Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

18. I Am Not Such a Villain.

—?—

Tristan sits on a chair in an unused office room, one door, no windows, every fluorescent light on and bright, obliterating any chance of a shadow or deception, all other furniture gone.

Save for one other chair on which Brock sits—with his wrists chained, and ankles bolted to the floor.

Do you understand where you are? Tristan is smiling. Voice is gentle. No aggression. No malice. No reason in the world for Brock to feel attacked, instigated, or alarmed. Everything calm.

Brock only stares ahead at Tristan, wordless, eerily still.

Same as he has been for the past two hours.

Shall we try blinking again? Like this . He demonstrates. One blink for yes, two for no . Should we try once again? I will ask plainly . Do you understand where you are?

A bead of drool seeps slowly from Brock’s lower lip, starts to dangle, stretches like spider silk, sticks to his chest.

He is still naked. And partly bloody.

It wasn’t an easy task to clean him up. Brock is heavy, and despite reassurances from Tristan that he would stay asleep, no one had the courage to assist him in moving the body. Also, lots of effort had to be taken in cleaning up the halls of the clinic after the catastrophe. Raya was utterly inconsolable. The two nurses whose lives were lost were especially tricky to handle. What was supposed to be a quiet endeavor done in secret has now exploded into an unimaginable nightmare.

And Brock still won’t answer a single question.

Would you like to rest a bit longer? Tristan offers. Perhaps you are exhausted? I can’t imagine what you must be feeling like .

Brock says nothing. Continues to drool. Continues to stare.

Is he even breathing?

Tristan sucks in his lip, thinking. He decides to perform a test. He rises from his chair. Brock remains staring forward, not tracking him with his eyes at all. Tristan takes a step. Brock still doesn’t move, doesn’t react. After a moment of thought—and bracing himself with undeserved courage—he takes one more step, now within range of Brock.

Brock doesn’t move.

Another step.

Now Tristan stands in front of Brock, close enough to hug him. Tristan crouches down, brings his face in front of Brock’s, directly in his line of sight, where Tristan could almost believe Brock is now staring right into his eyes, even as he drools.

Tristan changes his tack. Do you remember Kyle?

Brock’s eyes flicker with life.

Tristan nearly falls back, just from that subtle yet entirely discernable change. Has he reached him? Was Kyle the trick all along? Really? Or is it just a coincidence?

Do you remember Jessica … the God girl?

Brock’s lips move, attempting a word. The strand of drool wiggles like a plucked guitar string. Still, no sound comes out.

Go ahead, speak , Tristan gently coaxes him. You did it before, when you first woke up, when I found you in the hallway of the clinic . You asked me to help you find something . You even knew my name .

Brock’s lips quiver. His eyes well up, tears emerging.

Is it your wife and son? Tristan smiles when he sees Brock’s eyes react again. His gaze doesn’t quite lock onto Tristan’s, but the words certainly reach him at last. They’re making progress. You miss them, I bet . Yes, that makes sense . You want all of this to be over with . You want to return to your family .

It is as if every happy memory of Brock’s life swims before him. He keeps trying to smile, but each attempt crumbles too soon, falling away like dust.

Tristan doesn’t give up. Yes, yes, I see it in your eyes … Do not worry . In time, you will be returned to your wife, to your son, to your boring routines you will come to cherish like long-lost treasures … as soon as we know you aren’t a danger to others .

A voice booms from the door. “What in dead heavens is this?”

It is George, who has quietly crept in.

And the moment Brock’s eyes fall upon him, he lets out a terrified, animalistic yelp, tries at once to get away, yanking on his chains with unnerving force, eyes crazed, howling. It is a fast and worrying reaction, which causes Tristan to step back, afraid of his own arms being ripped from his body. After Tristan tries many times to sedate Brock with his voice and soothing words and calm gestures—and with absolutely no help from George, who just stands there at the doorway wearing a blank, gawping expression—Tristan finally resorts to brushing fingers down Brock’s face. At once, Brock’s efforts cease, his eyes rock back, and he slumps down into his chair, suspended only by the chains as if hanging in a metal spider web.

Tristan sighs. And we were making such lovely progress …

“Again I ask, what in dead heavens is this?”

What did it look like? I was chatting with an old friend .

“He is alive. How is this possible?” George takes a step into the room, rethinks, steps back. “Is this a wicked effort of illusion, I dare ask? But our Lord Markadian is not here. Is he aware?”

