“Well, yes,” Chivalry conceded. “But that’s still an improvement.”
It was true. Four months ago I’d been a mugger’s dream come true. Of course, I’d still managed to kill a vampire older than Chivalry. I’d almost died in the process, but it had happened.
There was a long moment where the only sounds were the ceiling fan and my panting breaths.
“Come on,” Chivalry said, breaking the silence. “One more round, then showers, then second breakfast.” I’d also made him watch all three of the Lord of the Rings movies—extended editions. It had had an impact.
Every muscle in my body shrieked as I pulled myself upright and into the stance that my brother had drilled into my bones: gloves up, ready to block or throw a punch. Feet moving at all times, even if it was just a little shuffle. I’d asked Chivalry to help me get into shape, I reminded myself.
Chivalry gave me an approving smile, then put up his own gloves. “All right,” he said. “Now hit me.”
• • •
I didn’t, of course. My trying to land a punch on my brother was like a kitten trying to attack a cougar. I reflected on that as I stood in the gym shower, letting the cool water drench me. Compared to the opulence of my mother’s mansion, Chivalry’s gym was extremely austere, something that had required a few compromises. One of those was the bathroom. The gym was all gray slab cement and plain walls, but the bathroom was my mother’s creation. The tiling was mosaic style, with individual tiles smaller than a quarter, all in dusty orange or black and used to recreate scenes from Greek mythology—in the case of the shower, Hercules cleaning out the Aegean stables. My mother’s decorating often reflects her highly questionable sense of humor.
Feeling halfway human again, I dried off quickly and changed into the clothes from my gym bag, jeans and an old Farscape T-shirt. There was a huge selection of hair-care products, as well as three different brands of cologne, laid out beside the sink. All of them were unopened. My brother came of age in a time when men had grooming expectations that would boggle most modern metrosexuals, and he never gave up attempts, both subtle and overt, to bring me up to snuff. I ran a comb quickly through my wet hair and, not bothering to shave, called it a morning. I could do that later, after the sight of my stubble had caused my brother to despair. After all, what were little brothers for?
I walked slowly across Madeline’s lawn, which would put most golf courses to shame in terms of regimented grooming, and waved to the gardeners already hard at work. Chivalry’s promised second breakfast was waiting on the back terrace. I’d been fairly lanky before I’d started working out, and Chivalry had fully embraced the caloric challenge I faced. There are, after all, a wide range of fit body types—take a look at an Olympic long-distance runner sometime, then compare that to the guy playing water polo. One is built like a beanpole and the other is built like a tank. We were going for something in between those two, though my body seemed to naturally gravitate toward beanpole. Thus the completely bizarre situation of working out for three hours, then having my brother try to fatten me up.
My first breakfast of the morning had been light out of necessity—eating heavily before working out was a quick recipe for vomiting. Now there was a buffet selection of eggs, sausage, bacon, and silver-dollar pancakes, along with the makings of either fruit smoothies or mimosas, all set up with white linen tablecloths and fine china. Casual dining was a foreign concept to my family.
I stared at the buffet and sighed a little. My vegetarianism was something else that Chivalry was determined to reform. I went for toast, pancakes, and a hefty shovel of perfectly scrambled eggs, resolutely avoiding the siren smell of sausage and bacon. One strawberry and banana smoothie, and I was set. Once I got all the plates over to the table, I started doing my best to inhale breakfast.
I was almost done when I heard the soft noise of a wheelchair being pushed across Persian rugs coming from the morning room that accessed the terrace. I controlled a wince as I turned to see what I’d been trying to avoid. Chivalry appeared, recoiffed (not that he had gotten all that messy to begin with) and dressed in ironed khakis and a blue polo shirt, looking ready to head off to the country club. His wife, Bhumika, sat in the wheelchair that he was pushing. She didn’t always join us in the mornings—her health had been deteriorating steadily for the past year, and there were some days that she didn’t leave their bedroom at all. Today was a good day, though, since she wasn’t using a full oxygen mask, just subtle tubes in her nose to make her more comfortable. She was dressed in a beautifully embroidered set of turquoise shalwar kameez—traditional Indian loose cotton trousers and a matching shirt. We’d had a long summer this year, and even now the early-October morning held a breath of heat, but a cashmere blanket was still carefully wrapped around Bhumika’s shoulders.
Her smile was as brilliant as ever as Chivalry carefully pushed her wheelchair down the small ramp that, like all the ramps in the house, had appeared overnight when she’d first started needing assistance to walk. They were all fully integrated into the house, and not a single one of them had the slightest feel of impermanence. They were beautiful, all lovingly crafted out of hardwood and designed to fit the look of whatever room they were for. A few were made out of stone.
None of them were new, of course. Madeline’s staff had simply removed them from where they’d been stored after Chivalry’s last wife, Linda, had died. And before that, I’d seen them set up for his earlier wife, Carmela. We’d all known from the first day that we’d been introduced to Bhumika, the day of her wedding to Chivalry, that she would end up like this. So had she, of course. A few short years of health, then a long decline that ended only one way.
I leaned down and kissed her cheek carefully. Her long black hair was starting to thin a little, a few strands clinging to the back of the wheelchair. Chivalry transferred her to one of the terrace chairs, making sure it was the one with the best padding, in her favorite sunny spot. Then, while Bhumika and I talked (mostly she talked and I listened—I never felt completely comfortable with her, even though she’d always shown me nothing but loving interest), Chivalry carefully filled a plate with her favorite foods, approaching the task with complete absorption, sorting through the entire bowl of strawberries to make sure he’d chosen only the best pieces.
When all three of us were settled around the table we spent a few more minutes like that. Bhumika was telling me some anecdote about her rose garden, and I was nodding mechanically. Chivalry was eating the omelet that had been prepared for him in advance, periodically nibbling at a sausage. Vampires continue to eat food for centuries after our transitions, but the selection starts narrowing the older we get. For Chivalry, the morning sausages that he’d enjoyed for two hundred years were becoming harder to handle, even though he still loved them. Had my mother been at the table with us, all she would’ve been able to sample were the mimosas.
Of course, breakfast with Madeline always had to be held in rooms that had no windows.
I forked the last of my pancakes into my mouth and had just started my good-byes when Bhumika abruptly said, “Honey, I’d love it if we could find the time for one last sail with Fort this year.”
I couldn’t help the expression of surprise that I knew had appeared on my face, and I looked carefully over at Chivalry, who had gone completely poker-faced at the comment. Chivalry was a huge fan of yachting and owned a fifty-two-foot cruiser-racer boat that was completely sail driven and whose deck I had spent many grumpy hours swabbing as a teenager. Early in his marriage, he and Bhumika had done a lot of sailing in all weather, once even participating in the annual Newport-to-Bermuda yacht race, but they had cut back considerably in recent years. In the entire summer, I actually thought that they’d been out on the water only twice. “I don’t know, Bhumika,” I said cautiously. “I have been pretty busy. Training with Chivalry, plus all our outings, plus my work schedule . . .” I let my voice trail off.
Chivalry smoothly added his. “It’s hard to say how much longer this weather will last. And even with these temperatures, I don’t know if I’d want to take the Gay Belle out for anything other than an afternoon sail.” Chivalry had named his yacht back in the 1880s, and even though he’d had it completely dry-docked and rebuilt multiple times down at the Newport Shipyard, he’d always kept the name, even as the connotations of the words changed very fundamentally and various other yacht owners periodically gave him sidelong looks, or, depending on their feelings on the topic, enthusiastic toots of their horns. As a teenager, I had repeatedly begged him to change the name to something slightly less mortifying, but Chivalry flatly refused. Of course, no one understood the art of outlasting a fad like a vampire, and he remained convinced that eventually the word would swing back to the old meaning. Of course, he’d also held on to his entire collection of top hats, cravats, and VHS tapes.
“I thought it would be nice to do, though,” Bhumika said. Her tone was pleasant, but I got the impression that she was digging in. “After all, I’d hate to wait all winter before we all went out together again.”
I glanced frantically over to Chivalry, waiting for him to say something. Everyone at this table knew that even if Bhumika lived through the winter, she’d never be going out on the water again.
My brother reached out and ran his fingertips gently across the back of Bhumika’s hand. “We’ll see if the schedules work out,” he said, very quietly.
For a man who killed all of his wives, it was always stunning how very much Chivalry loved them.
A chill ran down my spine, and I wondered if someday that would be me, caressing the hand of the woman who I was slowly killing. Abruptly, it was all too much for me, and I made a quick escape from the table. I dropped a kiss on Bhumika’s cheek and waved to my brother with a promise to see him again tomorrow. Then I was off to my car at a lope that was as close to a run as I could get without being rudely obvious.
Cutting through the house, I did my best to avoid getting in the way of two maids who were giving the front entrance hall its thrice-weekly mopping, and only barely avoided knocking over a bucket of sudsy water. Out the front door, I walked across the white crushed-gravel driveway, giving in to the urge to kick a few times and listen to the pattering sound of dispersed stones falling back to the ground.
My car came into sight, tucked in like a mutt among show dogs, and I froze. Chivalry was leaning against the side of my dilapidated Ford Fiesta, watching me patiently. He must’ve run around the outside of the house to beat me, but he was looking cool and casual, as if he’d just strolled over.
There was no escaping him, so I trudged over.
“Is this about the trolls?” I asked, hoping to distract him. “Or maybe we’re going to go feed sardines to mermaids on tomorrow’s field trip?”
He stared at me for a second, then slowly raised one eyebrow. The rest of his face stayed completely bland.
I’ve never been able to withstand Chivalry’s bland expression. “I don’t want to go sailing,” I said mutinously. “I’m working forty hours a week and taking the Chivalry Atlas program for bodybuilding. My afternoons off are rarer than bald eagles, and I’m not going to spend one of them with a sweater tied around my shoulders while you nag me about moving sails around or hoisting the spinner.”
“That’s not why you don’t want to go,” Chivalry said, his voice cool.
I glared at him. “It’s one of the reasons. Isn’t it enough?”
“Bhumika has asked for this,” he said. He met my glare and simply looked back at me. We have the same hazel eyes, but as I watched, his pupils slowly began expanding until the hazel was completely covered. Besides the occasional fang flash, the eyes are where vampire tempers are most apparent. I looked away—lately I’d spent a lot of time nervously checking mirrors to make sure that my eyes weren’t pulling that trick.
I glanced back, and Chivalry’s eyes had returned to normal, and now he looked thoughtful. “She isn’t asking for much, Fortitude,” he said. He always used my full name like most parents use middle names: when I was in trouble.
“Yeah, fine. Put something together,” I said, looking away again and leaning down to ostensibly brush at the side of the Fiesta. Chivalry had surprised me with a professional paint job for my elderly car, but a few weeks ago I’d come out of a grocery store to discover that some asshole with faulty spatial relations had practically sideswiped my car. There hadn’t been any serious damage, but now my blue Fiesta had a streak of transferred orange paint completely up one side that I had been utterly unable to remove. “You have my work schedule,” I muttered, wiping ineffectually at the streak with the hem of my T-shirt. “Call me with a time.”
Chivalry didn’t say anything, but he stopped leaning against the car and strolled a few steps away, toward his own Bentley. My brother was as bossy as they came, but at least he never rubbed it in whenever he won on something.
I’d unlocked the Fiesta and slid into the driver’s seat when Chivalry spoke again, sounding almost tentative. “You know, I read a good review the other day of Peláez. Perhaps if Bhumika is feeling well tonight she and I could—”
“Oh, don’t even think about it,” I said, shooting a dark look at him. “I told you when I got that job—if you go there, you do it when I’m not working.”
Chivalry frowned and made an expression that on any other guy I actually would’ve called a pout. “I don’t understand this attitude, Fort. I’ve been to many of the establishments that you’ve worked at. I’m simply being supportive of your career choices.”
“Being a waiter is not a career choice; it is a job-hunt default,” I said. “Plus, you are not fooling me. You’ve been desperate to eat there ever since you found out that the staff is in black tie, and I refuse to feed into this formal-wear fetish that you have.”
“In more civilized times, all gentlemen wore formal clothing in the evenings,” he sniffed, grumpy because I’d seen his motive so clearly.
“Yeah, those gentlemen also died of dysentery because they didn’t wash their hands after they took a crap.” I slammed the Fiesta’s door shut. While it suited my mood at the moment, that actually wasn’t the reason I’d done it. Lately the driver’s door was having trouble latching, and had popped open a few times at stoplights. Since I had about five issues more immediately concerning about the car to bring to the attention of a mechanic whenever I finally saved up the money, I was trying to figure out how to live with this one.
It was all part of the Fiesta’s charm.
The drive from Newport to my apartment in Providence was between forty minutes and an hour, depending on the traffic. Today there hadn’t been any elderly drivers or sightseeing tourists on the two-lane road that always made or broke my time, and I pulled into the small parking lot behind my building just after ten a.m.
I lived in an old three-story Victorian that had been broken into apartments sometime in the 1950s. The first floor was an upscale women’s lingerie shop, which actually sounded more exciting than it was, since usually the women going into it were the ones who could afford expensive undergarments—mostly middle-aged to elderly women. Each of the upper floors was a single two-bedroom apartment in a state of highly questionable repair, and the owner had a policy of ignoring necessary fixes until we tenants either gave in and fixed it ourselves or just moved out in disgust. Since moving in four years ago, I’d learned a lot about emergency plumbing.
Climbing up three flights of stairs always felt like the last-rep set after a morning of working out with Chivalry. During the first few weeks, I’d actually started giving serious consideration to the thought of moving somewhere that had an elevator, but had given up the idea after I remembered that I’d then have to move all of my stuff out—down all those stairs.
My sofa had originally belonged to a couple in the second-floor apartment. During their move out, they’d abandoned it
halfway down the staircase. After climbing over it for three days, I’d finally decided it was good and abandoned and hauled it up to my own living room. Those thoughts kept me company as I made my way to my apartment in a zombielike fugue. In my door, through the dual kitchen and living room, and then I was tumbling into my bed, asleep almost before I hit the sheets.
• • •
It felt like barely ten minutes had passed before I woke up to a hand shaking my shoulder none too gently. I came into consciousness in slow stages, registering first the hand, then the loud beeping of my alarm, and finally registering that I hadn’t even bothered to take off my shoes.
“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” my roommate said. “You have to get up.”
“Don’t want to,” I muttered, pulling my pillow over my head. It was immediately pulled away from me.
“Either get up or turn the alarm off. I can hear the damn thing out into the hallway.”
“What time is it?” I asked muzzily.
“It’s a quarter after twelve, dude,” Gage said, jostling my shoulder one last time.
I was suddenly, horribly awake. “Oh, fuck me.” I pulled my head up and stared at my roommate in horror. “I overslept by half an hour?”
“Apparently. I just got home and heard the alarm going off.”
I’d had a lot of horrible roommates in the past, all of whom would’ve heard my alarm going off, known I’d overslept, and probably just laughed about it while they dropped a wet towel on the hardwood floor. Whether I’d just finally run through Providence’s available jackass male roommate population or whether I’d cashed in some karmic bennies, the result was that I’d put out my usual Craigslist ad and had found Gage, who was not only a nonasshole (as specified in my ad), but was actually a decent guy.
Gage watched as I half rolled, half fell out of bed, and gave a wholly exasperated sigh. This was unfortunately not the first time this scenario had played out. “Dude, I can run you over if you don’t think you’d make it on time with the bus.”
Iron Night Page 3