Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

22. Everything Will Be Fine.

—?—

The bad feelings start when Tristan returns to the clinic to find Raya’s room cleared out. Then he can’t seem to find her anywhere at all, not in her usual hangouts, not in the Midnight Garden, not in the Velvet Row where Kaleb is staying.

Then he checks the top of his tower.

And finds it beautifully furnished with expensive furniture: a vanity with a round gold-trimmed mirror, several tall white vases spilling with bright yellow flowers, a chandelier glittering with diamond jewels, a curly-armed sofa and ottoman that both look pulled from a Victorian mansion, a circular glass table with a decorative marble centerpiece upon it.

And in place of his beautiful window is a tapestry.

Of Lord Markadian’s face.

Smirking triumphantly.

All of this: illusion. All of this, replacing Tristan’s very real room that was once his favorite place to come, to get away from the falsehoods of the House, to sit upon the ledge and peer at the moon on such a night as tonight.

That’s when Tristan’s eyes fall upon the floor, seeing the most offensive sight of all in this freshly-decorated room.

A bloodied Persian rug.

The only item here that is certainly not an illusion.

Soaked in Brock’s blood. The rug Kyle was pressed down upon during his trial, when his immortal life was nearly sucked from his veins by Lord Markadian himself before an audience of directors all across the west region. Discarded here like trash.

Tristan knows this isn’t a simple renovation of the tower. This isn’t Lord Markadian stretching his powers for sport.

This is a threat.

Tristan sweeps his way back down the stairs, through the Midnight Garden, and down the stone corridor, the view of distant mountains at his side fittingly obscured by threatening fog that has gathered like a storm. He enters the white foyer, still sorting the words he wishes to say to Markadian.

It’s there that he stops.

He listens.

Music.

But it doesn’t come from Markadian’s office.

Tristan trusts his ears, heading down a different hallway that is long and narrow, then up a wide set of carpeted stairs to a large landing, across which he continues, the music growing louder, growing closer. He passes through a tall archway, and underneath the music comes the sound of familiar laughter and banter.

Tristan enters the grand banquet hall from the back. Though there are nearly fifty tables spread across the enormous room, all seven of its occupants are gathered around a single table in the center. They are familiar directors from other domains in the west region. The rosy-cheeked, Texas-twanged, curvy Director Cindy from the Dallasade domain. Her pale, deadpan, and dark-haired frenemy Zara next to her, who looks uncharacteristically drunk-happy tonight. The eternally even-tempered Director Tsuki with her teal-dipped short brown hair and teal glasses. Director Peter, with the appearance of a twelve-year-old boy in Sunday school attire, next to the odd gentleman with straw-like, white-blond hair and an ochre complexion in a pink three-piece suit, Ernest.

The five directors are joined by the unusually happy Lord Markadian, who is laughing at a story Cindy is sharing with the others, her Texas twang ringing out. And standing right by Lord Markadian’s side, like a prized possession handpicked out of the world’s finest orchestra, stands Kaleb in an egregiously crisp and fancy tuxedo complete with coattails, playing violin and creating a rich, elegant atmosphere for the gathering.

Markadian’s arm is casually wrapped around the lower back of Kaleb’s waist, the way one caresses a lover, subtly resting on the top of Kaleb’s ass.

And if Tristan’s instant presumption is correct, Kaleb is in fact wearing nothing at all, the tuxedo is an illusion, and it is his bare ass that Markadian is lustfully caressing while he plays.

It twists Tristan’s stomach at first sight.

As if it couldn’t be twisted worse, Lord Markadian’s eyes flick onto Tristan. But it isn’t coldness Tristan sees in them; it’s a peculiarly proud look, boastful, like a champion of a game, Kaleb is his trophy, and his guests are here to celebrate the victory.

A victory over what? Tristan can only wonder as of yet.

And to think his afternoon felt so much more promising than the morning. He paid Brock a visit at the clinic again, who spoke fuller sentences: “I can’t wait to go to college.” Tristan smiled, relieved Brock was in a peaceful, non-cannibalizing mood. “My best buddy. Together. Kyle and I. We’re gonna be roomies.” He kept smiling, encouraging the pleasant memories, even if there was something a tad off in Brock’s eyes. “I like to play football. I like football. Football is good.” Even if all his words came out slow and clumsy, like they were someone else’s.