I think it best our dear Lord is kept out of the loop on this one .

“Then he does not know? This is not a wicked illusion?”

No, just the wicked truth . Tristan rises, struts up to George, yanks his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, returns to Brock and uses it to wipe up drool and blood. I am cleaning up your mess .

“That is my handkerchief you are adulterating.”

And in maybe four days’ time, optimistically, Brock may be ready to return to his life , and no one will be poking around us anymore . See? Everyone will get what they want . Even him .

George is silent, eyes on Brock like he stares into the abyss of the great unknown. He puts a hand to his face, unblinking. “I dare ask … I … I dare ask if … if …”

I advise to either dare ask, or to stop asking anything ever again , Tristan politely suggests. You are giving Brock a headache .

George steps forward. “I dare ask if this is the true mission for which I gathered those items. If it all wasn’t for some kind of … of evil act . If you weren’t foolish enough, reckless enough, arrogant enough to have … to have actually …” His face twists with fear and shame as he whispers the rest. “… consulted with the likes of a certain dark witch?”

Tristan shrugs. We have all done far worse things . Remember when Markadian wore white after Labor Day?

“How could you?” George steps into the room, aghast as he circles Brock from a distance. “Oh, but I knew you were capable of such evil, yes, I did, I always knew you were. You were the one who so coldly left our Lord Markadian decades ago, left him brokenhearted and betrayed. Of course you would be capable of such depravity … dancing with … with Death … and with dark witches … towards an end of such unimaginable perversion …”

How is the weather way up there on your high horse? Tristan continues dabbing away blood and drool from Brock’s chest and face, a mother cleaning her young. Coming from a man who risked the exposure of our society so he can expand a collection of hourglasses . Give me five minutes and an internet connection, I’ll find you a dozen . By the way, isn’t riding a high horse tricky to do with dirty hands?

“Raya knows of this, too,” it suddenly occurs to George as he stops, his eyes wild with thoughts, piecing it together. “She is the one who slipped the assignment to me. Like a disease. Of course. She’s but your minion, what else can one expect? Deceivers beget deceivers. Villains beget villains. I’m the fool …”

Don’t blame Raya . She was just as coerced into this as you were .

“Poor girl you have corrupted. She had such promise. This is why she is recovering, too? It attacked her … that thing attacked her. That is what the nurses went on about, what I heard, it was not overdramatic gossip. You’ve made the Devil’s monster!”

He hasn’t harmed a fly since . And this is all for a good cause . See how everyone benefits? Tristan pats at some blood at the corner of Brock’s lips. He’s alive again . You’re out of the doghouse . It is the end result that matters, not the path getting there .

“Brock was also a friend of Mr. Amos.” Tristan stops at the mention of his name. “You are doing all of this just as much for him . Do not deny it,” he quickly says. “Lord Markadian may not know where your heart truly lies, but I do. I know that in all you do, there is a secret investment in your love for that … Texan .”

Tristan doesn’t face him. He just clenches the handkerchief and stares at a spot on Brock’s chest. It always strikes Tristan as so strange, that despite all the hours of time devoted to packing Kyle away into a room deep within his mind, out of reach, that just a single word can rip open the vault and send pouring forth every last feeling he tried to bury. Kyle’s sweet eyes. The laughter they shared. The long, boring, beautiful days spent in that dilapidated cabin, the woods around them that rarely saw the presence of mortals, lost to time … until the morning Lord Markadian caught Tristan gathering flowers in the woods, and Tristan was forced to abandon the one he loved in order to protect him.

Kyle wasn’t meant to be abandoned. Kaleb wasn’t meant to survive. Brock wasn’t meant to die. Is there anything Tristan has tried to accomplish in life that hasn’t gone so miserably wrong?

“I think I have a mind to go to Lord Markadian right now and tell him everything,” George then says, folding his arms, lifting his chin superiorly. “This undeathly abomination.”

Be careful where you aim that gun of yours , says Tristan as he continues to stare at Brock’s chest, still remembering his years with Kyle. For some reason, he thinks about one late night rain shower they watched together by the back window, cuddled in an armchair. It was one of their sweetest nights. Those silver bullets you’re so eager to fire may very well be the ones that kill you .

George stiffens up, remains silent, eyes sharpening.

Tristan smiles, glances back. You’re an accomplice now .

