“None,” he answers, the word curt and flat. “Which is why this evening is so imperative. There are questions we desperately need answers to if we’re to piece this together. I’m hoping the individuals I’ve chosen for you to entertain will be able to provide some direction.”
I take a slow, deep breath and try to calm my racing pulse. “We can probably make some progress, though I hope you can make more of it than we’ve been able. Madame Desmonde has gained a great deal from Madame Noire’s demise.”
Leonard stiffens, all movement ceasing. “Has she. And how are you aware of this?”
“Because we took it upon ourselves to perform our assigned duties.” Jhez settles into the couch next to me, showing no sign of intimidation. Not sure why she’s suddenly so relaxed around him. It’s not like he suddenly stopped being lyche. Does she think I hold some sort of sway over him? Or is she coming to trust him a little? Witnessing the contrast between Leonard and his alte Geld counterparts continues to be . . . educational. Revealing.
He’s rather mild mannered compared to Desmonde.
“Did you.” He sets the paper off to one side and braces his forearms on his knees, his gaze wandering in the direction of the door. “Do tell.”
Something tells me the butler is in for one hell of a verbal chewing in the near future. The man strikes me as the sort who will enjoy it. And not give Garthelle an inch. “Not a lot to tell. It occurred to me that the best way to get Madame Desmonde to cooperate might be to . . .”
“Pop by unannounced,” Jhez finishes, smiling broadly at me. “And it worked like a charm.”
“Yes. It’s difficult to appear unavailable when in the throes of . . .”
“Highly engaging activities.” My sister nods, blushing slightly as she clears her throat. “At any rate, once we got her undivided attention, we discovered that Desmonde was one of nine lyche competing for the Premier succession.”
“And she’s managed to be the last one standing. Literally.”
“I was aware the Illium successorship was up for grabs. It wasn’t the only impetus for tension between her and Soiphe, though. The two of them have been oil and water for as long as I can recall.” He taps his fingertips together, mouth twisting downward.
“She was rather vocal, and proud, of the fact that she wouldn’t soil her hands with violence against a fellow . . . lyche.” I bark a sarcastic laugh. “That leaves innumerable avenues for attack, in my personal opinion.”
His eyes widen as he focuses on me. “You’d be correct in that assessment.”
“Sadly, she wasn’t as cooperative when we asked about her personal alliances.” Jhez actually sounds disappointed. I glance at her, wondering how much she’s actually coming to enjoy this whole Black & Red Detective Agency thing.
“No, I wouldn’t expect that she would be.” A flash of smile at one corner of Garthelle’s mouth.
“In fact, when I asked . . . all I got was assaulted.”
He straightens, gaze narrowing. “Clarify.” His voice is harsh, cold.
Jhez glances at me, her blue eyes wide in surprise. His reaction catches us both off guard, though, not just her. “Uh. Madame Desmonde appeared threatened—or offended, perhaps—by our intrusion.” She hesitates, chafes her palms against her thighs.
It’s difficult to know how he’s going to react to this. How it’s perceived from a lyche’s perspective. Is it even of any importance to them? We’re Nightwalkers, after all; we sell our chi. But we choose to whom we sell it. We control what we offer and how much. To have it taken without permission is a violation of our persons. I have serious doubts that a lyche would share that sentiment, though.
I clear my throat, drawing Garthelle’s attention in the ensuing silence, and pick up the thread of the story from Jhez. Her discomfort is obvious. She doesn’t have the same level of protection from harm that I do. I don’t know what to call it. A vow of restraint? It feels like more than that, now. “On what she clearly considers to be, uh, her personal territory beneath your roof. I got the impression that she felt the need to reassert her position.”
“How?” He glances between the two of us, a strain of tension visible in the cording of his neck. Poised, impatient.
“She . . .” Jhez trails off and lifts her hand, reaching over to mimic the lyche’s gestures on me. The twist and jerk, the languid act of tasting. “I don’t have enough exposure to your culture to understand what it is she did, exactly. But out on the boulevard? That sort of thing just isn’t done. A john doesn’t take a taste without paying for it.”
