Blacker than Black

by Rhi Etzweiler

  Swallowing requires a full-body spasm, but I manage to work some moisture back into my mouth. “I didn’t know.”

  “Ignorance of the law is not protection from it, youngling.” His lips twist into a grimace and, with a flick of his wrist, he releases my hair and tosses me away from him.

  I hit the carpet so hard it knocks the wind right out of me. He stares off across the room, resting his forearms on his knees. It doesn’t occur to me to move. Even if I had breath to, I wouldn’t. It’s obvious my life is hanging in the balance, and precariously at that. The prospect of sitting up and meeting him eye to eye doesn’t much appeal at the moment, either.

  “You’re unusual. Strong.” His gaze trails over my body, making me shudder. “I loathe destroying something so beautiful.”

  I roll onto my back and push up to my elbows, my fingers digging into the nap of the carpet. It’s apparent he enjoys toying with people. Humans. Monsieur Garthelle, beautiful as he is, has a mean streak.

  Most vamps are simply indifferent toward us, uncaring.

  He straightens and walks across the room again, out of sight.

  “You can’t walk the streets any longer.” His voice sounds firmer, his resolve stronger. “Not with the sheer volume of thefts you’ve orchestrated. The lyche community will not suffer you to live. The next john you take would bleed you dry and leave your empty husk in the gutter.” I hear him moving, restive sounds as if his resolve is weakening despite his efforts. When he returns to loom above me, his scowl is deeper. “And that, dear youngling, leaves me with a dilemma. I restrained myself earlier as a gesture of goodwill.”

  Was it really? He doesn’t strike me as that sort.

  “What would you offer me, to show restraint yet again?” His voice is abrasive against the residue of pleasure still coursing through my veins.

  What would I offer? What do I have that he hasn’t already taken? What do I have that isn’t forfeit?

  I can’t think of a single thing he’d value enough to be swayed by. Impromptu performances are totally not my forte.

  Jhez nicknamed him aptly: Le Gross Shite, a derogatory title and a notorious amalgamation of languages the street dealers and Nightwalkers developed over the years. It hurts my ears to listen to it, sometimes. I know how it should sound, though I’ve numbed to it thanks to constant exposure.

  Garthelle knows precisely what my decision will be before he asks. He knows because the residue of my thoughts and emotions still color the energy he took from me.

  He stares down at me, and I meet his yellow gaze. The harsh quality of his words doesn’t reflect in those eyes. What I see there, in fact, is at direct odds with his tone.

  That expression of curiosity, interest, is not how one regards a piece of outdated meat one intends to discard. My throat convulses as I try to force moisture back into my mouth. If I don’t handle this situation correctly, I’m as good as dead. If I don’t offer him what he wants, what he’s looking for, something he would value sufficiently, will he retract the offer of restraint without haggling?

  What did I take from him?

  I try to reach inside myself and feel it. Seek it out, still throbbing through my bloodstream with the lacing of vampire-influenced emotions and sensations. I am, to put it bluntly, a complete wreck right now.

  I can’t think straight, and I can’t find anything of substance. It’s a melee. I have no idea what he meant about making use of the link I forged. It takes a moment, but I manage to clear my throat, collect my nerve, and maintain at least an outward appearance of calm. “What would you have me offer you, Monsieur Garthelle?”

  No response of any sort for a few tense seconds. Then his lips curl into something between a smile and leer. Why does he always leer at me?

  The vampire turns and strides slowly across the room, back into the embrace of the shadows. Taking advantage, I scramble to my feet. My attention drifts to the couch, its matte black softness inviting.

  “How long have you and your sister been employed on Nightwalker Boulevard?”

  The question startles me, and I blink a few times. Trying to follow his logic from my offer to this query leads down a path too deep and murky for me.

  “Almost a decade, Monsieur.” It’s been a good bit longer than that, but few would believe it. A decade, on the other hand, isn’t such a terribly unrealistic timeframe for a Nightwalker who’s sufficiently cautious. My sister and I aren’t considered cautious by any stretch, but that’s a different story. Takes a special kind of Nightwalker to execute a . . . what did he call it? Ah, yes. A chi-theft.