“Accomplice?” George lets out a mocking, chirping laugh. “I knew not what I was gathering those preposterous items for.”

Yes, yes, and I’m sure the accomplice in a murder didn’t know why they were buying duct tape, rope, a bottle of bleach … Was it for a science project? You’ll fool no one . Tristan returns to wiping away blood, now with more affection. Mutually assured destruction, my dear George . If I were you, I would keep Markadian out of this .

George’s eyes snap to Brock, as if mulling it over. Irritation creases his brow as his thoughts seem to grow more furious by the second. Then, all at once, it fades like a storm cloud. “Well, I suppose it’s all for naught, anyway. None of us can hope to keep our Lord Markadian’s attention more than his new toy.”

Oh? Did Marky finally order himself that vibrating butt plug I nearly got him for his birthday? The top review said that it has an impressively long battery life …

“His new toy is a violinist.”

Tristan drops the handkerchief.

Limbs turning to stone, veins to ice.

A violinist …

“He’s obsessed,” George carries on, words flowing out like a melodic sigh, tired of it before he’s even begun talking. “He even brushes off Ashara. Is it truly so pleasing to have connections with humans who are … are smelly and uninteresting and … temporary ? I do not understand such sexual expressions. Or emotional ones. It confuses me to my very core.” He sniffs his fingers, squints in the direction of Brock. “I smell rosemary in this room, do you not? Why do I smell rosemary? Is it a witchy ingredient?”

I’ve met … many nice witches , says Tristan absently, still struck thinking about Kaleb and what Lord Markadian may be doing to him, a whole new nightmare. Really, the necromancer shouldn’t be representative of their kind . He’s rather quite singular . And terrible .

“Of course you would be sympathetic to such people who’d put silver daggers in your back without batting an eye. Do you really not smell the rosemary? It is overpowering and terribly unpleasant.” He huffs, turns away. “Perhaps I shouldn’t worry about this violinist. Markadian is known to fall in love easily, then toss aside his toys when he’s bored. And he gets so easily bored. Still, it irks me. Our Lord Markadian cannot afford to have such distractions from work. We’re to host many directors here in just a few nights’ time and there is so much to do.”

Tristan turns at once, crosses the room to George, then neatly folds the dirtied handkerchief and tucks it back into his breast pocket. Leave the violinist be . The toy will be an afterthought someday soon, like you said . Why don’t you go and help prepare for our guests, instead? You do love serving , don’t you?

George’s eyes narrow, and his voice turns cold. “Our Lord could end you for the illegal act you’ve so recklessly performed here. Should he hold a trial right now, I am certain you would be found guilty by every single director in our region.”

Then I’d better make sure the cameras catch my good side .

“And how long will you bury the secret in this room? Four or so days, you said? I doubt that monster will be ready in four years’ time to reenter society. And what if it breaks free before it is ready? You shall make human headlines across the world, worse than your Kyle Amos nearly did—headlines describing a cannibal on the rampage in the casinos of the human city of Las Vegas … hundreds left dead, no number of bullets could put the beast down. What was it you said earlier about firing silver bullets?” He clicks his tongue, bows his head disapprovingly. “Perhaps you ought to consider your own. You have started down a road I don’t think you’ll ever return from.”

Allow me to worry about the road I’m on, suggests Tristan, and the headlines . I have faith in Brock .

“I do not.” George plucks the dirty handkerchief from his pocket with disgust, drops it on the floor. “Keep this. I shall not wish to look upon it—or the monster whose bloody snot now drenches it—for the rest of my days.”

Then George departs the room without another word.

Tristan takes the handkerchief at once, returns to Brock, then stands there for a time. Brock looks so peaceful, sleeping, naked, chained up. He’s drooling again. Tristan crouches down and rests his folded arms on Brock’s lap, staring up at his face while he sleeps. Tristan reaches with the handkerchief to wipe a spot off his chin, then changes his mind, retracting his hand and settling back into place, silent, pensive, curious.

Would Kyle be happy with what Tristan did? The lengths he went to, the risks he took, to bring Brock back? Or would he also see this as some kind of “perversion”? Would he also stand in this room just as George did, see the bloodied monster that is his former childhood best friend, and feel repulsed?

Has Tristan gone too far?

