“Am I missing something? Or are they just having a staring contest.”
She turns her head further, looking back. “Something going on with their auras. Couldn’t say what, though. Certainly doesn’t look . . . friendly.” I guess my words sink in, then, because she frowns at me, brow creased in a deep furrow. “The hell, you mean you can’t see that?”
I shake my head. “Started earlier. Felt like someone turned down the contrast on the television. Now? I get nothing. They could be any two regular Joes off the street.” The random human gutter trawlers that approach us thinking we sell sex to our clients, thinking we’ll sell it to them.
Alyn eases back. It’s only a fraction of an inch, but the tense aggression immediately bleeds from Garthelle’s posture. “Vows and allegiances alone cannot absolve you of suspicion.” His tone doesn’t sound chastising, not to my ears, but there’s no mistaking the heated blush crawling up Alyn’s neck and cheeks suddenly. The lyche looks away, hiding not just from the Monsieur of York but from us as well. Right. Another first to add to the list—an embarrassed lyche.
Garthelle joins us in the hall, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, not bothering to button his jacket. “We can visit Desmonde next. This little intrigue they have going on might be completely unrelated, but I’m not certain I want to risk dismissing it just yet.”
“Uh, one quick question, please,” I say, turning to match his stride as he starts off down the hall. Wasting no time. He glances over, nods. “Cats?” Jhez’s shoulder bumps against mine, hand sliding down my arm, fingers gently encircling my wrist. The comfort of touch, unspoken support.
“I do believe I mentioned my Modere alignment.” So nonchalant, his tone, as he waves a hand in the direction of a cross corridor, veering to the right. A large Manx comes bounding down the hall toward him, sheathed claws silent on the flagstones. The feline curls about him as he walks, not hindering in the least, and purrs loud enough for the sound to echo off the unadorned walls.
“Yes, you did. But neither of us understood what that meant. And . . . sorry, Leonard, but last time I checked I wasn’t feline or anything.” A rather heavy trace of sarcasm in my words, but he should be glad I didn’t teeter over the edge into caustic. I haven’t forgotten how dangerous he’s capable of being. Maybe it’s another side effect of the dampener? Suppressing that healthy edge of fear.
The lyche remains silent, offering no explanation.
I’m not jealous of the Gaia-cursed cat. Not even thinking it. Need something to distract myself from thinking that. Dancing penguins. Soiphe’s chi-drained body, ghostly pale against ivory silk sheets. Okay, dancing penguins.
Jhez’s grip is firm on my wrist, fingers warm and comforting, until Garthelle raps on the door of Desmonde’s suite. One of her lackeys opens the door and steps aside to admit us. Every last member of the lyche’s entourage is present in the front room. The air feels thick, dead. I know there’s at least a dozen lyche in the room, even discounting Garthelle, but I can’t get a bead on which ones they are. They all feel the same, mundane. I’m not liking this one bit.
Desmonde is the only one not present, it turns out. And in her absence, silence reigns. Garthelle stands there, inches in front of me, hands still crammed in his pockets casual as you please. Unmoving. Jhez’s presence is warm and solid against my back, a support I’m intensely grateful for, lean back into. It’s both fascinating and frightening to have Garthelle so close and not be able to feel a thing. No pleasurable lack of tension making me giddy with relief. No tingle of aura trailing along mine.
It feels like someone stole the color from my world, though. That aural awareness has come to be yet another sense I depend on when interacting with my environment. To have it so thoroughly ripped away is beginning to grate along my nerves. I feel like I’m walking blind.
Benefits. Must focus on why I shot up to begin with. Fucking Garthelle and his manipulative threats. I only feed from cats my ass.
Someone snickers, laughter muffled behind a hand. The not-insubstantial spread of shoulders in front of me stiffens, and Garthelle twists his head to look back at me. Gaze flat, fierce, eyes narrowed. An expression of tense fury twisting his mouth, furrowing his brow.
Oh, snap. Again? Shit.
