tell him what to do, though. Tarquin's word was law, and they quietly kept anyone from intruding. No one she’d ever met could take him. She certainly couldn't. With him, fighting was an art form and he was the undisputed master.

  They weren't so much guarding Tarquin as keeping his cocoon of silence and isolation. Castran was different. He could get himself into all sorts of trouble—partying all night, sleeping with random girls. Not so much of late, she had to admit. Tarquin was still much easier because he was so contained, like there wasn't really a personality there at all, just an analytical—and powerful—machine.

  He kept going, pulling his hand out of his pocket and pushing it through his hair. He walked out onto a small wooden jetty where a row boat was tied up. The boat surely wasn't his aim? Instead, he stopped halfway down and crouched, something she'd never seen him do before. To be honest, she hadn't been completely sure his knees bent so far.

  But he even went further and sat down at the edge and took his shoes off. This was more informal than she'd ever seen him and she'd been working at the Chartrice headquarters for three years now.

  She should be going away, leave him to what was obviously a rare moment of personal reflection, or whatever it was that he was doing, but for some reason, she couldn't make her feet move.

  His bare feet were pale and he rolled the hems of his pants up, sticking his feet into the icy water. No doubt a comfortable temperature for such a cold-blooded creature. She'd never actually touched him to see if he had any body heat. He moved like cold mist and she'd always assumed he was.