Jhez is beside me, my arm in the vice grip of her hand. “Black. Stop. You can’t do anything to that vampire.”
“Lyche,” I correct absently. I blink for a moment, trying to clear my vision. She really thought I would try that? “I wasn’t going to try.” I wave a hand at the door. “Garthelle’s here somewhere. I intend to make him do something about it.”
Her hand loosens and falls away. “Would he?”
I know he will, actually. “I intend to make him if he can’t see reason for himself.” A smile twitches along her lips, and I wave toward the coffee table. “Go eat. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“I don’t know who she was.” Her gaze skims over me like she hadn’t noticed my altered wardrobe earlier. “Where’s your leather pants?” There’s a very blatant note of accusation and bewilderment in her voice.
Slow, deep breath. Don’t blush, Black, whatever you do. “I spilled wine on them.”
“Right. Well, the bitch had brunette hair with fuchsia highlights.” I blink, and she grins. “Hey, nobody said lyche had an ounce of fashion sense. Not that I know of, at least.” Jhez drawls the moniker, rolling her eyes.
“Right.” I turn for the door. “Eat something. I’ll be back in a bit.”
After pulling the door shut at my back, I lean against the abused wood and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I have no idea which way Garthelle went. The only reason I know he’s still on the grounds of Dragulhaven is because if he weren’t, my level of discomfort would be a great deal higher. With nothing to go on, really, I’m reduced to wandering aimlessly until I find the butler, or until I notice a shift in aural sensation.
Great. I’m so fucked. And not in a good way.
So I’m walking the halls. I stop in front of a door that’s open a fraction. No light spilling from within. Don’t know what makes me stop, until I hear Garthelle’s voice. The only thing I can chalk it up to, since there’s no such thing as luck in my life unless you count the bad kind, is that I instinctively followed his aural trail through the sprawling castle.
He’s not alone in the room. I don’t know why the door’s open. Maybe he slammed it shut so hard, it bounced open again before it could latch? Who knows. I doubt he would physically demonstrate such a lack of self-control, frankly.
Footsteps reverberate across the room, growing louder. Suddenly the door swings open fully and the butler stares at me without the slightest twitch of shock. He bows his head slightly. “Master Black. Monsieur was expecting you. Come in, if you would.”
Oh, that’s just too fucking weird. Well, I guess if I can sense him—he can sense me, right? I step into the dimly lit room and stop.
It’s not another office, as I’d assumed. It’s a small parlor, reminiscent of his flat. Thoroughly black. And dark as pitch in the shadows, despite the track lighting along the walls.
The door closes behind me, and the sound of the butler’s footsteps retreating down the corridor is eerie.
“What is it?” His voice comes from somewhere in the far corner of the little room, but I can’t pinpoint where.
“Jhez returned to your office shortly after you left. She wasn’t pleased.”
“Why aren’t I surprised.”
I don’t think he intended me to hear that. I clear my throat. Tension bleeds through the space between us and slams against my chest like a fist, the sensation forcing me back a step to keep my balance. That’s definitely a first.
“She told me someone groped her. Given our conversation, I thought you’d prefer to be aware of the liberties your guests take.”
The sound of clothing against upholstery comes from the far right corner of the room, so I turn that way.
“I didn’t realize hiring a pair of Nightwalker chi-thieves would be such a high-maintenance endeavor.” The dry tone of his observation makes me want to laugh.
“We’re accustomed to a certain level of respect and consideration on the street. I understand you might not be privy to that. I’d think, though, that your guests would have some knowledge of the understood limitations.”
“No sexual overtures?”
“Anyone who taps regularly would be conscious of that. No offense intended, of course.”
“Of course.”
I don’t like his tone. Yeah, well. You just slapped him in the face with the fact that his behavior earlier was a blatant display of disrespect toward you. Oops. Oh well. I’m not perfect; never claimed to be. Nobody’s perfect. Take Leonard, for example. “She holds you responsible for the actions of your guests, since you’re currently her employer. Pimp. Whatever. As things stand, it would . . . behoove you to impress upon your guests that Jhez is due certain measures of restraint. Otherwise she’s going to throw your agreement back in your face and walk out the door. And she’ll do her damnedest to drag me with her.” Consequences of chi-theft be damned.