The Monsieur of York turns that sharp, yellow gaze of his on the origin of the laughter. “We are here to speak with the Madame of Vega. You will inform her we require her presence immediately. Now.” Not an ounce of deference in his posture, expression, or voice. Chair legs thump back onto the carpet, the swish of material accentuating the person’s progress across the room. A door slams, and silence ensues—so thick I hear the door hinges creak as the person eases it back open. I step out from behind Garthelle’s immobile figure, watch a waiflike young male slide into the room with obvious reluctance. He moves through the ocean of Desmonde’s entourage unencumbered, and drops to his knees on the ivory shag before Garthelle.
“Madame Desmonde conveys her regret, Monsieur. She is unavailable for interview at this time.”
“Did she offer an excuse?”
The young male shakes his head. “She finished feeding not long ago, though. That may have something to do with it.”
“And how many does that make for today?”
His pale green gaze flicks up from the carpet, startled, before he glances away with a flinch as though expecting to be struck for insolence. “Fifteen, if my count is correct.”
An arctic breeze sneaks into the castle from somewhere, because my skin temperature just dropped twenty degrees and I’ve got chills crawling up my spine.
“So very Illium of her.” His observation sounds far from complimentary. The words are clipped, enunciated with such care and precision that his disapproval is obvious. She’s given him a direct cut, and he knows it. So does everyone else. “Do convey my condolences on the loss of her rival. I mean comrade. And caution her to recall whose territory she resides within. As she will reside here until this matter is resolved to my satisfaction.”
I stare at him a bit owlishly when he pivots back around. All that angry lyche right up in my face like that, close enough to scent the incense clinging to his clothes. Almost touching, I feel a faint hum of his energy vibrating against mine, muted. Jhez tugs at my wrist and I stumble backward with blind obedience, moving where she guides me, out into the hall, Garthelle shadowing every step.
When she stops, I bump into her and come to a halt. Garthelle does as well, barely a pace of distance between us. He holds my gaze, the furious intensity enough to make me swallow past the tightness in my throat.
The lyche doesn’t say a word, though. Just turns and paces off down the corridor, expecting that we’ll heel along behind him. That we do precisely that chafes a bit. Lots of things are chafing today, though.
“Red.” Garthelle turns his head, slowing to a stop. “You recall Mademoiselle Ferdinand, yes?”
“I do.” Jhez releases my arm and steps forward when I grind to a halt, cautious.
“You think you can handle her solo?” He pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “She and the Durram brothers are scheduled to depart shortly. I can’t retain everyone, unfortunately. And given your sibling’s . . . altered condition, I don’t feel it’s safe to have him interrogating alone.”
“I’d rather go with her, if you don’t mind.”
His brows arch. “I do mind, if it’s all the same.”
It’s not, but I chew the inside of my cheek and remain silent. I know why he’s doing this, or at least I think I do. I know Jhez can hold her own, and I have an inkling that he isn’t going to want me out of his sight so long as I’m shooting up with aural dampener. If he thinks that’s enough to persuade me to stop . . .
Well. Maybe he’s on to something.
Gaia, vampires are a manipulative lot.
Jhez looks back at me, expression a mixture of confusion and duty. “You’ll be fine. I can handle one feeble old vampire, I think.” There’s a trace of amusement in her tone, and she steps
closer, folding me into a hug, mouth hovering beside my ear. “And if nothing else, Garthelle will make sure you’re safe, right? Just . . . don’t rile him up. Please?” she whispers, warm moist breath tickling over my earlobe.
Like she needs to warn me? I sigh and give her a squeeze. “I promise to behave myself,” I vow, letting an edge of sarcasm leak into my voice.
Garthelle grabs me just below the elbow and steers me away from Jhez, nodding toward the door behind her. I look back over my shoulder as he leads me down the hall, but she’s already knocking. Focused elsewhere. Trying to reclaim my arm proves futile. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s not breaking. Not without me making a scene in the middle of the hall.
“This isn’t necessary, you know.” His behavior is boorish but there’s one benefit. I can feel his aura tangling with mine where his hand is, the material of my shirt no barrier to the energies. It’s faint, but definitely there.