  Silence again. I edge toward the couch, not caring that it’s rather presumptuous of me. This night just keeps dragging out, and I’m exhausted. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping me on my feet.

  “The two of you have developed quite a reputation, from what I’ve heard.”

  When did there get to be two of me? Wait a moment . . . heard? “My ego’s not so large that I inquire after the opinions of others.” I sink into the couch. Anything to distract me from the fact that every hair on my body is currently trying to stand up and scuttle off to a safe corner.

  A soft chuckle floats from the shadows. I see him, once he’s standing in front of me. Resting my head on the back of the couch, I quirk an eyebrow and gaze up at him, continuing on with my little front of “calm, unfazed Nightwalker.” Doing my damnedest to convince myself of it, every bit as much as the vamp.

  “You would work for me. Both of you. That is my price.”

  What the hell does Jhez have to do with this? I got myself into this mess all by myself. Um. One thing at a time. “Work for you?”

  “Yes, work for me. You’re . . . unique, in some way. A delicacy. And I, it just so happens, will be entertaining distinguished guests in the near future.”

  My throat hurts, I swallow so hard. “Pardon, but what does my sister have to do with this? She’s not involved, in any fashion.”

  His hand floats through the air in a dismissive gesture. “She’ll be rewarded handsomely by the offer of employment. And it would get her off the streets as well; do you consider that prospect so objectionable?”

  Not at all. But I doubt she’d embrace the opportunity. “I’m not able to speak for my sister. It’s her decision to make.”

  “You are able to speak for yourself, I take it?”

  I lift my head off the couch and scowl at him, then stare off into the shadows where the thickly veiled windows stretch from floor to ceiling.

  “I accept your price for restraint.” As if there was any chance of me doing otherwise.

  “Very good, then. You’ve provided half the price.”

  Infuriating vampire. “There’s a possibility I won’t be able to provide the other half.”

  The need to look at his face grips me in a vice. When I do, Garthelle leans down and braces his hands on the back of the couch to hover mere inches away. His breath on my cheek makes me shudder. I squelch the urge to cringe into the velvet.

  His eyes roam my face in a frantic, devouring fashion. “Then it would behoove you to do your best to convince her, wouldn’t it.” Tension strains his voice, each word enunciated carefully.

  “She will demand details you’ve not divulged.” My shoulder itches, but I don’t think moving is a good idea. To distract myself, I follow the line of his neck down to the hard contour of his collarbone, the glimpse of bulging shoulder muscle visible beneath the loose material of his shirt. The edge of danger, of hostility, outweighs the hint of eroticism, but it’s still there. I’m definitely feeling it. Scared shitless, because this could go to hell in heartbeat, yet definitely aroused. His lips part slightly, nostrils flared, pupils dilating.

  Um.

  “Garthelle?” I keep my voice soft, staring into his eyes. He seems to be looking through me, or at the very least into the back of my head. Inhaling deeply to keep myself calm only gets me a nose full of the vamp’s scent. Faint musk, sandalwood mixed with dragon’s blood. I doubt he’ll kill me for bre
athing, so I take another whiff.

  “Shhh . . .”

  The back of the couch makes a strange creak. I blink, confused and startled by the noise. Surely he can’t exert the force necessary to make a piece of furniture do that?

  The vampire is no longer hovering in front of my face. I can hear the rustle of his presence over in the shadows again. He clears his throat, and speaks with measured words. “Inform your sister that I will meet you both tonight, at this location.”

  An image slams into my head with finesse reminiscent of Garthelle’s earlier manipulations. I immediately recognize the small java house. It’s on our side of the metro, in the Blue District. Jhez and I are regulars there; he must’ve pulled the place from my thoughts. I have no idea if a vampire is even capable of that. Then again, I’ve discovered there’s a great deal I don’t know this evening.

  “I will answer any questions she may have at that time. There’s an escort waiting outside to take you home.”