“Is that so.”
Did you really just threaten him? Massive open-mouth-insert-footage, if I do say so myself. Never mind that it’s the truth. Guess I could’ve tried for a smidgen more tact.
But it never was my strong suit. Jhez says as much quite often, in a tone of mournful sarcasm that usually makes me want to laugh. Right now, though, I’m getting a rather uncomfortable vibe from Leonard. Hostile, aggressive. Edged with a sort of “alpha male” possessiveness. Or something akin to it, at least. My interpretations could be horrendously off the mark. But I don’t think they are.
“It is,” I manage to respond. “What do you intend to do about it?”
“You mean,” he says, stepping from the overlapping shadows to loom over me, “besides chaining you to a bedpost somewhere?”
His yellow eyes are sharp and piercing, with a faint trace of luminescence. The tangy aroma of liquor tickles my nose. I’m quite certain the snifter in his hand is full of Glen Liven scotch whiskey. I inhale slowly. Fifty-year-old brew, at least. I’d bet my chi on it. My mouth waters.
“I don’t believe that’s a viable alternative. Nor will it solve any of the current issues.” Bigger picture, Leonard. Bigger picture here. Come on, you can do it.
“Indeed,” he agrees. And takes a long, thoughtful swig from his snifter. I lick my lips in envy. I won’t envy his hangover in the morning, though.
Lyche do get hangovers, right? I scramble through what I know, trying to remember. I get nothing. Some part of me knows I should possess this niggling sliver of information. Damn it, wouldn’t it just be the height of unfairness if they didn’t?
Remind me again why I’m standing here? Despite the fact that I have no desire to be chained like a dog. Despite the fact that he has the strength to overpower me against my will. Oh, yes. Because the Monsieur of York deigned not to kill me. After he screwed up. Such a trustworthy sort, is he not? I think I’m starting to feel all that wine I chugged. Leave it to someone who can’t get intoxicated to get me trashed. Damn good thing Jhez didn’t notice. She would’ve wanted to hunt Garthelle down herself and castrate him.
I clear my throat and revisit the reason I’m here. “The guilty party is a woman with brunette hair and fuchsia highlights. Sound familiar?”
Garthelle twists his lips into a grimace and then drains his snifter. “Yes. That’d be Ardienne, the Madame of Orleans. Come with me.” He sets the glass down on the sidebar and strides for the door. Hugging my arms around my chest, I turn to watch him. With the wine in my blood, there’s probably some sort of goofy grin on my face, but I can’t help it. His slacks hug his ass rather nicely. I suppress the urge to ask him who his tailor is. Barely.
“Let’s go, Black.”
I blink. “What?”
“I think it’s important for you to witness this. I’d have Jhez along as well, but I don’t doubt your sister is rather worked up. This way, you can assure her that the matter has been dealt with to her satisfaction.”
Gaia have mercy. My wonderful buzz just fled. Quick as that. When he arches a brow and continues watching me over his shoulder, I relent with a sigh, tra
iling in his wake toward the door. “Fine. No blood and gore though, if you don’t mind. That was a very nice meal and I prefer it stays where I put it.”
He nods curtly and yanks the door open.
The Monsieur of York locates the Madame of Orleans with frightening speed. While I’m sure it has something to do with lyche senses and physiology, the level of his awareness is disturbing. It feels like a message aimed at me.
See what I can do with ease? Do you really think that being back on the streets will mean I can’t find you whenever I want?
The fuchsia-haired woman possesses as much awareness of style as she does of her surroundings. Garthelle clasps his hands behind his back and hovers at the corner of the couch where she sits, waiting in silence. A pace behind him, I watch his fingers clench and twitch. Clever poker player, hiding his tell.
The gaggle of lyche scattered around the collection of settees and chairs gradually falls silent as the glances flickering over their host increase. None greet or acknowledge him, however. Another ploy of politicking . . . they leave it to the most senior-ranking amongst them. I just can’t decide if her omission is calculation or ignorance.
