Blacker than Black

by Rhi Etzweiler

  He emits a low growl of frustration and I get the distinct impression he wants to say something more but can’t form the thoughts long enough for them to reach his tongue. Or maybe he’s resisting the urge to strangle me. He leans in, gaze fluttering over my face, so close I can almost feel his hand fisting in my hair, knuckles digging into my skull.

  His lips graze against mine, a feather touch of soft warmth, hesitant and reserved, tense with restraint. “Perhaps it’s a conversation for another time then.” His fingers on my chin relax, skimming down my throat like one luxuriating in the feel of a feline’s silken pelt. Contrast between reality and memory is jarring, disturbing. “When you and I have a measure of . . . privacy.”

  The statement caresses my ears, a gentle staccato breath over my cheek. The quality of his words strikes me and elicits a surging ache in my chest. Yes, I’m attracted to him. To the edge of danger he presents, in part—never tangled so intimately with a lyche before.

  The Monsieur of York is lyche, though.

  One of those that took my childhood from me, leaving me and Jhez to rot on the streets, uncaring—that we adapted, even thrived instead, that we love the streets now, is beside the point. Like the father who abandoned us in favor of his new family. Who wanted nothing to do with us. Who didn’t consider us good enough, pure enough for him.

  Yeah, I’ve some issues with this whole attraction. Not going to deny the pull is there, but I don’t like it. I turn away from him sharply. The trance isn’t broken so much as shattered, shredded. A shocked hiss of breath expels from him as I stand up and circumvent the couch, fleeing to the kitchen.

  I all but collapse against the counter, startling Jhez. Her hands fall still on the vegetable she was slicing and her dark gaze studies me, questioning.

  “What?” she asks, her voice low. “Did he try to tap you?”

  I shake my head and swivel to lean against the heavy marble surface of the counter. “I just needed to give us both some space.”

  She grunts and the chopping continues. “You can’t avoid it. He has a measure of power over you now. You’re going to have to learn to deal with it.”

  Judging from the tone of her verbal slap, Jhez has no intention of being forced into the same acceptance. I let my eyes unfocus, registering movement and color without any detail, grip the edge of the counter as if it’s the last vestige of anchoring sanity that remains in the world.

  And then the drugs hit my system, purging the sensation of Garthelle’s presence as if he’s left the flat. Free. Sort of. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  “Perhaps you should make an effort to give him a chance. Just because he’s vampire . . . lyche . . . doesn’t mean he’ll treat us the way our father did. Or the way anyone has since then.” Her tone carries a thread of uncontrolled doubt. Even a hint of sarcasm, maybe.

  “The odds are stacked against him.” When he discovered what I was, what I’d done, his first response was one of aggression, hostility. Then again, any other lyche wouldn’t have hesitated to drain me to the dregs and be done with it. My gaze drifts toward the living space, to the back of the couch.

  He’s upset with me now. For severing the thread of contact forged between us when he could not. Amongst his kind, such an act is likely akin to an open-handed slap. The more powerful side of a potential alliance rubbing the other’s face in the dirt. Why do I care about his reaction to the rejection? Fuck. I push myself away from the counter and halt a few feet from the couch. I fold my arms across my chest and study the vampire. Lyche. Truce, then. Must start somewhere.

  Leonard sits hunched over, forearms resting on his thighs, hands dangling limply between his legs. A flash of energy-memory superimposes the present, replacing it with his bare-chested image, perched on the edge of his bed in exactly the same position. I let the pulse of energy in my veins linger with the juxtaposition this time, studying the ridge of his spine.

  I sigh and release the image, shoving it away. “I want to understand.”

  His head swivels slowly, his yellow eyes glinting at me over his shoulder. Guarded, withdrawn.

  I take a step closer. “How many times have you fed on someone else’s energy?”

  He shrugs. Or maybe he’s shifting in discomfort. I can’t tell. “What’s it matter?”

  “I’m a little confused,” I admit, “as to why you were hunting for chi on the boulevard the other evening. Why you picked me.” Feline connoisseur. Yeah, hunting chi-thieves. But that was not what happened. At all. That didn’t come up until afterward. When I’d given myself away.