“You shouldn’t have attempted to question her without my presence.”
“I fail to see how it was any different than you having me question Mademoiselle Ferdinand yesterday.”
“Ferdinand has a personal alliance with me. Her standing is a great deal lower than Desmonde’s, as such things are measured. It doesn’t make her any less powerful or influential, but she is a lyche whom I trust implicitly. She has gained the intimate confidences of many, simply because they don’t perceive her as a threat. You weren’t sent to question her motives. The purpose of that interview was to acquire some guidance for the investigation. It was safe to question her alone because you weren’t in danger for even a second.” The Monsieur of York pushes to his feet and stalks off across the breadth of the office, stands staring in silence at the wall with his hands braced on his hips.
“So what you’re saying is that Desmonde ripped off a chunk of my energy as payment for the information she shared with us?”
He turns his head a fraction, his profile barely visible over his shoulder. Not looking at either of us, just ensuring his voice will carry across the room. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. I can make no retaliation against her, for that reason. She did not act with the purpose of offending.”
“Well, not offending you, perhaps.” I chew my lip, wishing I hadn’t said that, but the words just slip out. In a slightly acerbic tone. I’m more annoyed at our social ignorance than anything or anyone else, though. But Desmonde knew what we were, knew a Nightwalker would find her actions highly offensive, consider them assault. Her failure to clarify was an obvious manipulation.
“What guarantee do either of us have that this won’t happen again?” Jhez doesn’t bother to mask her irritation in the least. “You want us to entertain this evening. Are we not to speak to or question anyone for fear of the price of that information being extracted from our chi?”
Garthelle pivots to face us. “That is the whole of it, actually. So long as you do not ask direct questions for specific information, you are entirely safe from such reprisal. It will not occur again. I promise. You are, as my employees, members of my household. And as such, you gain the protection from other lyche that status affords.”
I elbow my sister in the ribs and laugh in an effort to break the tension. “Curb our curiosity. He doesn’t realize what he’s asking, does he?”
She gives me a smile; it’s weak, but it’s there at least. And that’s an improvement. “No, I don’t think he does.”
“Red, would you give us a moment?” He retrieves a manila envelope from the table in front of us, the selection seemingly random, and holds it out. “Here’s the file on the lyche I’d like you to . . . entertain . . . this evening. Take some time to plan out a few ways to indirectly influence her conversation with you so you can acquire information without making the same faux pas. You may take it into the study there and help yourself to the bottle of scotch, if you like.” He can be so very suave and polite when he wants, but he doesn’t fool Jhez. All the same, she takes the file and retreats without saying another word.
As soon as the connecting door clicks shut, his attention whips back on me like I’m a lightning rod in a thunderstorm.
“What?” I don’t have any difficulty holding his gaze despite the intensity radiating from him. Not sure why that is. It’s almost as if the lyche doesn’t intimidate me anymore. That yellow gaze has an effect, but the charge of adre
naline isn’t from fear.
Oh, would that it were. Things would be infinitely simpler.
He doesn’t say a word as he moves back to his previous perch on the couch across from me. The yowl of a feline draws my attention, and a rather large Manx, smoke-gray like a living shadow, leaps up onto the back of the furniture. It settles down behind Leonard’s shoulders and stares at me with green, slitted eyes.
They both stare at me. My palms are starting to sweat. I’m nervous, can’t feel a thing coming from him. Can’t read his mood in the energy traces of his aura. And I don’t feel that warm, relaxing sensation of relief that being in close proximity usually gives. I try to swallow, work some moisture back into my mouth, stumbling upon the realization of how addictive that sensation could be. How addicted I am already, just based on the brief instances where I’ve indulged, enjoyed it.
“You’ve not stopped taking it, have you.” Not a question. I don’t bother answering; he would know if I’d stopped. He leans forward over the coffee table, arms braced wide, palms flat against the smooth black surface. Knuckles and fingertips pale and bloodless from the pressure and tension his body is under.
