Unrequited

by Camille Oster

  The itch to fight, truly all out fighting, still seduced his mind. Maybe because in the midst of a war, there was no future to think about, everything was immediate and real. You could not fight a war with a façade to hide behind. True character emerged—bravery, strength, and even a sort of intimacy.

  He snorted. There was that word again—intimacy. It seemed every avenue he escaped down, it lay at the end, like an unwanted nemesis.

  A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts and he was grateful. "What?" he demanded. He was partially undressed, his jacket off and shirt unbuttoned, but then it wasn't guests knocking at his door, it was staff.

  The door cracked slightly and a head partially appeared. "Sorry, returning these," a woman said, holding a box. "They have been clean. I didn't realize you were here. I'll come back later."

  "No, it's fine. Leave them on the table." It was his blades and he didn't feel entirely comfortable being without them for the night.

  A girl emerged, the blond one which reported to Ramone. She wore a navy suit and practical shoes, dark leather, made for running without looking too out of place with a suit. Her hair was tied back in a bun low on the back of her head, and she walked in with the box carried in her arms as if it was something precious. Maybe it was; he would seriously rip stripes out of anyone who was careless with his blades.

  The box made a slight thud as she put it down on the glass table. It reverberated through the silent apartment. Sharply she stood, then almost startled when she saw him as if she hadn't known he was there, when he'd clearly told her to enter. "Who told you to clean them?"

  "Ramone," she said, blinking sharply and looking away, taking a step back. These were all signs of someone under stress, an over-exaggerated reaction to the current situation.

  "When?"

  "I collected them when you went for dinner," she started.

  "When did he ask you to?" Tarquin cut in. Her eyes returned to his and her lips drew tight. He was interrogating her and she knew it. As he rose, he could see her discomfort growing, again an inappropriate reaction to the situation. Now he was curious. What had this girl done with his blades? The girl was definitely on edge as he moved closer still. Something was off here and he kept an eye on her hands as he bent over and unclipped the box. The blades looked fine and he picked one up, turning it over to check it out. It looked fine, cleaned and gleaming. So why was this girl so jumpy? Returning the attention to her, he watched the girl's eyes follow the cutting edge of the blade.

  She had been in their employ for a few years now. The family was loyal and there had never been any qualms about her service, but now her behavior showed there was something off with her.

  The rebels turning one of their security staff was always a worry, although it had never happened. "How long have you worked here?" he asked.

  "Three years," she responded.

  Carefully, he considered her, studied her features, looking for tells. Her hands were curled into fists and she forced herself to let them extend. Another sign that there was an inner battle going on in this girl's head. Did she hate him? This was how people who hated him acted when they were trying to hide it, and doing it badly. It wasn't worth asking why—people hated him for all sorts of reasons. "And what are your ambitions, Miss Wilkes?"

  "Ambition?" she asked, confusion marring her brow. She was pretty, even if she tried to hide it with the severe hair style and bland suit. Clear, bright eyes considered him back. If she hated him, she was a good enough actor to not let it show in her face. Not everyone could manage that.

  "What do you seek to achieve with your career?"

  She made a slight step sideways. "Uh, I don't know. My parents would like me to get married at some point, I suppose."

  "And what kind of marriage do you hope you will achieve?"

  "A prosperous one?" she said, her tone rising. Clearly a lie and he raised his eyebrows at the blatant untruth, because this was not a concern that had plagued her mind. Good at faking a bad lie, he thought. "One with some degree of affection," she tried again, with more honesty.

  "Affection," he said, chewing his lower lip. Affection was certainly not an encouraged aim for young girls in their society. Was there someone less appropriate tending to that need in her now? Such a quest would make someone vulnerable. Had she fallen into a trap? A refined and underhanded tactic for the rebels, but he didn't consider it impossible. "And what would you do for affection?"

  She looked intensely uncomfortable now and didn't know what to say. "Do? It's either there or it's not. It isn't something you can 'do' for. I should perhaps tend to some chores," she said, a little too brightly.

  He could have stopped her, but he watched her go, walk toward the door, which she closed silently behind her. She'd been holding her breath, waiting for him to stop her. There was definitely something remiss about what he'd just witnessed. They might have a compromised asset in their house. He would have to keep an eye on her. If she was, she would lead him right to the people using her, and suffer the consequences in the process. Quests for affection meant nothing when it came to disloyalty.

  Chapter 19:

  * * *

  Cassandra sat on her bed drying her hair after a shower. She felt like shit, and this feeling was relentless—like an ache that just wouldn't go away. Her shoulder length, wet hair hung in clumps around her head and she used a towel to stop it dripping down her shoulders, but then she couldn't be bothered anymore and lay back on her pillow, knowing she was making it wet. She didn't care.

  Turning to her side, she tucked her knees up. This was her life now. Stuck in this little, non-descript room, in love with the walking icicle himself. It didn't sound like such a bad thing, falling in love, but it was who she'd fallen in love with that was the problem—fucking Tarquin Chartrice. Of all the truly stupid things to do, because there was absolutely no future there. Tarquin Chartrice didn't do love; he did destruction—even if there was that little glimpse of humanity hidden so very deep inside the harsh, cold exterior. A glimpse of humanity she was never supposed to be privy to, and never would be again.