“What isn’t?” At least his stride is sedate enough for me to walk easily beside him.
I twist my arm, sliding it beneath his hand with the assistance of my silk shirt. The sensation is far from unpleasant, and that startles me. The last thing I expected is for the friction to send a tingle of warmth up my spine. “This,” I manage to grate. “Dragging me down the hall like I’ll run away at the first opportunity.”
He slows down, falters to a stop and half-turns. “That’s not what it is at all.” He stares down the corridor, mouth pursed into a flat line. I study his features, and this close the marks of tension are obvious. Furrowed brow, narrowed gaze birthing creases at the corners of his eyes. His attention falls to where his fingers still wrap loosely on my forearm, and his hand clenches, a spasm of muscles, before he releases his hold. “You say you want to understand.” An underlying hint of derision, disbelief, in his voice.
I bob my head in a wordless nod and swallow hard as he meets my gaze. His attention skitters away quickly, though, shifting past me, at something over my shoulder.
“I am inclined to believe your curiosity is driven by the fact that you’ve never filched chi from a lyche strong enough to turn the tables on you. As I did.”
“Partly.” I’ll not deny that. “I’ll admit to a certain curiosity about you, specifically. Cats.” I arch my brows. “And then, breaking what appears to be a rather sacrosanct restriction, at least for you, to feed off me.”
“My investigation was going nowhere.”
What investigation? I lick my lips and bolster my feeble courage. “So then, this dampened state should be a relief. The aural sympathy would wear off in time of its own accord, as it has previously. This just minimizes the interference it causes in the meantime.”
“Interference.”
Not the best word choice, but close enough for that warm fuzzy lack of tension every time he’s close to me. It certainly interferes with my brain function, for starters.
His shoulders shift, lifting sharply, and his mouth curls into a smile. As if he’s suppressing the desire to laugh. “I cannot say for certain whether the sympathy will dissipate, as you say it’s always done in the past.” His smile fades. “I have no experience from which to draw, and to be closed off from my awareness of you is . . . unsettling.”
“Why would you doubt my years of experience?” I shift to face him fully and fold my arms. My fingers trail over the place where his grip rested, the echo of his touch still lingering on my skin. In my aura, despite the fact that I can’t register his, not even this close.
Footsteps reverberate faintly, reaching us from somewhere down the corridor. Leonard’s head snaps up, tension stiffening his entire body. Whoever it is, wherever they’re going, the steps fade and silence descends within moments. But he doesn’t relax. His left hand flexes, contracts into a fist, again and again. I reach out and touch the back of his hand with my fingertips, below the edge of his sleeve peeking from his cuff. Like a hint of something I shouldn’t see, the way it contrasts against his skin tone and black suit.
He glances down at my fingers on his hand. The tension doesn’t leave him, and he still won’t actually look at me for some reason. “At this point, I’m not the only one monitoring Dragulhaven. Not with this many factions present. I’d rather discuss it in a . . . more private setting. Tonight, perhaps.”
The corner of his mouth curls upward, but it’s a stiff, lopsided expression, and doesn’t last more than a fraction of a second. He lifts his left hand away from my touch and points at the nearest door just a dozen feet down the hall.
“The Durrams’ suite.”
Okay, fine, we’ll go do something constructive for a little bit. But I’m not letting him off the hook that easy. Passing strange, his behavior, and I’m struggling to get a grasp on him.
I’d be willing to settle for a physical grasp, even.
When the door to the suite closes, leaving us alone in the hallway again a half hour later, Garthelle looks more frustrated than ever.
And my irritation is mounting. Thickening, like a coagulating puddle of blood. None of which has anything at all to do with the reason why we came to speak with the twins in the first place.
I turn and walk off down the hall, not caring that I’m heading away from his office, or that I have no idea where I’m going. The monsieur’s behavior was more than passing strange during that interview. Not once did he look at me or meet my gaze, not even when I addressed him directly, asked him a question.