These thoughts are what follow him back to the House of Vegasyn. These thoughts haunt his every step as he walks down hall after hall, sluggish and pensive, until he arrives at a door right outside the Midnight Garden, the edge of the infirmary, illusions of nurses walking around behind him with cartoonish red crosses on their caps. It’s easy to be fooled by them, unless one takes too much time studying their faces, seeing the tiny falsehoods, cracks in reality—all the weaker fringes of Lord Markadian’s otherwise flawless power giving itself away.

The room Tristan stands in front of is next door to the one that once housed Brock’s corpse. He finds a sick irony in that.

He gently pushes the door open, steps inside.

Upon the bed, Raya lies, glancing off toward a window—an illusion of one, rather—studying the subtle changes in light and spots of fake rain that carve wiggly lines down the glass. Tristan is certain she knows it’s him, but she doesn’t look his way. She is wearing only a thin white gown with long billowing sleeves, likely to cover the fact that half of her left arm is missing.

Tristan knows she doesn’t want to see him, but he speaks anyway. It would seem that George has caught on to us …

“Honestly, I’m not even angry he took my arm,” she says without any prompt, on her own train of thought, “but rather that it was so revolting to him, he hardly ate a bite.”

Tristan swallows, feeling hesitant. Is she trying for humor? To make light of her situation? This is so often the language they use with one another, except there is something else in her tone, something unsettlingly calm, almost cold.

“Is my arm not tasty?” she goes on, speaking to herself, still looking at the window. “Did I give it up for nothing? It was the only left arm I had.”

Raya …

“We don’t grow them back … not like Ferals allegedly do. We aren’t full-blooded. We’re just …” Her voice trails off, her eyebrows tugging together. “Well, I’m not sure what we are.”

We’re survivors , Tristan decides to say. Of many things .

“And one day I might say I’m a survivor of you,” she says.

Tristan slowly comes further into the room, stops by a tiny table near the window, a table with a vase of black roses. It isn’t often he finds himself unsure of what to say. He just stands still, eyes lost on the black roses, troubled for words.

“Do you think Kaleb will still find me beautiful?” It isn’t clear whether she’s asking Tristan or herself. “Perhaps I could ask Lord Markadian to augment my appearance with one of his illusions … but then that would shed light on something we are trying to keep in the dark. See? How I think of you? Even when I’m angry?”

The words twist his heart. I’m sorry , Tristan finally says.

“Do you think it’s safe to keep that monster at the Scarlet Sands? Even when obscured by our powers? Humans seem to keep finding their way into places they don’t belong lately.”

He is subdued , Tristan assures her. Chained so heavily, even a full-blooded Feral couldn’t break free .

“I’m quite sure a Feral could break free from any amount of chains. If you’re going to lie, at least lie more cleverly.”

Raya …

“Do you think it is even Brock in that room …?” She turns her eyes onto Tristan now. “After spending so many days … in a place only the dead know …? Days, Tristan. How do we not know something else didn’t cling along to him for a free ride back to the world of the living? Something really bad? A matter of evil that used Brock’s soul like a … like a fucking taxi out of Death’s realm? That was not human,” she says with a sharp point of her finger, as if Brock is still located in the room next to hers. “ That was a mistake , Tristan … a terrible mistake.”

He knew my name .

“And so would a demon that devoured Brock’s soul, twisted his persona into something familiar enough to fool someone as desperate as you. You and your bestie Mance called a demon into this world … a demon who didn’t even like the taste of my arm.”

There is some joke in there that Tristan sees regarding the appetites of demons and how they may not be refined enough to enjoy finer meats. But he can’t utter it, wondering if he does too often deflect serious matters with humor. Is it a habit he’s always had? Picked up from his long-dead mortal parents?

Tristan’s mind inches elsewhere. If you believe in demons , he says thoughtfully, carefully, then you must also believe in angels . Everything in nature is delicately balanced .

“Then what is the good that balances you?”

We balance our own darkness with good deeds , decides Tristan.

“Says the person who doesn’t believe in karma.”

I will find someone skilled in prosthetics to make you a new —

“Kaleb believes in angels,” she cuts him off. “Did you know his whole family died in a fire? Have you ever bothered to ask? He was the lone survivor. He believes he was saved by a real angel the day of the fire … he told me. He even described the angel.”

An angel.

Tristan wonders if Kaleb remembers the face of that angel.

Remembers him.

He takes a step toward the bed. An imagination can be one of the greatest comforts to a person who has spent their life in the cells …

“What if it wasn’t his imagination? You want me to believe in angels, too? What if an angel really did save him?”