“Have you,” he repeats, voice deeper. Sounds rusty, an old farming implement abandoned to the mercy of the elements.
“No.” I drag my attention away from the feline walking up Leonard’s back to glare at me over his shoulder. Smile as I meet his hard gaze. “You already know that.”
The lines between his brows furrow deeper. “Yes. Every time I look in the mirror, I know that.” My eyes widen slightly in disbelief. Surely he can’t be serious. “You must stop. I have tried ordering, without success, so now I appeal to your logic and sense of honor. It’s blocking sensations you find disturbing and uncomfortable. I sympathize. I will endeavor to minimize them in some other way. But not like this. It’s unnatural. And, as you can see,” he adds, motioning needlessly to his appearance, “it’s inflicting more harm than good.”
I force myself to continue holding his gaze. It’s disturbing. Not because I see something dark and dangerous and incomprehensible. No, quite the opposite, actually. He looks human, he feels human thanks to the drugs. Right now, Leonard is just a middle-aged man that looks the worse for wear. And apparently it’s my fault.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Blue’s worried about me; Gaia, at this point I’m worried about me too. Not that I have the first clue what’s going on between us, but my aural tie to a lyche is going to make it difficult to ever go back to the boulevard. If he’d even let me. My entire existence is tilting crazily on its axis. I know I have a choice—I always have a choice—
“Black.” He utters my name, voice low and firm, not a command so much as an offered anchor. I press my lips together and bite my tongue, willing myself not to say anything. “Look at me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, then relent and study his face. There’s a hint of a smile in the tension at the corners of his mouth. One long-fingered hand rubs absently at the line of his jaw, and my gaze wanders to the lobe of his ear, half hidden by his long hair. To the curve of muscle and tendon in his neck, twitching as he swallows.
“The stress you see is a side effect of whatever concoction your friend has you taking. I can’t explain it better than that, because I certainly don’t understand any more about this than you do at the moment. But I need you to stop taking them. Please.”
I nod. “I’ll consent to that.” It seems it makes both of us vulnerable. If anyone were to stumble upon what Blue has at his disposal . . . “Do you mind if I ask a question?” He cocks his head askew, invitation to continue. “Have you ever heard of this,” I gesture between us significantly, “occurring to any other lyche before?”
The visible sliver of his iris reminds me of the waning moon smiling at me from the night sky. The silence following my query drags out, unbroken. Another approach, then.
“How vulnerable are you in this state? With these drugs in my system?”
His mouth tenses. “Our auras are . . . meshed. Fused?” He shakes his head and collapses back into the couch, hands folded on his lap, long legs draped in tailored charcoal slacks stretching out beneath the low table. “Feeding off one another. The drug is blocking that.”
“Have you tried tapping your felines to . . .” I gesture toward the Manx now draped around his shoulders, a breathing stole, the politically correct term escaping me. It’s like asking your best friend if he masturbates to relieve stress. “Replenish your energy.”
His shoulders hunch with tension, fingers lacing together in a white-knuckled grip. The feline flexes its claws, meows in disapproval. The expression on its face is more animated—with disgust—than I could’ve ever imagined such a creature being capable of. It scrambles away from the lyche and darts off across the office to disappear through an open doorway.
It’s obvious he can answer the question, but doesn’t want to. Does he feel it’s too personal? Rather late for that. Maybe it’s a matter of not wanting to expose weakness, dependency. The ruling lyche of the metro, brought low by a simple Nightwalker. Well, not so simple, all things considered, but still. I arch an eyebrow and wait, watch his gaze flicker over the newspaper on the coffee table. Trail over my legs, up my body to finally settle on my face. And meet my gaze.
“I have tried a number of times today, after waking up with these dark circles around my eyes. I haven’t looked this way before, ever. Look at me. Really look at me, Black. I look like one of those addicts on the boulevard. Like one of the Nightwalkers with a pimp driving them too hard, on the verge of death. I have no energy. I slept twelve hours in the past twenty-four, but I feel like I haven’t had a single minute of rest in the past week.” His voice is empty, flat. The same as it has been since Jhez and I arrived. Now, the lack of inflection frightens me, chills my skin down to the bone.
