Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

25. It’s Time.

—?—

The shifting sands of hourglasses.

The sound is like the ticking of clocks, only the ticks are so much closer together, as if there are countless secret increments of time between seconds of a clock, immeasurable increments, as close together as atoms. It’s the sound that plays all the days and nights long in the private quarters of George, which Tristan has just entered. The doors spread to reveal shelves and shelves and yet more shelves full of hourglasses in every size, style, and color. George once claimed to have just over two hundred, but the first impression one gets upon entering the room is that there are two thousand. All of them seem to be running nonstop somehow, the sounds of shifting sands everywhere, like a soothing white noise.

Tonight, it feels anything but soothing.

Tristan is certain that box was not empty. The box meant for Markadian. Mance’s sick little gift.

George seems to sense Tristan before he’s even entered the room. “I do not have to be an assistant,” states George with an oddly grand flair, like making a profound proclamation. “I do not have to be George. I do not have to be anything at all. Not a human being. Not a Feral. Not even a … a vampire.”

The shelves are also in the middle of the room, open-back bookcases lined with hourglasses from one end to the other, like an alien candy store with nothing edible in sight, all of it on display for casual browsing. The only source of light is around the perimeter of the room, as if the walls glow, sliced by the shelves—a yellowish-green light shining through the hourglasses, pulsing, creating an eerie, otherworldly aura.

“Have you ever considered, Tristan … ever truly considered how … how meaningless everything is …?”

Tristan moves slowly through the maze of shelves and glass and sand. Through the narrow spaces between the shelves, he sees that George is standing atop his desk, so tall he nearly touches the ceiling, eyes closed as if meditating.

“But then you find the one thing you love most … such as a pouring of sand through two bulbs of united glass … a tool we use to portray the very passage of time … and your entire … no, my entire existence … becomes devoted to that one thing …”

Are you blood-drunk? Tristan comes around another shelf, drawing closer to the middle of the room, closer to George, the sands around him hissing, whispering … I think you need a real meal . