Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

1. As Dead as Dead Can Be.

The musician’s severed blond head skitters across the floor, tumbles onto Tristan’s feet, comes to an abrupt stop.

Tristan sighs. Was that entirely necessary?

From the other side of the cluttered study, across stacks of weathered books perilously balanced upon ornate dark wood tables and plush crimson and gold chaise lounges, the tall and commanding shape of Ashara silhouettes the flames dancing in the hearth, a sleeveless dark green dress with a plunging back cascading down her statuesque frame. Her coppery skin glows in the flickering fire as she calmly licks blood from her ring finger. “If we’re strictly discussing 12-tone equal temperament, perhaps the boy had a point. But C-sharp is not unreservedly the same as D-flat. Dusk is not the same as dawn, even if both share the same twilight. If he cannot understand or care to grasp that simple concept, he does not deserve his head.”

The musician’s lifeless eyes stare up at Tristan, his last look of terror still glimmering in them, captured like a photograph, blood pumping from the fountain of his opened neck.

He had pleasant eyes , says Tristan, as if in start of a eulogy.

“And not much else,” concludes Ashara, ending it.

The truth is, the musician shared many traits with Tristan. From his short blond tangles of hair to his misty blue eyes. His proud yet unassuming posture, how he both stood out and kept close to the shadows, his guard never fully down. Even the proud way he lifted his head as he played—well, when it was attached to his shoulders. The soft way he spoke, like his words were a melody of their own. How he dedicated himself to the music each time he lifted an instrument, though he was a tad robotic, like a pupil with the highest marks, everything done so properly, yet missing that special, unteachable thing .

Tristan was hoping this musician would last.

But, like the last one, in a long line of hopeful musicians that have met similar fates, the boy is now as dead as Bach.

Admittedly, it’s difficult to perform under such pressure for a musician of any measure of talent, especially when one’s sole audience is Ashara, the blood-bonded sister of Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn and ruler of the west region, which includes with a few insignificant exceptions everything west of Louisiana, from Houston, Texas to Seattle, Washington. Even directors in the east region regard Markadian with unwavering respect. Ashara is no exception, as even without a title or rank, a mere whisper from her lips to her brother’s ear can raze a city to ash.

“So much dear Markadian could improve upon here,” says Ashara to the hearth, “so much he could change if he had the drive. He’s too complacent. I’ve made great use of my time in India these past fifteen months, and oh, the ideas I’ve gathered, how they’d handle a rogue among their ranks … how they’d respond to such insolence I have seen here since my return …” She lets out a sigh that isn’t unlike the hiss of a snake. “You’d be loath to hear of it.”

The head still rests at Tristan’s feet, reminding him of a tipped over wineglass pouring its lifeblood. Tristan takes a step back, if anything but to keep his shoes from being soaked in blood, and asks, Should I summon someone to clean up the, um—?

“Is it true?” Ashara pulls her face from the fire. “Did you leave my brother’s side all those years ago … for a boy?”

Tristan considered the question. There were many decisions I made … that may have been ill-advised .

“Ill-advised, we’re calling it?” Her iron gaze locks on his. “Your nearly three-decade-long flirtation with this boy I have heard is called … Kyle, is it?”

The way she utters his name.

With such predetermined disgust and mockery.

It is obvious Markadian’s words have already poisoned the idea of Kyle to her.

Perhaps that is to be expected. Kyle’s name is like a curse in this place now, considering the events of the last few weeks. So is Tristan’s. It will be this way for quite a while yet.

Healing takes time, even for immortals.

“I am surprised he would take you back so easily,” she says. “The time you were gone, it was like a dark storm moved over my brother’s eyes. Each time he spoke, a cold bite to his words, bitter resentment, even as we drank royal blood together. All of those years … how you’ve left your stain upon him.”

Tristan thinks of the fire twenty-seven years ago, Wendy and her words in that burning house, and he says, Perhaps I have underestimated his love for me .

“Not that it matters at the moment,” she says, “what with my brother’s head so consumed by the latest blunder of his … incompetent assistant. The death of a so-called Brock.”

Tristan’s eyes lower to the headless corpse by the hearth, where another pool of blood has drawn a set of red wings on the floor in the glowing flames.

“Why we even keep a list of Protected Blood is so archaic. And to what end? Appeasing mortals? Keeping peace? Is there not any suitable wine in this damned place?” she asks suddenly with a careless toss of her current glass into the fire.

By wine, she means blood. Despite there being a perfectly fresh corpse at her feet, Tristan suspects that a woman of her stature would never deign to drink from such a disappointing musician. He may infect her with his mediocrity.