Perhaps four or so days was, in fact, too optimistic a hope for when Brock might be ready to return to his life again. He might need another week.

But do they have that much time?

“Well, lookie who the dead cat dragged in!” sings Cindy as her eyes find Tristan.

Lord Markadian chuckles merrily. “Your ears must be red, Tristan. Director Zara was just wondering what you’ve been up to since your dramatic entrance at a certain mortal’s trial.”

Director Zara turns her deadpan eyes upon Tristan. “Yes, I was … mildly curious. What was that mortal’s name again?”

After a nervous flick of his eyes at Kaleb, Tristan blurts, It doesn’t matter . What’s most important is that I still have my head and the blood in my veins, and I happen to like the two being precisely where they are . Does our lovely gathering have a purpose, by the way? Why are we so happy? Did someone die?

“Not yet, doll face,” answers Cindy, reaching for her glass of chardonnay off the table, slurping on it, then adding, “but the night is still young. Hey, little Peter, didn’t you say not long ago you’d cut Ms. Tsuki here in half next time you saw her?”

Director Peter, not thrilled by the “little” moniker, says, “We have since made up. She treated me to teppanyaki. We drank fermented rice wine and bitched about our parents.”

“It was just sake,” mutters Director Tsuki. “No need to say it all fancy like that.”

Tristan, in a moment of curiosity, or weakness, peers across the table at Kaleb.

He’s surprised to find Kaleb peering back.

The look on Kaleb’s face is somewhat neutral, if not calm. He is otherwise unreadable. Tristan continues to watch him, a bit peeved he can’t seem to figure out Kaleb’s mood. Is he well? Is he happy? Is he feeling like a piece of exploited meat next to Lord Markadian at all times?

“I have returned,” comes another voice—Ashara, waltzing between the tables from out of nowhere as she approaches, a tray of shot glasses balanced on her palm. “I know, I know, you missed me, but how can we call this a party without shots?”

“This is a party?” asks Ernest in the pink suit, frowning. “I thought we were meeting to discuss policy. I did read the email .”

“Oh, thank Christ, a real drink,” says Zara, grabbing one.

Cindy takes one as well, downs it in one gulp, then nearly chokes. “Oh, wow, this is not diluted.”

“Straight from the vein,” sings Ashara with a wink. “Well, not straight from, of course, as according to protocol. As close as one can get without the utilization of teeth.” Then she seems to notice Tristan like an afterthought. “Ah, we have an unexpected guest. I’m afraid I haven’t enough shots.”

Despite her inauthentic tone, Tristan offers a smile. As it turns out, I lack an appetite . Please don’t mind me, enjoy .

“Don’t mind if I do,” mumbles Cindy, snagging a second one. When Zara swats her on the arm, she shouts, “What? You know dang well Peter’s too young to drink, and Tristan just said he lacks an appetite.”

Peter squints at her. “Lady, I just don’t prefer the taste, and for the record, I’m seventy-eight years old.”

“Only literally ,” grumbles Cindy back.

Director Tsuki leans forward, setting down her glass after just one sip. “I’ve noticed you’re less stressed these days.”

The comment is directed to Markadian. “Considerably.”

“Is it due to your sister’s return?”

Ashara appears delighted by the question, but Markadian’s eyes flick halfway to the violinist at his side, a smirk playing on his lips as his hand shifts on Kaleb’s lower waist. Tristan can’t quite see, but he imagines Kaleb’s butt has been getting a lot of uninvited, less-than-subtle fondling lately.

Ashara takes the unanswered question for an opportunity. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare take all the credit,” she says with a merry yet calculated laugh. “My brother is more than capable of handling the burden of his post, as he’s proven for nearly the last century.”

“But you carry new wisdom and experiences,” Tsuki points out. “You have studied other immortal governing powers across the world. Ask me the last time I paid a visit to my old family in Japan. I can’t begin to tell you the first thing of how immortals are governed over there. Are they even governed?”

“China’s Dàozhì De Fángzi has been recently praised as the pride of East Asia,” states Peter, “and is lauded for being one of the most well-organized immortal governments in the world.”

Tsuki eyes him. “China isn’t Japan.”

Peter frowns back at her. “I know.”