  She wasn't comfortable and turned on her back, knowing it wasn't the position that made her restless. It didn't matter what position she would lie in, the discomfort persisted. The ultimate stupidity was indulging in the fantasies that beckoned in her mind, but she wasn't quite that silly, strictly forbidding herself to let her mind wander.

  This was compromising her effectiveness in her work, but it was compromising her as a person even more. What kind of person would fall in love with Tarquin Chartrice? He was a monster. A glimpse of hidden humanity didn't make up for that. That glimpse of humanity still allowed him to be what he was, to do the things he did. There wasn't a single more ruthless man alive. There were no ludicrous notions here that love would change him. People like him didn't change, and he certainly wasn't able to nurture anything like a relationship; his past actions proved that.

  Her phone buzzed with a text message. Grabbing it off the bedside table, she saw that she was required, that they were going out. With a sigh, she dressed as quickly as she could, every part of her striving against leaving this room, because he would probably be there. But she didn't have the right to say no; she was basically a slave here. Sure, they paid her, but she had no choice in her own life. When they called, she had to go.

  Pulling her wet hair back in a short ponytail, she took the stairs to the meeting point.

  "Listen up," Ramone said to the gathered security staff, "we are repeating what we did the other day. Senior and Tarquin are going back to the municipal building, same as before, then to lunch at Riccatello. You know what your job is. I want nothing out of the ordinary. If anyone is uncertain of what they need to do, speak up now." No one spoke. They were too well trained for confusion. Even when things got heavy and shots pelted around them, they all still knew what to do, or when to look for direction.

  They wandered upstairs and went out into the street, scanning the surroundings for any s
igns of trouble. Cassandra went toward the third car in the convoy and stood by, waiting until the family was safely in the car.

  The senior Chartrice appeared and Tarquin followed, also scanning the street. Tarquin didn't trust anyone, even his security detail. He wore a dark gray suit today, tailored perfectly, the material having a tiniest hint of a shimmer in places where it stretched as he moved. Expensive material. She didn't even dare think how much that suit cost, but cost was never a factor for any of the Chartrices.

  Tarquin's scan paused on her for a moment and her heart stopped. It was probably her skewed sense of perception, but it felt like he paused on her for a moment. There was no expression on his face and his eyes were as cold as they always were. His lips moved for a moment, then he disappeared into the back of the car.

  They all went to take their seats, but Ramone turned toward her and lifted his eyebrows in the way he always did when he wanted to say something. She jogged up to him.

  "Boss wants you in front," he said.

  "What?"

  "You heard me." Ramone kept walking, not feeling the need for any explanation, when she really wanted to know why. It wasn't her place to know why or to question orders. If she was told to go up front, she went up front. By why had that been requested?

  Forcing her hand to still, she opened the front door of the family limousine and got in, her mind still feverishly trying to think why this had been requested. Maybe because this was how they traveled before, but none of the family were particularly OCD about how the security was distributed.

  She actually felt his gaze in the back of her head. He was onto her. He knew something was up with her, and this was his way of telling her he knew. Fuck, she thought. There was no way out of this now. It wasn't just going to slip away. Her little emotional wobble was having real consequences.

  Clammy hands rubbed down the material of her suit, but it made no difference. Danger was just staring at the back of her head. It was never a good idea to draw Tarquin Chartrice's attention; it always ended badly. And what was she going to do—confess? What would he do with that information? Use her. He would leverage it like he did everything else. Then send her away somewhere dank, dark and conveniently out of the way. No, he could never know. Anything was better than the truth.

  It was the most uncomfortable ride she'd ever known and it got worse when they arrived and got out. His eyes were unmistakably following her, cold and calculating. And that utterly ridiculous part of her wanted to concede, to give in and beg him to do as he wished with her, even as she knew it would never be anything that did her good. Tarquin Chartrice was an utter bastard and he would take advantage of her weakness, any way that suited him.

  Keeping her eyes strictly in front of her, she walked to the room where the meeting was and sighed a wracking breath of relief when he disappeared inside it, taking her position further down the hall.

  She was leaving herself at the mercy of the ultimate predator and it was now clear to her that this wasn't going to end well. She could choose to do this the hard way, where she was used and abused, or find some other way.

  The reprieve wasn't long enough and she suffered his cold attention all the way to the restaurant and then back home—not that he was obviously paying attention to her. No one would suspect, but she felt it like a vibration in the air, a danger signal. It was as though he smelled weakness in the air and had identified the source of it.

  Back in her room, she considered her options, but anyway she twisted it, it came out bad. It wasn't entirely unknown that Tarquin would play with his victims when he felt it was deserved. If he found out, he would never make this easy on her, probably fascinated by this ridiculous state she had gotten herself into—a state which compromised her defenses. And there would be nothing she could do to stop him; she would be at his mercy. She couldn't even decide what the worst possible outcome would be; they all looked bad.

  No, it was better to nip this in the bud before she lay bleeding on the floor. The worst was that she knew this wouldn't just go away; it would either end explosively or be drawn out for maximum pain. She had to take action. And the only thing she could see was to leave; it was the only chance she had—but there weren't many places he didn't have reach. If she ran, she would have to keep running and live with the risk of being caught. The Chartrices didn't tolerate disloyalty, but it would probably be better than him knowing.

  The urge to pack a bag and run was strong, but she repressed it. She had to plan. If she was going to get away, she needed a plan, ideally to a place where they didn't have reach—although that was what he'd expect and where he'd look. It would be a cat and mouse game. Desertion would not be something he would ever forgive, or forget about. They had all seen what had happened to the last person who did it. She would just have to be smarter, and to cut all ties, just disappear. If she left, she would have to leave her family, this world and any future she had in it. Her parents would suffer, but nowhere near as much as she would if she stayed, no matter which of the unpleasant scenarios played out. At least this way, she would have choice, free will—and maybe that was worth the risk.

  Chapter 20:

  * * *

  "It appears Miss Wilkes has departed," Ramone said nervously, standing by the door, trying to appear small, which was impossible for the large man.

  "Departed?" Tarquin said.

  "Absconded."

  Tarquin's mouth tightened and his fingers itched to destroy something. He'd known something was up with her. The suspicious behavior written all over her, and now she had enacted her plan, or maybe she was a part of some larger plan. The disloyalty burned. It was forbidden, being disloyal. "I suggest you find her, then," he said icily.

  Ramone left as quickly as he could, no doubt relieved he was still intact. Truth was that Tarquin wanted to rip someone apart. A security member leaving was a huge liability; they knew their plans, their strategies, who they dealt with. It compromised their whole operation. This could not be stood for. She had to be found and dealt with.

  Tarquin sat down at his desk and huffed with annoyance. He didn't need this right now; it was inopportune. It was also a bit of a worry that one of the staff members wasn't too frightened to take a step like this. It meant she had to be found and made an example of before others started thinking they could make their own plans too; break the contracts they’d signed.

  But this situation was a tad more serious than a run of the mill escapee. Cassandra Wilkes could have been recruited, and that was a worry. It wouldn't be inconceivable that the rebels would target her—they had leverage.

  After stewing in annoyance for a while, he finally rose and made his way out of his apartments, down to his father's study. He knocked on the heavy, lacquered door, until he heard permission to enter.

  "Tarquin," Adaeus said, sitting behind his desk, smoking a cigar and reading an Italian human paper. Adaeus quietly absorbed information and put things together in ways other people didn't. It was what had built their empire.

  Dressed meticulously as he always was, Adaeus folded the paper over and stared back, taking a sip of whiskey. "What's on your mind?"

  "The Wilkes girl has absconded."

  "Better find her, then," Adaeus said dismissively. The running of operations was usually not something Adaeus concerned himself with.

  "Yes," Tarquin conceded. "But we should be aware of potential complications. This might be an indication of something larger."

  "Oh," Adaeus said, looking thoughtful for a moment. "Oh, I see. You think she has learned of her identity. There wouldn't be anyone alive who knows who she is. Certainly not anyone here."

  "It is always a possibility, and her actions do suggest something has occurred."

  "Then I suggest you find her," Adaeus said more pointedly, "unless she serves as a new rally point for the rebels."

  "I will," Tarquin said, not doubting his own word for a second. If he wanted to find something, he rarely failed, particularly if it was a person. The Chartrices
owned the demonic world, and large portions of the human world, too. There weren't many places she could go.

  Rising from his chair, Tarquin left his father and wandered downstairs, where family members rarely went, and staff now scuttled out of the way, out of sight as he passed through. "Ramone!" he called and the man appeared. "Where are her quarters?"

  "This way, sir." Ramone led the way into the bowels of the building, finally stopping in front of a door in a narrow hallway. It opened to a small, windowless, non-descript room. It was unpleasant. He was surprised the staff lived so colorlessly.

  "Has she said anything out of the ordinary lately?"

  "No, sir."

  "She has been acting strangely—even I could tell."

  "Just a little withdrawn, but she does that sometimes. She's never done anything for us to question her loyalty."

  "Except run away." There wasn't much in the room. If there had been to start with, she'd taken it with her. "I want her found. Send out demands to every avenue."

  Where would she go, Tarquin wondered, Australia, America, Russia? The question was really: where did she expect Tarquin not to look? Although he didn't know her, he didn't question her intelligence and she would likely use strategies to shield herself.

  *

  Tarquin arrived in front of the Wilkes' house, down by Toulouse, set in a lush garden. They didn't spare any expense on the garden, he noted. This was where she’d grown up; a handsome house belonging to a privileged family. Not wealthy, but still a part of the system, enjoying the rewards of their loyalty.

  The door opened as he walked up, a servant nervously showing him into the formal room, decorated by baroque furniture and parquet flooring. With what he knew of Cassandra, he couldn't really fit her in this room.