“Could you see to my brother about this dead Brock that so troubles him?” she asks without a glance his way. “Despite your transgressions, and beyond all reason, it is you he still trusts. How many lives does the cat have, I find myself wondering …” With one last disdainful glance down at the headless corpse, Ashara sneers and flicks her eyes away. “And yes, do summon someone to clean this mess. Just having it here reminds me of his incontinent use of vibrato with every insufferable note he played on that stiff and terrible instrument.”

It.

That is the term she uses for the decapitated human.

At once , agrees Tristan, then departs.

It is not without warrant that Ashara, freshly returned from her lengthy sabbatical, holds such contempt for Tristan. It was only by a thin slice of luck that it was during her absence from the House of Vegasyn that Tristan was found again. If he and Kyle had been discovered while she was still here whispering in Lord Markadian’s ears, it most certainly would have spelled a grimmer outcome for both of them.

Tristan owes a lot to Markadian’s mercy.

The pursuit of someone to handle the corpse of the dead musician is not as quick a task as Tristan hoped. After departing the study, he finds himself lost in a circular hallway, every door seeming to lead to an identical study. Each person he passes is too busy to even look his way. Two women pass by gossiping to each other, and upon Tristan waving at them, they swiftly move into a room, ignoring him. This is expected. Tristan has gotten used to the cold reception, even a year after his return. Decades of gossip and dark words have buried Tristan beneath a hill of judgment he is certain he’ll never climb out from under.

When he at last finds his way out of the circular maze, he discovers another one, wandering through a complex gallery of increasingly demented artwork. Six corridors he passes through in his pursuit of someone and doesn’t encounter anyone willing to give him even so much as a nod in return. Tristan doesn’t often wander in this corner of the House, to be fair, so most of the faces he passes are as unfamiliar as the halls themselves.

The House of Vegasyn is intentionally labyrinthine, so that only its most loyal residents can find their way about. It is also twisted with illusions, courtesy of Lord Markadian’s powerful talent of the mind, seeming to bend the laws of physics, with hallways existing where they cannot possibly, rooms appearing larger within than they ought to be, and other visual oddities that play with the senses. There is even a space that appears like a large domed greenhouse enclosing a forest that is populated by cute colorful butterflies, as well as a foyer with upside-down staircases that seem to lead toward doors upon the ceiling.

It appears to Tristan that several renovations have occurred during his long absence from this place, renovations that make him feel less like a loyal resident and more like the dishonored guest he has become. Every corner he turns, every archway he passes under, it feels like another punishing smirk from Lord Markadian, who will never forgive Tristan for those decades he spent away, feebly attempting to start a new life.

A new life that perhaps never had a chance.

He comes to a stop in an utterly blank foyer of four white walls, with a white ceiling and white floor, featureless and with not a seeming way in or out, that exists only outside the private office of Lord Markadian. Perhaps arriving here was entirely by design, too, as if the House itself had directed him to this spot without his realizing it. Does the House have a will of its own? Is it another dark companion loyally serving Lord Markadian? Perhaps seeking someone to clean up the headless corpse of a musician was not, after all, his priority.

Tristan hears a shout beyond the doors, startling him.

“Tristan,” say a set of twins in unison who guard the door, both slender, pale, their white hair running down their faces to their waists. It has never been made clear whether they are the same person or two individuals, but they speak in unison always and both answer to the name Miss May. There is another shout from within the office. Something breaks. Porcelain or glass, perhaps. “Lord Markadian will receive you now,” say the twins.

Tristan peers curiously at one of them. Are you quite sure it’s not a bad time?

The smooth white doors spread open before he’s ready.

A vase takes flight, rushes toward Tristan’s face. He catches it midair, stares calmly ahead.

Lord Markadian’s office is the center of the kaleidoscope that is the living House of Vegasyn, its hexagonal room warmly lit from a chandelier hanging above with amber shades, pouring its honeyed light over a hardwood desk with two armchairs set before it, the walls dressed in dark oak paneling.

From behind the desk stands the proud, regal shape of the Lord of Vegasyn himself. On most nights, Markadian can be described as classically handsome, perhaps thirty or so years in appearance, yet unknowably ageless in his wise, vibrant eyes, which burn with centuries of pain. He has a model’s jawline, a dusky brown complexion, and short buzzed hair faded up the sides. He is always thoughtfully attired in a slim-fitting, stylish shirt-and-tie combination with a tiny hoop earring in each ear.

Though he seems entirely poised, it was from his hand that the vase came flying, which Tristan still holds.