Either way, she feigns innocence with casual aplomb. “Monsieur Garthelle! What a pleasure this is. We were led to believe you wouldn’t be making an appearance.”
“And yet you’ve forced the necessity upon me, Ardienne. Poorly played. Even an adolescent demonstrates a better grasp of finesse.”
“What are you going on about? Do you mean that female human you sent us as entertainment? Surely you’ve better than that at your disposal. Your territory has such a wealth of humans, as I recall. Usually, you’re renowned for your quality.”
I shift to the left, trying to put the Monsieur of York squarely between myself and this sharp-tongued woman. One of the other female lyche, however, catches sight of me. Her eyes widen as if the resident chef just strolled in with a tray of petit fours.
“Oh, Ardienne,” the woman purrs, rising from the settee. Her sinuous movements lack any trace of humanity and set my teeth on edge. “He was holding out on us. But I think he’s more than redeemed himself, bringing his tastiest morsel to assuage you.”
What am I thinking? Like hell I’m going to hide from one lyche behind another one. I step to the side, cross my arms and scowl at the woman. Her step falters, until she stops a generous five feet from Garthelle. And glares at him.
“This one doesn’t appear to be any more accommodating than the earlier one,” the woman observes. When Leonard only gazes at her in silence, she turns a pouting expression on Ardienne. “Madame, please?”
I recognize Desmonde when she shifts from her spot on a couch in the corner, making her presence known. “Really, Gahandre. You should know by now that not every man will fall at your feet to worship you. Especially not in the Monsieur of York’s territory.” She doesn’t look at me, or Garthelle. She focuses solely on her glass of wine, with a look of utter boredom. I wonder who twisted her arm to get her in attendance?
Ardienne is swift to interject, her voice keyed a fraction louder than Desmonde’s. “However, Monsieur, we were led to believe that you would provide sustenance. Thus far you’ve done little of the sort.” My brow furrows in a scowl as I flick my gaze around the room. I don’t know all these lyche, but I have the distinct impression I’m witnessing a crucial power struggle.
“Ardienne. You know better than to play coy with me. Sustenance does not include sexual gratification. I sent the highest quality source available, and you offended her with your crass behavior and overtures. My responsibilities in such circumstances no longer parallel your interests. You’ve offered a slight against my household that will not be tolerated.”
A stiff silence filters through the occupants of the room, and my eyebrows try to crawl up into my hairline yet again. His household? Jhez and I, we’re Nightwalkers, hired on contract to satisfy the debt of our crimes. That puts us in his employ, and thus under his protection. But he makes it sound a bit more permanent than that. Deeper.
I don’t have a clue about the variations in lyche relationships. It’s like slogging through a swamp of wet cement, in a heavy fog. On a dark, moonless night.
And taking my cues from him presents its own dangers. Because I’ve no idea what assumptions he’s made based on our convoluted conversations this afternoon. He certainly hasn’t shared his conclusions with me, that’s for sure.
“She’s a human, Monsieur Garthelle. You can’t mean that.” The disgust in her tone is highly offensive. My sister isn’t some lesser being, some barely sentient beast. And how does a lyche not take notice of the fact that Jhez and I are both decidedly not quite human? I feel like I’m missing something. Perhaps, for some, the difference between mutt and human is negligible.
“She may very well be human, Madame. But I’m very serious. And you’re aware of the consequences. You knew when you assaulted her. Did you not?”
“I certainly didn’t think you’d demand restitution! Will you next claim every human within the York metro is a member of your household?”
“If I choose to do so, it is within my rights, is it not? You’re in no position to question it, nor is anyone else. Will you subject yourself, or will you refuse?”
“This is the height of insanity,” Gahandre mutters, flouncing back to her chair. She glares at me, and I plaster an evil grin on my face. No, I wouldn’t do it if the Monsieur of York weren’t standing at my shoulder. But he is.