“Also, I don’t think you said that right. Anyway, my point is,” Tsuki goes on, turning back to Ashara and ignoring an indignant look from Peter, “you could provide us a perspective of things we may learn from. All of us face similar struggles with the Lawless immortals and the frog-eating book nerds—”

“ She means Ferals and witches ,” hisses Cindy giddily to Zara, who wrinkles her face and mutters, “Obviously.”

“—not to mention weres —” Tsuki goes on.

“Every fuckin’ full moon,” growls Cindy.

“—and if there are better means unknown to us to manage our side of the world,” Tsuki goes on, “I believe it can be a strong asset for us all if you took a greater role in our government.”

Ashara smiles graciously. “I wouldn’t dare impose upon my brother’s authority.” She leans in, winks. “He likes being the only dick in the room.”

Lord Markadian lets out a pleasant laugh, casually rubbing Kaleb’s backside. Upon giving it a firm squeeze, Kaleb slips on a note. No one notices. “If only that were the reason, sister.”

“My gracious Lord, didn’t you once consider the idea of a director under you?” asks Ernest. “It must be so tiring, to be both Lord of the region and director of your own domain.”

“Lord Xiang does it just fine in New Yorkaeda,” points out Zara between sips.

“It must’ve been an email I read a month or two ago,” says Ernest, “referencing a hypothetical director of Vegasyn …”

“You wanna stuff a woman as capable as Ashara behind a director’s desk?” asks Tsuki, lifting an eyebrow. “You might as well place her on a shelf to collect dust. No, it isn’t the same as holding the title of Lordess.”

“Lordess??” cries Ashara, then lets out another rehearsed torrent of laughter, shaking her head. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves here …"

It’s Peter who nods. “Yes, let’s not.”

Ashara’s gaze snaps to his. “Sorry?”

“What if she were to become Lordess?” asks Peter to the others, “and she were to bring to our country these Old Ways of managing our kind? They are far stricter over there. I hear they don’t hold trials. Nor keep directors … nor hold Bloods, either. They certainly don’t allow the intermingling of mortals and immortals. In fact, any human standing among us listening to these private words would be executed and drained at once.”

Kaleb’s violin playing falters, squeaking out a wrong note.

Peter carries on. “There’re even superstitions about blood, are there not? Only certain blood at certain times of the night is clean to drink? Other blood is forbidden? Ernest, I do recall you enjoy only matured blood of mortals fifty years and older. That would be forbidden. What of you, Cindy, who enjoys the presence of young mortal assistants in your Dallasade office?” he asks, turning his childlike yet wise gaze to her. “You would be required to execute and drain them … and quite possibly face execution yourself for having kept them at all.”

Cindy frowns, crossing her arms.

“Not to mention what just occurred here a short week ago when your Tristan laid his immortal life down for a criminal. It would be seen as deeply offensive to even allow it.” Peter peers over at Tristan, for the first time acknowledging his presence. “You would have never been welcomed back in the first place after abandoning your Lord. You would have been ended.”

Tristan feels the eyes of everyone upon him. He bows his head, making a show of shame. I will never forgive myself .

“Oh, stop sucking your own dick,” says Markadian through a scoff, “we all know you ask forgiveness for nothing. You don’t fool a single one of us.”

Tristan peers up at him slightly, eyebrows lifting.

Is that a hint of a teasing smirk on Markadian’s face?

Cindy chuckles, nudges Markadian next to her. “I bet that’s why you keep him around.” She eyes Tristan over the table. “We like to keep a sassy one nearby. Keeps us on our toes, am I right?”

Markadian drags a finger over his lip in thought, staring at Tristan, still smirking, remaining silent.

“You know, I am curious about that boy you saved,” Cindy goes on, turning fully to Tristan now. “He was sex on a stick . What a thing for you to do, laying your immortal life down for him … So romantic …”

It’s Ashara who lets out an air-slicing sigh. “I grow weary of hearing about this legendary Texan boy who came between my brother and Tristan. Were it up to me, I’d have buried him and forgotten him, let him spend his existence thinking on his pain. I can count on every finger in this room someone I buried and forgot about. They’re probably still squirming in their respective coffins from here to India.”

Tsuki smirks, mutters, “I like your sister, Markadian.” She eyes him. “A lot more fun than you.”

“And more barbaric in her approach,” says Peter dryly, his eyes zeroing upon her, “which only supports my point.”