“Explain to me again,” demands Markadian, “what exactly you plan to do regarding the alleged accidental demise of a Protected Blood outside the doors of this very office?”

The person to whom the question is addressed is the one who inherited Tristan’s former rank as the Lord’s right hand twenty-seven years ago. At first glance, one might simply see a six-and-a-half-foot-tall librarian, until one notices the artificial pink coloring in his otherwise pale as paper cheeks, his thin lips and pencil mustache, his joyless, sunken eyes and brownish hair parted only somewhat crookedly down the middle, making him appear just odd enough to notice. Tristan has never heard the man raise his voice, nor shed a tear, nor seem even the slightest bit excited or happy about anything in the whole wide world. A walking skeleton in a dull sweater vest or suit. Coldhearted. Depressingly devoid of personality.

“I regret to say that we have exhausted all options,” recites the man, George, as if from a script, his voice as thin and wisplike as his body. “The mortal called Brock is, as they say, as dead as dead can be.”

Another vase goes flying so fast, Markadian’s arm does not even appear to move. Tristan catches it with his other hand.

“And what exactly are these ‘options’ you have exhausted?” asks Markadian. “Speak quickly. I have so many more important tasks on my list, from a contested territory in California to a pain in my ass in the New Orleanea domain, about ten dozen requests in my inbox, and I haven’t yet had dinner. This entire situation needs to be dealt with and done before it becomes any more of a fucking embarrassment.”

George stiffens up. “The nurses attempted to restore him in the mortal way. All attempts failed. We tried performing the blood rite to make him one of us, but alas, he proved—”

“—too dead for even that,” finishes Markadian with waning patience. “And what about staging his death? Do we not have access to the vehicle he arrived to the Scarlet Sands in? Tell me why this is, as well, an impossible option. The human was an insufferable drunk and upheld such a repute in half the casinos across Vegas. Would it not be easy?”

“Well …” George gives it a moment’s consideration.

Too long a moment’s consideration for Tristan’s liking. He steps forth, still holding the vases. Not so easy, I’m afraid . Brock was seen entering the Scarlet Sands, then never departing . Multiple humans at the front desk paid witness . As well, two chatty workers in the casino had a direct interaction with both Brock and Kyle —

“You dare utter that boy’s name here?” clips George.

“Continue,” says Markadian, ignoring George.

So Tristan does. The state of his corpse does not bode well for any easy explanations . Humans will be on the hunt for an assassin, not a murderer . Does he have enemies? Should we dig deeper? This is what they will ask, as Brock’s family is rich and powerful . Detectives, they will hire . Skilled humans with observant eyes and college degrees . There are countless others who paid witness to his whereabouts within the hotel, too, as well as the town of Nowhere, two gas stations on his way from Phoenix, every witness able to be identified and questioned by all matter of authorities, and considering his reputation, I’m sure many authorities will be utilized . Not to mention if Kyle and Elias are questioned, or worse, suspected of Brock’s murder, which twists the spotlight right back onto the very ones we’re trying to hide .

“Why do we place such importance on this mortal Brock?” asks George, cutting in once more. “He was merely a childhood friend of the disgraceful Mr. Amos and a drunken—”

He was also my friend , adds Tristan calmly, now hugging the cold vases to his chest. He closes his eyes, fondly recalling their memories together decades ago, back when he, Kyle, and Brock attended the same high school in Texas. He was also a husband . And father . And son to a powerful man who will not for much longer overlook his absence . He opens his eyes. Yes, George has fucked us .

George turns his cold, irritated dead stare upon Tristan.

“Then tell me, dear .” There is a note of bitter resentment in Markadian’s tone, as if uttering the term of endearment is poison. “What would you propose we do about Brock, the pain in our ass we’re calling a husband, father, friend, and son?”

Tristan has given this a lot of thought. In the short time he has had between weighing nightmares of his own. Or the recent return of Kyle in his life. That last kiss they shared before Kyle was dismissed to live out his days in Nowhere with his mortal boyfriend Elias. Tristan has had little else to think about. He has, indeed, allowed the dead Brock Hastings a ghastly amount of space to occupy in his mind.

Thinking of Brock’s head resting in his lap in a high school hallway, freshly put to sleep, snoring softly away.

Thinking of Brock in the locker room, after another cute showing off of his football player strength, trying to overpower immortal Tristan, before succumbing to him in so many ways.