  I want to know how much he knows. How to do so without revealing too much might prove difficult. His shoulders twitch and he rolls them as if uncomfortable. I walk around and perch on the couch sideways, one leg folded on the cushion between us as an additional barrier.

  “If you feed on felines, then why did that suddenly change?”

  “I wasn’t trolling for a cheap thrill,” he snaps, radiating hostility as he turns and glares at me. He looks away just as quickly, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I was out hunting for a pair of chi-thieves that a fully-staffed investigative search team failed to locate.”

  “Oh. That investigation.” Every syllable oozing sarcasm. Leonard just keeps on going.

  “And I felt you.” He glances at me with hooded eyes and then lowers his head to slide his hands through his hair. “I felt your aura. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Do you feel many mutts in the metro?”

  He shrugs. “Here and there.” His lips part without sound, as if he’s on the verge of adding more but stops himself. “There are others. Not many, though. Like I said, most lyche don’t much care for them.”

  “So if another lyche of higher standing was to come across one, they would . . .” I leave the thought unfinished, an invitation for him to expound.

  “It depends on their circle allegiance. I’m Modere. This is my territory. My restraint and tolerance dictate the acceptable behaviors within the metro. But elsewhere? Fin tap. Drain them immediately, absorb every last vestige of their energy. With a mutt it increases the abilities, strengthens the core chi. Makes for a stronger lyche.”

  Bile swells up the back of my throat, coarse and burning. “That’s why your guests were so fascinated by us.” They all knew what we were? Every last one of them?

  He nods. “For some, yes. They all knew you two were York’s chi-thieves, though. That certainly didn’t detract from the fascination.”

  It’s a wonder Jhez and I only walked away from that party exhausted. Surely, without Leonard’s intervention, the gathered lyche would have fought over who got the honor of fin tap. My focus blurs and I recall his behavior, the reactions of various individuals. Our presence there at his behest was a statement. His comrades saw us as his assets—at his disposal, not yet tapped. Like a general, parading his arsenal as a display of strength.

  I have the sudden urge to vomit. How many lyche deliberately breed up mutts for the power they gain from the investment? That makes me sicker, because it means they would be cruel enough to drain their own children once they’d reached a certain age.

  The room feels hot and fetid. Is that what our sire had in mind for Jhez and me all along? Is this what our mother died to protect us from? Is this what years of anonymity on the streets has spared us?

  I clear my throat, lick my lips. Try to speak without sounding as shocked and hoarse as I feel. “You said not every lyche has this view. Are you one of a handful?”

  A faint, empty mask of a smile flicks across his lips. “I am a member of the Modere circle. We aren’t the only ones, but we’re the Alpha circle’s oldest and most hated opposition.”

  “And yet you would’ve drained me, if I’d not acquiesced to your demands?”

  Leonard folds his hands, fingers clenched tight. “I don’t know.” His gaze wanders off across the flat, away from me. It feels like he’s holding back, not telling me everything.

  “I want to understand, Leonard.” A
nd right now, it doesn’t make any sense. Or very little.

  He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out the evidence bag containing the small leather-bound book. “Marre is a legend of sorts amongst the lyche. The story goes that a beautiful lyche had a bevy of suitors, none of which held her interest. All weaker than her, none capable of presenting an alliance strong enough to truly benefit her nest. She wasn’t—”

  “Wait a second.” Jhez leans over the back of the couch and hands me a plate of food. “What’s a ‘nest’? I can honestly say I’ve never heard that term before.” She detours to the chair Blue had perched in, and then glances between her food and Garthelle. “Oh, I just assumed you wouldn’t want . . . do you?”

  “No.” He smiles, dismissive, but the tension in his form still screams at me. “A nest . . . that’s the casual term. Leali is what we call it. Closer than family, loyal as a circle. Tight-knit, thicker than blood.”

  “That’s not saying much, after what you’ve told us thus far. Family means nothing to you vamps. And circles . . . I imagine those are huge, aren’t they?”