Ashara, after a moment’s hesitation, laughs it off. “Yes, yes, it sounds coldhearted, the strictness, the severity. But imagine a society without Ferals, without Lawless. Can you?” She turns to Peter. “India has none. It is true, they are stricter, but I would not call it barbaric. Their ‘superstitions’ are actually supported by science and thousands of years of wisdom. Our government here is so terribly young, when you think about it.”

Tsuki peers down at her fingernails, pursing her lips.

Peter’s eyebrows pull together in thought. He stays silent.

“Well, there’s one dang opinion I think we’re overlooking in this room,” announces Cindy, sitting forward, “and it’s one I think worth listening to. How about it, Tristan?”

Tristan blinks. Sorry? My opinion? On what? The shot glasses? I would much rather have served in martini glasses, were I host …

“Oh, that’s so cute,” sings Cindy, “the way you talk, movin’ your lips for our benefit, and yet you’re sendin’ all your words out telepathically. Why do you speak that way?”

It is how I’ve always communicated .

“Have you ever sent the words out, but just made your lips move all random-like? Y’know, as a joke? Never mind.” Cindy leans on the table. “I think the person who’s been Markadian’s right hand the longest ought to know a thing or two about his needs. And ain’t none of us gonna ask that freaky George his opinion. Tell us.” She lifts her eyebrows halfway up her head. “Do you think Markadian could use another Lord by his side or director takin’ over managing the Vegasyn domain?”

Everyone turns his way. Peter and Tsuki. Ernest, tightly crossing his legs in his pink suit pants. Dull-eyed Zara. Curious Cindy. Even Markadian, who’s in such a good mood, not even Tristan’s presence seems to have soiled it.

It’s Ashara who cuts in. “Don’t harass poor Tristan for an answer,” she says. Then her eyes turn cold. “Besides, we already know his opinion. Lord Markadian is all the Lord this region needs. Tristan would never entertain the idea of another.”

Tristan glances at each face in the room.

Even Kaleb’s.

Then he smiles. Actually, yes, I would entertain such an idea .

Ashara’s eyes flash, surprised.

Markadian seems intrigued, head tilting, for a moment not even paying mind to where his hand rests behind Kaleb.

Tristan turns his smile onto the others. I think the very first point that was made—by our lovely Director Tsuki—is the most wise of all . Our Lord Markadian is happier and more content with others by his side . See how he’s smiling? He hasn’t smiled in so long . Tristan hooks his hands behind his back, studying Markadian across the table, reading him. His sister’s return has indeed changed him . See how inspired he looks? I think he can benefit greatly from having someone at his side … someone with ideas . Someone he can … trust .

Ashara appears completely caught off-guard by Tristan’s declaration and makes no effort to hide it. She was expecting him to shoot her down. Instead, he seems to be supporting her.

That fact confuses her most of all.

Just as quickly, she appears to shrug away the confusion and face her brother. “You need someone to share the burden. Then you can continue smiling for all your days. Invite as many human violinists to entertain you as you want.”

“The music is quite good,” mutters Ernest quietly, “if not a bit rushed in places.”

Cindy leans forward, taps on one of the shot glasses. “Can I trouble someone for a few more of these?”

Zara squints up at Ashara. “Where is George? Shouldn’t he be the one fetching the blood?”

“ Wine ,” says Ashara with a delighted chuckle, “and I think George is otherwise occupied.”

Markadian’s face shows the first sign of stress as he peers at Kaleb next to him, annoyed, eyes on the side of his hip. “Always occupied,” he mutters half to himself.

“Never seemed right, that man,” says Cindy. “Too tall, for one. I don’t trust men who can’t walk into my kitchen without crouching. Two: somethin’ never seemed right in his eyes …”

“He’s a recovered Feral,” mutters Zara next to her. “Didn’t you know?”

Cindy’s eyes nearly fall out of her face. “Say what? No. He can’t be.” Her head spins to Markadian. “You employed a Feral in this House?”

“Former Feral,” corrects Markadian.

“How does one quantify how much Feral one is in order to be or not be Feral?” wonders Peter out loud, arms crossed as he peers up in thought at one of the chandeliers. “We don’t have a system in place to determine such a thing, come to think of it. Would it be calculated by the frequency of ingested blood over a period of time? Should we develop a system? Seems flimsy.”