  A clear dismissal, if ever I’ve heard one.

  Jhez is waiting up for me when I get back to our flat. She’s sitting in the same position she was in when Muscle showed up to drag me off.

  I close the door gently and lean against it, meeting her gaze across the small living space.

  “You’re alive.”

  I nod, laughing softly. “Yes, I am. For now.”

  “What happened?”

  “We can talk about that after I sleep.” Actually, I’m just avoiding the inevitable. And I’m also looking forward to keeping it as fresh in her mind as possible so she can give Le Gross Shite a massive tongue-lashing when we meet him.

  The verbal sort of tongue-lashing.

  Dusk is only a few hours distant when I finally wake up. I roll over to stare at the ceiling and prod the soreness surging through my body from the still-honed residue of Garthelle.

  I think it’s safe to say I fucked up massively. How did I not recognize him? That, more than anything, frightens me a good bit. Jhez and I, we learned the hard way to be careful. To watch our own backs and each other’s. But this . . . last night has totally rocked my confidence, my trust in my own judgment.

  The pull is still strong. It’s a band of discomfort encircling my chest, like a panic attack hovering on the edge of a massive meltdown. Feeling poised on the edge of a cliff, I head for the shower.

  From the looks of it, Jhez has been up for quite some time. She seems . . . way too perky for my tastes when I almost stumble over her housecleaning efforts upon walking out of my room.

  We are, as twins, the embodiment of yin and yang.

  When I grimace, she points to the kitchen. “Coffee is fresh.” And she turns back to polishing the coffee table or something. I don’t look too closely.

  The confines of the kitchen might be cramped, but every surface is pristine.

  “So tell me what happened last night before the anticipation kills me.” She keys her voice so her demand carries clearly from the living space.

  Safely ensconced in the kitchen, I lean against the entryway. “Before or after Muscles came to retrieve me like a dog fetching a squeaky toy?” She lifts her head over the edge of the coffee table and glares. I can feel my name hovering on her lips and hurry to continue. “Garthelle offered to refrain from killing me.”

  Jhez abandons cleaning and leaps across the table to flop onto the couch, which complains loudly at the mistreatment. I cringe and venture into the room to sit next to her. Her gaze plays over my face in an attempt to read ahead, impatient.

  “I didn’t do it any differently than I have to any other john.” His face is clear in my mind, hovering inches from mine as he twisted my neck almost to the breaking point. More than just rage and vengeance had driven him. “I don’t understand why I didn’t recognize him.”

  I sip at the hot, steamy coffee. It’s stronger than I like, but Jhez brews it that way. It gives me a reason to pause and consider my next words carefully. How do I tell her we’ve been breaking the law? A law we didn’t know existed.

  But then, we’re not regular members of the vampire circles in society.

  “He had me writhing on the floor in pain without even touching me. I don’t know how long it’ll take for his energy to burn out of my system. Garthelle called it chi-theft. Said I’d be dead at the hands of my next john if I hit the streets again.”

  Jhez props her elbows on her knees and buries her mouth in her hands, staring at me over her fingertips. She studies me in silence, watching me sip at the coffee. Then her hands fall, arms folded across her knees. “There’s more to it than that.”

  I nod and swallow. “His price for restraint is that we both work for him.”

  Her lips immediately purse into a thin line. “You know all too well how I feel about that.”

  “I told him you’d have questions I couldn’t answer, that you’d want some clarification. He wants to meet us this evening at the java house.”

  She hangs her head and laces her fingers together at the back of her neck. “What have you done?” Her hands clench, pushing at tension in her muscles. “What have we done?”

  I stare into the depths of my coffee and say nothing. I know she won’t refuse the meeting. The odds of her refusing his demand for employment are slimming down to nothing with each passing moment. Jhez isn’t dense; she can see all too well that our well-being hangs in the balance. And precariously.

  The java house is all but empty when we settle into a corner booth in the back, well secluded from the few regulars pontificating on the meaning of life and liberty from their couch soapboxes near the steps to the loft. Instrumental music drifts from the sound system veiled strategically behind vivid paintings, abstract sculptures, and bookshelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and dust balls amidst leather-bound tomes.

  Few traces of technology here. It’s one of the reasons why Jhez and I are so fond of it. It doesn’t attract the riffraff out to score a hypno-hit.

  She wanders off to the counter to snag us drinks and a pastry to split, and I prop a knee against the edge of the table to tug on a loose thread dangling from my pants.

  I hate waiting. It makes me fidgety. Out on the boulevard, I can pace up and down the concrete. I do that more than I realize, apparently; Jhez is always berating me that the ceaseless exercise leaves me resembling some emaciated, underfed orphan.

  I don’t have the heart most times to remind her that “emaciated, underfed orphan” is precisely what we are.

  I lift my gaze from my flawed clothing and glance across the room at the other regulars. One corner of my mouth tugs up in humor that suddenly dies when I catch sight of Garthelle striding toward me. I should have known. Not until I see him, though, am I aware of the slackening tension in my body. His gaze is locked on me as if a homing beacon is perched on my head. My attention flicks over his attire as he draws closer, and I wonder if he even bothered to change his clothing today. Same ivory shirt, black slacks, and tailor-cut trench coat. He certainly wears it well, especially given the number of unused buttons on the front of his shirt.

  Hey, I can admire. Even as the strain of fear increases, tension humming through my muscles. Garthelle holds all the cards in this game. I wonder, for a moment, if Jhez and I would’ve done things differently if we’d known of the statutes that made our actions a crime.

  He slides into the booth opposite me and folds his forearms on the table, drawing my wandering gaze. Exuding confidence—that vampire arrogance. I don’t feel any inclination to speak. The fact that Garthelle appears content to resume devouring me with his eyes only solidifies my resolve. I find it fascinating, leaning a bit toward hilarious. As a Nightwalker, I’m used to people appraising me like that, yet he has an edge. Not just violence, tightly leashed. Something else, a subtle nuance I can’t identify. The mystery of it intrigues me. He can devour to his heart’s content so long as he restricts it to an ocular activity.

  Garthelle’s neck cords with tension as he turns toward Jhez. She sets a steaming mug of c
appuccino in front of me and then settles into the booth beside me. Her gaze doesn’t leave the vampire’s.

  The strain is almost palpable as I glance between the two of them. Content to enjoy my hot dose of caffeine, I dip my finger into the foam and suck the steamed milk off while I reach over for the plate of hot pastry. The corner of Garthelle’s left eye twitches and his lips thin, but his focus doesn’t shift.

  Snagging a fork, I decide that tasting the fresh cheese danish is more important than the niceties of formal introductions and such. Priorities. Those two can wait a moment. Besides, it’s not like they aren’t each aware of who the other is. When I slide the loaded fork into my mouth, Jhez turns her glare on me full force. “We’re sharing that, remember?”

  I chew slowly and swallow before setting the fork on the plate and pushing it toward her. “Monsieur Garthelle. This is my twin, Jhez. Jhez, Garthelle.” There. Introductions concluded.

  She keeps staring at me. “I am aware of who Le Shite is,” she growls, snagging the fork as if I’ve offended the pastry by having the virgin bite.

  I glance nervously across the table at Garthelle, watching him carefully for a reaction to that street-pervasive moniker as I sip my cappuccino. “Well, now he knows you, too.”

  The vampire has a faint smile on his lips as he watches our interaction. I feel a suspicious blush creeping up my neck. Garthelle’s edge of danger, and hostility, feels dulled. For the moment, at least. As though the nature of Jhez’s reception has put him back on familiar territory, stable ground.

  “Well, Garthelle. My twin tells me you’ve made an offer of employment. Before we discuss what it is you have in mind, I’d like a few answers.” One of the few things Jhez and I have in common is that we’re both horrendously blunt.

  “Would you.” His tone doesn’t sound too indulgent. “What I have in mind,” he begins slowly, “is an offer of solid and regular employment for both of you.”