Thinking of Brock and what he has endured in his short mortal life, his failing marriage, his son he’s so proud of …

Brock and his brief reunion with Kyle … which only took him down a road to his unintended yet certain death …

So Tristan voices his mind. I believe the only answer is to make Brock alive again . We must consider more … drastic measures . Tristan delivers the words to the floor at first. Then he dares to lift his eyes to Lord Markadian. Darker measures .

Tristan wonders if he will be understood.

He is understood perfectly. “No,” snaps Markadian. “You will not entertain any such measures of darkness.”

Respectfully, it may be our only option .

“Respectfully, fuck you. We will find other options. You will not entertain even a thought of such dark means again, or so help me, I’ll chain you to the floor and cast an illusion so all my guests think you’re nothing but a rug to walk upon.”

Surprisingly, that makes Tristan smile. I do miss your threats . I can’t help but admit, they used to make me incorrigibly hard .

For a moment, Markadian’s ire is gone. A flicker of his old self returns, lips curling, as if fighting back a laugh. “Used to?”

George’s eyes snap back and forth between them, annoyed.

Tristan seizes the opportunity, coming up to the desk and putting himself in front of George, keeping eye contact with Markadian. I only suggested such … dark means … because leaving Brock’s fate a mystery is becoming more dangerous by the hour . There are ever so many humans who watch our every action, who know of our nature … and certain blood contracts upon which our peace relies .

“Our dutiful and wise Lord of Vegasyn needs no reminding about the list of Protected Blood,” announces George.

Mmm … you may be quite right . Tristan addresses George while continuing to stare at Markadian. But do remind me, whose responsibility was it to maintain the list? My memory fails me …

“I very much doubt your memory ever fails you,” George returns, “for we all know it is I. I am responsible for that list.”

Oh, please accept my apologies, George, of course it is you .

“I do not accept your apologies,” George sighs out. “Brock Hastings’ name was simply overlooked that night.”

Overlooked? So it is Miss May’s fault, whose duty is to look — ?

“I take full responsibility. At least I am not suggesting to fix my errors with the outrageous use of forbidden dark arts.”

It is now that Tristan daintily spins about to face George. Did your eyes fail you the last time you updated the list? You should perhaps collect eyeglasses rather than hourglasses . Was it not, in fact, your quest for an hourglass that put us in this whole predicament?

“Enough, Tristan,” growls Markadian, drops into his chair, digs fingers into his temples. “I tire of your juvenile sarcasm. It is a quality about you I do not miss in the least.” His eyes narrow upon Tristan. “Really? Dark arts? Ridiculous. And just when I thought I could trust you again.”

George enjoys the tiniest of smirks, appearing triumphant.

Tristan sucks his lips inward.

A silhouette falls over the room as someone else sweeps in through the opened doors. “Ah, have the boys irritated you to tears, brother?” Ashara’s dress brushes along the hardwood. “I would have come much sooner, if it weren’t for the atrocious musician whose head I just removed. Do forgive me.”

“A dull, dead musician on a growing pile of other dull, dead musicians is my least concern,” sighs Markadian.

“He had flown much too high. His wings needed melting . If none of us in this room can enjoy the sun, why should he?” She pulls Markadian up from his chair, straightens his shirt and tie, then grins. “I am ever so delighted to be home again.”

Lord Markadian smiles, likely for the first time this night. “Sister, I share your delight.”

As Tristan watches the pair exchange pleasantries, he can’t help but think of how many people in Markadian’s vicinity have but one goal in mind: to win his love. George and his pandering and butler-like behavior. Miss May dutifully standing guard at the office door all the days and nights long. Ashara returning from India armed with innovation. Even Tristan finds himself locking horns with others who would prove themselves more useful or interesting to Lord Markadian. Is it not exhausting? Like an orgy happening beneath the surface of what otherwise appears to be a normal conversation, everyone vying for Markadian’s attention with increasing desperation? Is it not the most exhausting thing, to receive so much love, and not know which of it to trust?

There was a time Tristan was the only interesting thing to Markadian. Nothing held a contest, not even the collapse of an entire domain fifty-eight years ago after a treacherous coup d’état unseated the reigning director and killed four immortals. Despite that, Markadian would simply summon Tristan to this office, with a phone ringing, knocking at the door, stack of letters left unread and unanswered, and the two could not be found for hours.

That was the golden age of Tristan’s precious time here in the House of Vegasyn.

The age before he met Kyle Bentley Amos.

“Leave us,” orders Markadian, to the apparent delight of a smirking Ashara. “But not you, Tristan.”

George stiffens up, gives the slightest of bows, then heads for the door, disappearing into the white beyond.

Tristan steps forward. Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn?