Desmonde, on the other hand, pushes out of her place on the couch and strolls closer in a nonaggressive and roundabout fashion. Not challenging him that I can see; more like she wants a front-row seat for this. There’s a curve of a smile on her lips that isn’t friendly in the least. Total predator.
And I get the impression Garthelle won’t fail to deliver. He leans into me, his upper arm pushing against my shoulder. Heat tingles through my skin at the aural contact, pools in my gut. Adrenaline thickens my blood, and I feel a flush creep up my neck.
Ardienne tucks her chin and lowers her gaze to the floor, down and away from Garthelle’s face. A move screaming of submission, even amongst the most lowly of beasts. Why a lyche would employ this tactic of nonverbal communication is beyond me.
Beside me, Garthelle shifts, chest swelling as he inhales. Tingles suffuse my skin, running up and down my body. I want to scratch everywhere at once, but dig my fingers into my arms and resist the urge. His hand slides down my back, under my shirt, to rest against the bare skin of my hip. I suck in a breath as his aura blends into mine for the second time this evening. The tingling increases to a level of pleasure-pain.
Why’s he involving me in this? When he said he wanted me to witness it, there was no mention of participation. With him inside my aura, I can feel him reach out and tap Ardienne’s aura—without touching her.
I sense the weight of her energy, lighter than his but still a heady infusion, as he draws it from her. Minimal finesse, no surgical precision here. It reminds me of an alpha wolf wrestling a pack-mate into submission. I had no idea they could do this. No idea he could tap me without contact. Can he? Or is it strictly a lyche connection or sympathy of some sort?
Though her energy brushes against my aura, it flows into him, down into the base of his chi. From the corner of my eye, I can almost see it glowing in his abdomen. Which reminds me of those rippling muscles I glimpsed not too long ago. Wouldn’t mind seeing them again. Not a bit. I sidle closer, leaning into him, and feel the faint pulse of energy surging into him. It’s strange, to witness it like this as a bystander. From the outside.
Ardienne gasps, her body convulsing, and Leonard severs the tap with a rough tug.
“Never, ever disrespect a human beneath my roof again, Ardienne. Next time, I will not be so lenient.” The Monsieur of York’s voice is ominous in its depth, coarse and husky with a faint rasp. His hand tightens almost painfully on my hip as he propels me toward the door.
He doesn’t let go of me until he push
es the door shut behind us in his little black den. Then he stalks off into the depths of the shadows without a word. The clink of crystal, the slosh of liquid is loud in the stillness.
I’m getting this vibe that he didn’t enjoy that. Not in the least bit; this is slightly odd to my way of thinking. Lyche are all about their sustained levels of power and personal energy, and Garthelle just amped his. Noticeably. Ardienne wasn’t a weak member of their ilk and he just ripped her down to the level of an omega without batting an eye. With all those others there to bear witness. They didn’t attempt to intervene. Not even a token resistance.
The more you know, the more you know you don’t know. And the more I know I don’t want to know, too. I very much want to go back to my little dilapidated flat with Jhez, back to eking out our existence one john and one skimpy credit chit at a time. Hey, the familiar is comfortable.
What he just did? The implications have more weight than the actual discomfort of the punishment. That much is obvious. But since I’ve no concept of those implications, I’m at a loss for what I should tell Jhez. I can just imagine how much of a train wreck that conversation will be.
“Would you like to be alone, Monsieur? I should probably go speak with my sister—”
“Stay. Just . . . give me a moment.”
I purse my lips and wander forward in the darkness until my legs smack against the edge of a couch. When I sink down into pliant velvet, it’s enough to make me want to curl up and go to sleep. But then I feel my aura tingling against my skin, and Leonard sits down next to me. So close his thigh is snug against mine.
I let him sit in silence for a few moments, and have to clear my throat before managing to whisper. “Tell me what really just happened.”
He empties the contents of the snifter and slides it soundlessly onto the coffee table, then turns to study me. I can’t make out his expression, or any details of his face. In fact, it’s almost hurting my eyes just to see the little I can. Waiting for them to adjust isn’t going to help, since there’s not enough ambient light for anything to register beyond vague forms and movement. I’m sure he can make out every last pore in my skin.
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