The dampener only makes it all that much more frustrating. I could see there was something going on between him and Alyn earlier. It was a blatant power struggle of some kind. I was more than willing to pass if off as vampire quirks, lyche politics, until I witnessed the exact same behavior between him and the Durram twins.
Combine my inability to sense a fucking thing, and my general lack of familiarity with their culture, and this just . . . blows. It feels like he’s being possessive, protective, watching him place himself between me and any vampire in the vicinity. While I can appreciate the gesture in theory, the execution is . . . many things. Irritating, first and foremost, simply because I’m unfamiliar with having a protector.
I take a few random turns, lost in my thoughts. It doesn’t even occur to me to wonder where Garthelle is until I hear the footsteps behind me. Matching my own. When I pause, so does whoever is shadowing me.
It sends chills up my spine. Stupid and thoughtless of me to go waltzing off that way, through a castle filled to the gills with a bevy of vampires. When I turn and look over my shoulder, though, the Monsieur of York is standing a dozen paces down the hall, casual as you please.
Hands in his trouser pockets, staring at a statue on display, inset in the stone of the wall.
Should have figured he wouldn’t let me wander off into reckless endangerment.
“Are you done yet?” he asks, not looking away from the statue.
“Probably not, since I’ve no idea what it is I’m actually doing.” I turn around and watch him, curious. “Or what it is you’re doing, either, come to think of it.”
His head turns toward me a fraction. “What I’m doing.”
“Yes. That little display back there, with Alyn. I know little enough of what’s acceptable, what isn’t. I don’t expect to be educated overnight; even I can see that’s a ridiculous notion. But I’m not defenseless. Far from it.”
“Quite the opposite, in fact.” He turns and takes a step in my direction, but his gaze wanders over the pattern of flagstone tiles in the floor. “It still baffles me, your strength. That the theft unit couldn’t acquire either one of you. That I was able to, with such ease.”
“My strength.” First a mention of some investigation, now a theft unit? I’m confused. And this just makes me wonder what else he isn’t telling us.
He takes a few more steps, then stops. Blinks, looking openly startled. “Yes, even with the drugs in your system. I can still . . .” He trails off into silence. The tendons in his cheek bulge and twitch visibly, a play of shadow from the ambient
lighting.
“Still what?”
His shoulders lift and fall. “Feel.” He shakes his head. “Not you or the sympathy specifically, of course, but the pull is still there. Like an ache.”
As if something is missing that should be there. A crucial part of anatomy gone numb. That’s how it feels to me. It’s not just the aural visibility that’s defunct as a result of the concoction Blue provided.
Curious, I close the distance between us to something less than arm’s length and reach out, trying to sense him. His energy, his aura. I get a faint tingle just before my fingertips brush against his chest beneath the hollow of his throat.
His nostrils flare as he inhales. “What are you doing?” His voice is low, a harsh rasp barely above a whisper. He has his face angled away, eyes half-hooded, directed toward the floor still.
When my skin touches his, a flare of heat rushes up my arm and floods through my entire body. Not entirely uncomfortable, but startling in its own right, beyond my ability to describe it. My breath catches in my throat with the shock of it, and I watch the tension bleed from the vampire’s body as he leans forward, swaying into the contact.
One fingertip becomes five, and then my entire palm against his exposed flesh. The surge of heat, like the radiant warmth of the sun, becomes a tidal wave. Emotions manifesting, increasing in distinction. Arousal, lust, affection, anger, rage, jealousy, possessiveness, fear. So many that I just open up and let them move through me, resist the urge to analyze or capture any of it.
“You should definitely stop now.” His voice sounds slurred, as if highly intoxicated. And yet despite his words, he makes no attempt to move away. If anything, he leans a fraction more into my touch, the contact. “Please.”
The intimacy of it is profound. I watch his face, pale skin over flawless bone structure, hooded gaze flicking furtively in my direction but not quite meeting mine. He licks his lips, grits his teeth, but still makes no effort to move away. Frustration laces through into my body, resentment, burgeoning anger.
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