  Leonard fingers the book through the plastic and grimaces, glancing momentarily at Jhez. “Lyche. Leali is smaller than a circle, though not necessarily inside it. Like . . . you two, and Blue. Leali is the family you choose, not what’s given to you by birth. The story goes, Marre jilted the wrong suitor. The lyche began killing off her leali, one at a time. With the intention of making her accept, to save the others.”

  “Did she?”

  Leonard shakes his head. “No, she didn’t.” He gazes off across the room, at nothing. “Instead, she had the remaining members of her leali perform a fin tap on her. So that her chi would stay with them.”

  “So the gutter shark didn’t get what he wanted anyways, right? What’s that have to do with this?”

  “That’s not the end of the story.” He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “The lyche kills the rest of her leali when he discovers what she’s done. So he gets her anyway, in the end. Or got what he really wanted—which was the sum of her power, for himself.”

  I slide the steaming plate of food onto the coffee table untouched. I have absolutely no appetite, for some reason. “So it’s a legend where the bad guy wins?” Certainly not the kind of bedtime story our mother told us. But then, we weren’t raised by alte Geld lyche.

  He blinks, then turns and smiles at me. “No, there’s more to it than that. But I think that’s the theme the individual who left the note was aiming for.” He motions to the food. “You should eat.”

  I try to return the smile, but judging from the expression in his eyes, my attempt fails miserably. “Kind of lost my appetite. So whoever killed Soiphe did it to get what? Someone else’s energy? Or to make a statement to someone trying to keep something—someone—from them?”

  “I’d say it’s the latter,” Jhez says in between mouthfuls of food. Her plate is already half empty.

  “Why?” Leonard sits back into the couch, but the tension doesn’t leave his body.

  She shrugs. “Gut hunch. And Madame Soiphe didn’t feel to me like the sort to be carrying around anyone’s chi but hers.”

  Though far from relaxed, the lyche tenses fractionally. “What do you mean, didn’t feel that way?” He glances between us. “You can sense a difference in energies?”

  “I don’t know what to call it. They just . . . look different, I guess.” She shrugs, dismissing his curiosity.

  I watch him frown, and wonder at the edge of alarm he seems to be showing. Something of our abilities disturbs him, despite the fact that he knows we’re not just simple human Nightwalkers.

  “Is this something that . . . mutts . . . aren’t supposed to be capable of doing?” Not sure if I want to say more than that or not. Not sure how much to trust him with. “We’ve learned to judge the dangerous vamps from the safe ones. Otherwise, our johns would’ve killed us a long time ago.”

  Like they do most Nightwalkers, given sufficient time. The odds of survival aren’t in the Nightwalker’s favor, that’s for sure. Sooner or later, a john with a muddy aura approaches you.

  A john that’s killed.

  I never knew it had a name. Fin tap. All I knew—all Jhez or I could tell—was that they were a significant threat, vamps to steer clear of. Because when they’ve killed once, it’s only a matter of time before they do it again. Something about the flavor of the energy or the thrall of the experience. I don’t know, exactly. Soiphe’s death was my first intimate experience with it.

  The dead Nightwalkers earn the name gutter trawlers. Collected by the automated street cleaning units that roam the Blue District of York in the early morning hours.

  “I couldn’t say for certain what you should or shouldn’t be able to do.” Leonard sounds cautious. His attention flits back and forth between the two of us like we’re a pair of feral creatures he’s let into his domain without realizing their true natures.

  I’ve never before seen a vamp that looked like he bit off more than he could chew. Rather intriguing expression, frankly. Wish I had a camera to capture a holo-image. To show him next time he gets . . . lyche . . . on me.

  “Right, because we’re mutts and all. We get that. Normal rules don’t apply.”

  Leonard arches his brows. “Like you two have ever paid mind to the rules anyway?”

  Blue is watching for me later, when I stroll up the sidewalk to the corner that’s his usual haunt. He falls in beside me without a word, and we head for the java house without needing to discuss it. I can feel the Monsieur of York trailing along in our wake, out of sight and unobtrusive. Not sure Blue notices the lyche is even there. Don’t want him to, either, but Garthelle wouldn’t permit me to come meet the street dealer alone.