Three hours until the dosage in my blood wears off, if I go by Blue’s estimation. How long until the drug is out of my system completely, though? ’Til the side effects wear off completely? What do we do until then? I’ve never been the death of anyone. Ever.
I don’t want to start now, not with him. Yeah, he’s a lyche. A vampire. But . . . I care about him. Can’t bring myself to stand by and watch him hurt. Waste away. No. I want this to end, but not this way. Not like this.
There’s still a sliver of suspicion and distrust in me, a temptation to believe this entire situation is intentional, calculated. He sought me out on the boulevard because he was trying to locate a chi-thief of some notoriety. But the rest of this? Surely there’s no way someone could have premeditated a mess of this magnitude. He turned the tables on me because he could, never guessing what would happen as a result. And seriously. To what end? Or should the question be, how deep do lyche politics go?
His eyelids slide to half-mast again when I uncross my legs and push to my feet. He’s watching me, head resting on the back of the couch and canted slightly at an angle. His shaggy, wavy hair looks rather mussed now that I study him, as if he did no more than run his hands through it a few times after getting dressed.
I try to suppress the surge of pity. He wouldn’t want me to make the offer I intend to, based upon that. I don’t pretend to know him intimately, but I know he will refuse if he senses it.
In hindsight, I can’t blame him for not trusting Blue. For questioning his motives. I would too, were he anyone else. And at this point, were it anyone but Leonard, I wouldn’t bother doing this . . .
I walk around the coffee table, moving slowly, letting his gaze track me. His irises are just a sliver, barely visible, but I dare not look away. Worst thing I could possibly do is startle a lyche who’s feeling weak and vulnerable. I might not know a great deal about their culture or society, but I’ve learned enough of their physiology, their instincts.
They’re just like any other predator out there in the jungle.
I sink a knee into the cushion by his hip and lower myself to sit facing him. He still has his hands clamped together in his lap, and when
I hold my palm an inch above his skin, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. They’re burning, making everything look blurry. With my aura touching his, I can feel him again. It’s faint, muted by the drugs. Frustration slams through me, drowning out the last shred of pity. What if this doesn’t work? What if I haven’t given myself enough time to recover from that debacle he called a dinner party?
What if he’s so desperate, so weak, that he can’t control himself?
Worry about it later. Don’t lose your nerve. You didn’t ask for this, but neither did he.
And he doesn’t deserve to die. Which, in all honesty, looks like what he’s on the verge of. I remember the cryptic sheets of circles and lines and empty spaces. Who stands to gain the most if he and I can’t see this through to the other side?
Questions later. My palm finally starts to itch and tingle. It takes a great deal longer than it should. I try not to frown as I settle my other wrist against his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” His voice is whisper-soft. I glance up from studying the quick throb of pulse in his neck. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. I wonder if this is what he looked like when he slept next to me in his bed. Shame I was unconscious. He looks so peaceful.
I ease my palm against his neck, my other hand onto his. Skin to skin. I inhale sharply at the faint spark of shock that accompanies the contact, as it races through every nerve ending in my body. His cologne is faint, but I can smell it. Dragon’s blood incense, leather, and sandalwood. Makes me want to lick his skin, bury my face in his neck and inhale. Which is utterly inappropriate at the moment, according to the rational half of my mind.
I watch the tension bleed from the lyche’s body in gradual increments. His skin, cool and dry beneath my touch, begins to heat. He exhales an almost soundless sigh and rolls his head to the side, toward me, tucking his chin so my hand cradles his jaw. His nostrils flare as he inhales, and the signs of his burgeoning hunger are everywhere.
Too many to enumerate, but a beautiful thing to behold. Money isn’t the only reason I’m still a Nightwalker after all these years. It’s an involuntary biological attraction or something. Yes, I know. Excuses, excuses. The addict always has one.
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