“I believe it’s simply determined by whether you abide by our laws or you don’t,” suggests Ernest.

Zara eyes him. “So if a group of forty bloodthirsty human-murdering Ferals show up in your domain and declare that they now wish to honor your laws, they’re no longer called Feral? All their past crimes washed away, hands clean, welcome?”

Ernest pauses, stutters. “Well, I—I suppose I’d rather—”

“Once you’ve gone far enough with the blood,” says Zara, a hint of dark resolve in her eyes, “you cannot come back. I won’t speak to the character of this George, but Markadian, I do trust you know what you’re doing with that one. He’s unpredictable at best, impulsive at worst, and apparently can’t be trusted to serve blood at an official gathering of directors in your House. Is he sworn to never drink it? Does he even like our kind?”

“No one likes us,” states Cindy with a smack of her lips.

Tristan takes this for an opportunity. I shall fetch more blood for our guests, to ensure no one is troubled .

“Top quality, please,” says Cindy, “and bring a lot more. It just hits differently than Texan blood, I gotta say.”

Tristan gives a short bow, notices Ashara peering at him in a strange, curious way, offers her a smile, then departs the room on his way to the infirmary where they keep the blood.

He’s stopped halfway out of the banquet hall. “Tristan.”

He turns. Ashara. Oh, is there something else? You do think I should try the martini glass thing? Or is it a bit over the top?

“Cut the crap,” she says. “Why are you suddenly acting as if you are on my side? I know you better than my brother does. You are playing at something. I want to know what it is.”

The only thing I’ve played at lately is my wardrobe . Tristan lifts an arm and poses, giving a gesture at his blouse and pants. See? My colors actually match today . I’ve been told my style has been too —

“This has to do with George, doesn’t it.”

—out of control , finishes Tristan awkwardly.

“You want your position back. You want George gone. It’s why he’s been missing or busy lately. You’ve busied him. Yes,” she then says, bringing a finger to her lips, nodding. “And I am the perfect leverage to send George back to the store rooms, nose buried in bullshit and books where it used to be. You want to align with me. You sense my rising.”

Tristan smiles. You caught me .

Ashara crosses her arms. “It won’t be easy. There will have to be big changes, Tristan, if you really want your position and status back, sitting next to my brother, and even then, it won’t be the same as it was before. You still wish to support me?”

Tristan’s smile persists. Until the bitter end .

Her eyes narrow critically. She steps back. “Martini glasses. They’ll hold more blood, easier to sip. Everyone is a sipper these days. No one knows how to drink anymore.”

I will return soon . Tristan bows again, then at last departs.

Upon leaving the ballroom and the laughter and the blood- drunk faces of directors and self-important individuals licking each other’s asses and drowning in their luxuries, Tristan feels at once as light as a birthday balloon. He skips down the halls, makes a wrong turn, doesn’t care, takes some lesser known path down a long corridor that is reminiscent of a dimly-lit casino. He pulls the lever of a machine, laughs when it scores a jackpot (they all do) and pours fake golden tokens out of its mouth onto the floor, forming a pile. When he’s made it to a more familiar area—a big circular room lined with doors along its perimeter and buttoned in its center by a round fountain with glowing green water—Tristan comes to a stop, staring at the glistening green water, spraying like tiny emeralds.

It’s then he stops feeling happy and light.

He thinks about Kaleb playing that violin. Thinks about a soft, explorative hand constantly on Kaleb’s ass. Squeezing and caressing and enjoying as it pleases. He thinks of Markadian’s curly smile. He thinks of Kaleb’s racing heart, how he can tell the difference between the racing of passion and the racing of fear—and that Markadian tells no difference between the two.

Kaleb is being smart. He’s playing to Markadian’s desire. It is easy to fool Markadian once one learns how simple his needs are. It’s his life’s work that is complicated, not his private life, which is rather singular. He’s lonely. He craves companionship. That kind of closeness is something he’s lacked over the past two and a half decades spent with cold-and-heartless George. It’s no wonder he’s grown so bitter toward Tristan for leaving the way he did.

It’s also no wonder Markadian attached to the first sweet and innocent thing that came his way in the form of a violinist.

And their relationship will remain sweet and innocent.

Provided Markadian never learns who Kaleb truly is.