“I am curious,” he says, his eyes upon Ashara, “if you have a report on the status of … your former companion?”

Ashara runs a hand through her long hair, drawing it over a shoulder, as she glances at Tristan with impatience.

Yes , Tristan answers. Kyle and Elias are happily enjoying their peace and quiet in Nowhere, Arizona, their secret still tightly kept . Kyle knows the condition of his freedom .

“Of course he does.” Markadian’s eyes glint with dark delight. “But do you remember yours?”

Tristan tightens his grip on the vases.

“You laid your immortal life down for that boy,” he carries on, “an act I am sure every occupant of this House as well as every single director who attended the trial that day would have strongly advised against. Do not forget, if his secret ever spills from the confines of that sad desert town … a month, or a year, even five decades from now … it is not only his life I plan to devour with immeasurable delight. His end is your end, too.”

Ashara fixes Markadian’s hair now, an older sister feeling important as she fusses over her brother, but his eyes bore into Tristan’s from over the desk, like the mere thought of draining Kyle and Tristan has made him demented with thirst.

Tristan offers a wry smile. You have nothing to worry about, Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn .

But his words are ignored as Markadian lets his sister preen him with care, establishing herself as the true partner above all others, whom he rewards with his attention.

And so Tristan sees himself out.

In the blank white room, Miss May still stands faithfully. After a moment of indecision, Tristan sets a vase on either side of the door. Really, this foyer is much improved with the slightest of furnishings , he announces to the silent twins. They do not reply.

Tristan’s eyes become lost to a spot seven paces from the door—the exact spot where mere days ago, Brock experienced the last moment of his life when George opened his throat for allegedly not being on a list.

It is a marvel how the room keeps itself so spotless. All the blood that was spilled here, efficiently and utterly gone.

Assuming it is not just another of Markadian’s illusions.

Tristan departs the white room, too.

Despite sauntering almost playfully through the far more familiar corridors of the House, Lord Markadian’s words weigh heavily upon Tristan. It would seem the Lord of Vegasyn sure knows how to nurse a grudge. Tristan can feel the threat of his own final death with every single step he takes, like a persistent, taunting voice over his shoulder. Punishment for the choices he’s made, showcasing Markadian’s unforgiving nature and why Tristan should always keep his head low. And Kyle, who lives obliviously out in the tiny desert town of Nowhere, is a walking promise that Tristan’s days are likely numbered.

Tristan should exercise caution. Behave. Keep in line.

Sadly, that is not in his nature: Raya, my beautiful mistress of mayhem, would you like to accompany me on an errand?

It is in the abandoned tower that he finds his dear friend, at the farthest corner of the House of Vegasyn where Markadian’s illusions do not reach, giving way to true reality. At the very top of a spiral staircase, there’s a wide circular loft where it is charmingly drab. A broken crate covered in webs. Dusty tarp flung over the floor near it, torn. An overturned mousetrap by an old painting leaning against the wall. Perhaps at one point in history, this room might have been a princess’s tower, complete with a large canopy bed and silks draped everywhere, but time utterly chewed it up, as it does all things living and not, leaving it in a state of magnificent shambles. It is Tristan’s favorite place, if only because of its key feature: a window through which actual moonlight shines.

It’s upon the sill of that window that Raya is perched. In her hand, a can of beer—a mortal beverage she enjoys between meals of human blood, something about the bitterness. Raya is no director or Lordess and has no political sway or power, but she carries herself like she does—a queen in her own mind. Her hair, half white, half black, is interwoven into a thick braid that runs over her left shoulder to rest upon her pale-as-milk skin. She wears a short leather skirt and black lace bustier accentuating her curvy shape and legs, her outfit of which she once insisted to Tristan “compensates for my unforgivable lack of self-esteem when I was mortal”. Her ensemble is completed with a pair of stockings and spike heels, always black.

And to Tristan’s question, Raya purses her black-as-night lips and sighs out the words, “Ugh, another one of your errands?”

What? Tristan asks innocently, stepping over a crushed-up beer can and a broomstick on his way to join her at the window. Did you not adore our last errand together?

Raya takes a slurp of beer, twists her lips. “Does this new errand have to do with that dreadfully dead corpse you showed me in the human infirmary?”

Regrettably .

“And what, so help me, is the errand?”

Tristan leans into her, his misty blue eyes gleaming with mischief. I shall be breaking one of our most sacred decrees and going behind Lord Markadian’s back to speak with a deadly outlaw versed in the most forbidden of dark arts .

To that, Raya rolls her eyes.

In other words, yes, please, and thank you.