Raya …

“He described him, too. The angel. He said …” Her eyes go far away. “He said that the angel …” Her words slow.

Tristan doesn’t like the shifting expression on her face. It isn’t important . Really, I think you shouldn’t give up on a new arm . I will take the blame for its disappearance …

“Blond hair, bright blond …” She sits up, voice changing. “An angel with bright blond hair and … and his eyes …”

Can you imagine your new arm? It could be made of gold . Of black diamonds . Fairy dust .

“And eyes the soft, blue color of a morning haze …”

Kaleb is imaginative … imaginative, creative, musical …

“How long has Kaleb been in the cells, did you say?” She slips from the bed at once, to her feet, thoughts racing past her eyes as she paces. “Twenty-odd years? Wasn’t that it? You told me once. Or perhaps he did …”

You need your rest, Raya . Please, just lie back down and —

“The same amount of time you’ve been gone … when you met Kyle … Kyle, who also lost his … h-his family …” Raya’s lips hang open as her crazed eyes find Tristan’s. Her chest rises and falls with her hurried breaths. “I never put this together before. Why am I putting this together right now? In this moment?”

You aren’t well .

“Why have you been keeping him hidden? Kaleb? This one special Blood? I asked once why he is important to you.”

Raya … Tristan reaches to hug her.

She slips away, stepping back. “Tristan. Answer me.”

He bows his head. Raya …

“Stop saying my name. It’s a coincidence, right? That the two look alike? Tell me I’m crazy.” She staggers backwards. “You’re the angel he saw. He remembers you … but he hasn’t yet realized it was you . It was more than just a resemblance I saw in Kaleb’s face … He and Kyle … they’re … they’re brothers …!”

Each time he attempts to approach her, she backs away more, the two caught in a slow, circular dance. Raya, please …

“And Kyle? Does he—? No, he can’t possibly know,” she answers herself, “otherwise he would’ve—They don’t know the other is alive! You kept Kaleb here! You knew of it! You ensured it, keeping them apart … How—How could you??”

There are many reasons, Raya, please let me —

“What the fuck, Tristan??”

Tristan stops. Well … now that you know … I hope you realize why it’s imperative Markadian never learns Kaleb’s true identity, that he is the younger brother of Kyle, the person he most despises . Kaleb … would be … in very … very serious danger, Raya .

“He already is in danger, you fucking fool!” She puts her hand over her mouth, backs away, heels hitting the wall. “I … I can’t believe I … How could I be so—How did I not see—?”

Then if you care for Kaleb, you will protect his secret .

“For what possible reason did you keep this from Kyle? Do you hate him so? Do you take such joy in ruining people’s lives?”

Please allow me to explain, really, I am not such a villain …

“If Kaleb were to find out, it would destroy him. All of this time, his own brother, nearly within arm’s reach … No.” Raya moves to the door. “This is too much, even for you.”

There are many reasons we do terrible things .

“Stop talking, Tristan.”

Then we must do other terrible things to make up for the terrible things we’ve already done … and before we know it, we are living on a mountain of treachery we cannot unmake …

Raya clutches the door handle, anguished. She draws quiet, shaking her head, blinking away one nightmare after the next.

Tristan stays still. Please, Raya … He grips the end of her bed, fingers curling. If he lets go, he might drop to his knees to beg. You’re the only friend I have left . Let me tell you everything, so that at least one person in this world is left who doesn’t despise me … You have always understood my intentions before .

“You will always have Kyle.” Her voice is distant, detached. “As long as you continue to keep your secret from him, he will always love you … I saw it in his eyes at the trial last week.”

That surprises him. You were there?

“Didn’t I tell you already? I see so much you don’t think I see. So much.” She lowers her gaze to the floor, grows quiet. “I find myself remembering … of this one time … Markadian … he asked me a question, years ago, while you were gone living your life with Kyle …” Her face twists. “He asked me: if I happened to run into you … if I found out where you were hiding … would I turn you in? He knew we were close. He was testing my loyalty.”

What did you answer?

She gives it a thought, peers back at him. “Doesn’t matter anymore. You’re no angel, Tristan. You’re a demon. Perhaps it is why you are the only one Brock responds to. Does he love you? Or fear you? Is there any difference between them? Maybe Kyle fears you, too.” After one last withering look at the floor, unable to meet his eyes, she flees the room. Tristan stands in the silence, her last words stinging, not a thought in his mind.