No matter how deeply Markadian feels for Kaleb now, once he learns the truth, he will feel no pity as his adoration converts to hatred. He will devour every drop from Kaleb’s veins and toss him aside like an empty juice box. He may even delight in the cruelty.

Tristan cannot let that happen.

When Tristan reaches the blood donation center, four Bloods are present, sitting in chairs having their blood drawn, the nurses in attendance walking about ensuring all is going comfortably. All of them notice Tristan, stop what they’re doing, and bow their heads. As you were , says Tristan tiredly, I am here to fetch some blood, that is all . One of the non-illusionary nurses hurries to him. “Oh, I would be honored to do it for you, please, allow me.” As Tristan stands by, waiting, the eyes of the four donating Bloods are upon him, staring, wary, as if waiting for something as well.

Tristan knows most of the servile attitudes of the humans is disingenuous. They simply don’t want to be killed. They all hate their existences. They resent Tristan and the so-called gods and goddesses who feed them, only to in turn feed off of them.

“Blood 1025.”

Tristan looks up. It came from one of the Bloods donating, a young man. His eyes are on Tristan, his teeth clenched, brow furrowed, nostrils flared.

Tristan tilts his head. Sorry?

“Where is he?” asks the Blood. The three others are quite attentive as well, listening, eyes on Tristan. “1025?”

“He plays violin,” says another, a woman. The third speaks up, too: “Every night, we’d hear his music.”

“Someone thought he was sent for his first blood donation,” says the first man, “and had complications. But he’s not here. Last Wednesday, vanished overnight for no reason. Where is he?”

Tristan’s eyes flick from one Blood to the next.

There are many ways he can handle this situation. Many things he can tell them, half-truths and total lies. Or full truths. He could threaten them into submission. He could avoid their questioning gazes and refuse to answer them at all.

The nurse returns a second later with a discreet container. “Is this enough for your needs, my good sir?”

Tristan smiles, thanks the nurse, then takes a step toward the Bloods. Your friend Blood 1025 … he starts to say.

All four Bloods lean back in their chairs, alarmed.

Just that single step in their direction was enough to scare them. Their heartbeats, galloping.

Even the nurse appears uneasy.

Tristan takes a step back, clutching the container, smiles. Your friend Blood 1025 has been specially chosen … for an important task elsewhere in the House . To utilize his … talent .

They appear surprised. “You mean he’s playing violin for you guys now?” They second-guess their wording. “For … for the … the gods …?”

Tristan’s smile tightens. Blood 1025’s music is rather godly in and of itself . Don’t you agree?

One Blood turns to another. “Maybe I should show my art. I have art,” he says suddenly, turning back to Tristan with his eyes alight. “All I need is better paint, a more solid canvas, I … I could paint the gods a portrait. I excel at portraits. You have really great lines, you do, I could paint your portrait, your nose is—”

“I’m a computer engineer,” says the woman, sitting up. “IT has been my bread and butter for eleven and a half years since before … this. Surely you utilize computers. I could be useful.”

The Bloods start eagerly spilling their talents, back and forth, as Tristan takes another step back, then another. Thanks , he says over their elevator pitches, glassy-eyed, grimacing for a smile. I shall take this all into consideration, yes … me and my, um, colleagues . Thank you for the, um, the … for your donation .

He flees the hall to the sound of their continued pleas.

In a study three floors up that has a side bar, Tristan calmly pours the contents of the container into eight martini glasses. It is blissfully silent and peaceful in this study, as likely no one has stepped foot in it for months. But in his head circle the words of the Bloods downstairs, demanding to know where Blood 1025 has gone. For nearly a week, they’ve probably been gossiping nonstop, worrying, building nightmares in their heads, whispering words of wrongdoing. It isn’t the first time something like this happened, with a Blood disappearing. But it feels so much more significant this time, worse, like something is on the verge of breaking apart.

Other than Tristan’s calm right now.

Which is a step upon thin ice, but no cracks are visible.

Tristan forces his focus into filling each of the martini glasses with absolute precision and care, ensuring they are perfectly filled with a fingertip of room at the top, eight pretty glasses, eight pretty drinks for their five guests plus Markadian and Ashara, one to spare if Cindy is still unsatisfied.

He finishes, smiles at his work, eight pretty martini glasses.

Then he thinks of only two glasses—two actual martinis, filled with actual alcohol. He thinks of a small round table by a window in a cabin he shared with someone, years ago.