  “My presence is nonnegotiable.” His words. With his brows arched faintly. At least he has the courtesy to stay at the periphery of my aural awareness, unobtrusive.

  Inside the java house, the air is cozy, so saturated with the scent of espresso that it gives me a contact high.

  Blue slides into the booth across from me and pulls a miniature Rubix Cube from the breast pocket of his oversized leather jacket and twists at it. Though it seems an innocent enough action, like he merely wants to give his fingers something to do, I can’t help but watch with riveted fascination as the sides slowly congeal into solid colors. Like drops of mercury sliding across the surface of the Formica table to glob together in a single mass.

  Blinking, I tear my gaze away and meet his strange stare. He scans my face with vivid, almost turquoise eyes, their color vaguely purplish behind rose-tinted glasses. He could always read me with horrifying ease, so I don’t even bother to try hiding anything.

  The blue side of the cube is whole. He always completes that side first.

  “You still want me to tell you?” The movement of his lips is barely distinguishable as he slides the partially solved cube back into his pocket. And drags a small windup matchbox car from another pocket.

  “Of course I do. I want to understand why this man disturbs you so much.”

  He purses his lips, focus entirely on the small knob at the back of the toy. “I’m not the only one bothered by him, Black. And he’s not a man. He’s a vampire. There’s a distinct difference.”

  Somehow, I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes. I’ve heard that so many times in the past few days it’s starting to get tiresome. It’s not Blue’s fault though that my perspective is shifting. “The man has a past. Who doesn’t, right?”

  It still earns me a glance as Blue sets the toy down on the Formica with a touch that borders on obsession, a soft smile of affection curling his lips. The gears and springs creak and clack as it crawls away from him. A clown with a leering grin, the painted details chipped and faded, pops its head up through the sunroof with each revolution of the tiny rubber tires. Blue’s thin fingers snatch the toy back from the edge of the table and twist it around to crawl back toward him.

  He doesn’t say anything until the coiled spring me
chanism inside the toy runs out of gas just inches from where he set it down. He twists the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t it enough that he’s one of them? All we are to them is walking sushi bars.”

  The clown stares at me, empty eyes and leering grin. I try not to shudder.

  I guess he’s having second thoughts about telling me. I manage not to glance across the café in Leonard’s direction, but it takes some effort. I lost our little battle of wills, despite the heavy thrum of dampener in my system. The lyche made no bones about shadowing my every step in the Blue District tonight. Didn’t matter one bit that Jhez and I have been to this java house a thousand times. Guess it beats having Muscle tromping along in my wake. Certainly easier on the eyes, for one thing.

  Is Blue worried that I won’t hold the information in the strictest confidence? Does he really think, after all these years, that I would betray the trust we have to a lyche? Maybe I won’t have a choice in the matter. It wasn’t so long ago that Garthelle had me huddled on the floor of his black-on-black apartment while he cranked my knobs willy-nilly. Perhaps Blue’s concern isn’t so farfetched, after all.

  “No, it’s not enough,” I hear myself say. “What is it about humans that make us so prone to prejudice?”

  Blue arches one of his unnaturally colored eyebrows and looks up to meet my gaze. “If we didn’t form prejudices, we wouldn’t be learning from our environment, you dolt. It’s an animal instinct. If a porcupine’s quill gets stuck in your hand once, you won’t be likely to go grabbing it again soon, right?” I huff and stare out the plate glass window that radiates the outside chill into my left shoulder. “I’m your friend. I’m worried about you every bit as much as Jhez is. With good reason. You’re mixed up with someone who can destroy you with the flick of a wrist.”

  “Damn it, Blue! What choice do I have?” I try to keep my voice low so it won’t carry, try to filter out the pain and frustration and a thousand other emotions cramming themselves into my words. Judging from the way he widens his eyes, I don’t entirely succeed. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s still staring at the little clown in its round car that resembles a bug. I have a sudden, perverse desire to smash my fist down on the thing.