With Kyle Bentley Amos.

Kyle peering at him over the two glasses, his sweet face, his boy-next-door charm, bright eyes and soft lips. “Happy tenth, my love.” Tristan lifted his glass. Tink! They took a sip from their glasses without breaking eye contact. Kyle kept touching Tristan’s leg under the table with his own, a sly smile creeping over his face, revealing dimples. Tristan bit his lip as he wondered what was on Kyle’s mind. It wasn’t long before he found out, moments later, as the men crashed into each other’s faces, spilling what remained of their drinks. To a nearby couch they went, hands on one another, clothes coming off, as they made love in the dead of night.

He couldn’t catch his breath, feeling Kyle upon him like he had never needed another person in his life more than Tristan. To be the center of Kyle’s world was all that mattered. Tristan felt weightless in Kyle’s grasp. He could be aggressive with him or as gentle and meticulous as handling a wounded bird. Kyle’s warm smile was a reward for all of the pain they endured together. Each kiss was chased with the next. Every placement of a hand, of their lips, even of their eyes as they gazed upon one another between breaths, it spoke volumes as to how devoted they truly were to one another. Twenty-six years was never enough. Tristan easily would have desired fifty. One hundred. Even two centuries with his love Kyle Amos wouldn’t be enough.

Tristan brings a hand to his heart, feeling as if Kyle is upon him right now, his lips, his breath, his pretty eyes.

It still races for him.

No.

This is a bad impulse. A bad path for his heart and mind. Didn’t he already school himself about this countless times over the year since he’s been back?

He can’t keep indulging himself. Even with memories.

Kyle is gone. Kyle is no longer his. Kyle is not here.

He is gone , recites Tristan to himself as he carries the tray of eight blood martinis from the study and down the hall. He is no longer mine . He is not here . Tristan enters the circular room with the shiny green fountain. His heart still races, so he decides to repeat the words again. He is gone . He is no longer mine . He is —

“Why so dour?” comes someone from behind.

Tristan stops in place, recognizing the voice. He puts on a smile, turns to face George, who lurks at the doorway. Why, hello .

“Are you in a mood because you can feel the tick, tock, tick, tock of your tragic little life here in the great House of Vegasyn coming to an end?” George crosses the room, appearing nearly giddy. “I know you were laughing. You and Raya both, both of you, laughing as I assisted unknowingly in your twisted act … but isn’t it queer that I am in fact the one who shall laugh last?”

Tristan maintains an even voice, a blank face. I should think no one in the world dreams of hearing what your laugh sounds like .

“Did you enjoy my redecoration?”

Tristan frowns. Redecoration?

“Surely you’ve been to your tower. You always go to your tower. You and your laughing little Raya and her silly hair. Did you see? All the décor? It took me half a morning.”

He did not think it was by George’s hand, but rather entirely by Markadian’s. Was it all, in fact, real? Or did George innocently ask Markadian to touch up his illusions in the tower?

Was this not Markadian’s act at all?

“Ah, there, yes, I see it,” says George, drawing closer, his odd eyes zeroing in upon Tristan, “that realization as it blooms within your stupid irises. You ought to wear this … this stupid look more often. It betrays the innocent child you all the time pretend to be.”

Tristan thinks on all the details he saw. The yellow flowers. The chandelier. The tapestry of Markadian’s smirking face.

“Did you love the bloody rug?” asks George, drawing even closer still.

And the bloodied Persian rug.

“I thought it to be a fitting souvenir. Both for you. And for your destroyed love. And for your destroyed love’s friend.”

The sting is deep.

Bone deep.

But Tristan is masterful in deflecting bone-deep stings with his own. I wonder if your ears are red , he says to George over the blood martinis, their eyes sparkling in the green light from the fountain, looking like aliens. The directors in the ballroom were all talking about you . It seems many weren’t aware of your Feral past .

George’s smug smile withers to a thin, sagging line.

Our Lord Markadian seems to be considering your replacement as casually as you replaced the décor in my tower , Tristan goes on. It was noted how very much you love spending time wasting away in the book rooms, the store rooms … anywhere that collects dust, really .

“But it is behind me,” says George, like reciting a line from a script, robotic, emotionless. “My past … I put it behind me. It was another me … that George … another George …”

But can we really escape what we are? Can we escape what we’ve done? Tristan takes a step forward. The tray nearly presses into their chests between them. Can we escape what we’ve … drunk?

George stares Tristan down.

It’s a cold, silent, murderous stare.

One might easily miss its murderous nature, mistaking it for the same stare one makes when gazing emptily at the night sky for a certain star, or into a murky pool looking for a fish, or at a blank wall with no thought in mind at all.

Then George’s eyes slowly drift down to the tray between their bodies, very slowly, as if tracking a single snowflake on its journey from the sky, his eyes land upon a martini glass.

He says to that glass: “Found something else in your room. Something rather out of place. A box.”

Tristan’s heart leaps. A … box …?

“Wrapped in a simple ribbon and bow. What did you keep it for, I wonder? A present Raya once gave you? It mystified me.”

Mance’s gift. The gift meant for Markadian. You … opened it?

George’s eyes remain on that martini glass. Every second his eyes remain glued to it, his breathing strengthens, like the tide rushing in, building. “Of course, I did.”

And … what was in it?

“Nothing.” His eyes pour into that martini glass, becoming one with the irresistible blood that glass holds. “Nothing at all. A waste of a box, sitting there in your room. So out of … of place.”

Tristan casts his gaze to the tray of glasses, stunned.

The box contained nothing?

It was empty? Truly empty? This whole time?

Are you … Are you quite sure nothing was in it at all …?

“I haven’t had a drop of blood in so long,” says George, his full attention returning to the glass, as if addressing a long-lost lover, someone he truly adores, with whom he once nursed a deep and unhealthy obsession. “Not since I was punished for taking the lives of that woman and her … her child … Patrick’s family … told I must contain my thirst in punishment. Markadian’s orders. I am … such a different person … when I … partake.”

Tristan flicks his eyes down to the martini glass, too. These are for our guests , he says, then flicks his eyes back to George.

“Do you know how few promises I have made to myself,” says George, hardly acknowledging Tristan’s words, eyes still glued to the martini glass, “over my long life? I learned the less you make, the less you need keep … and the less you feel the sting of your own betrayal. Ah, the worst … worst sting of all.”

Worst indeed , agrees Tristan coolly.

George takes one of the glasses, lifts it up as if in a toast, inspects it in the green light. “Nearly forgot how it tastes.”

It is top-shelf, drawn directly from the Bloods …

“I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”

Bottoms up .

George tips the glass back, gulping it all. Tristan watches his Adam’s apple bob with each of his mighty swallows. Then he nearly drops the glass back onto the tray. His eyes are closed as he appears to bask in the taste that now charges through his system, the feeling incomparable to anything else on earth, not even the thrill of collecting the rarest of prized hourglasses.

Tristan wonders suddenly if collecting hourglasses isn’t, in fact, exactly the reason George has stayed sober.

Was the box truly empty? Tristan asks. It held … nothing at all?

For a while, absolute silence.

Anticipation.

And then George’s eyes pop open. “I released Brock an hour ago.”

Tristan snaps his gaze to George.

This, he did not expect.

“Our Lord of Vegasyn was growing restless,” says George, tongue coated in red, stains between his teeth, eyes manic, “and planned a trip to the Scarlet Sands. Brock could no longer be held in a room there, not for one more second. Much too risky. I took care of it, took care of the problem. He’s gone.”

Tristan nearly drops the tray. Why would you … Tristan can’t believe his ears. Even you said he wouldn’t be ready in a long time . He believes he’s a teenager one moment, then a college student the next, living a parallel life with Kyle, then an adult with his wife and son … He’s mentally all over the place, fractured and alone … He doesn’t know who he is most of the time .

“Yes, he was scared of me,” says George, as if in answer to some unasked question, his lips curling upward, pleased by the fear. “I decided I am allowed to contradict myself. Perhaps I … was wrong. Brock is ready to go home, placate his God-fearing wife, allow his family to call off the dogs …” He staggers back. “I underestimated the blood. Oh, this is good … really good.” He giggles, for a terrifying moment making his face look predatory and psychotic. “I think I shall retire to my room for the night to enjoy the rest of my … of my last laugh.”

You will not laugh long . You have just executed us both .

“Have faith,” says George absently, licks his lips, still aloof, still somewhere else, adds, “Everything will be fine … totally, perfectly, bloody fine.”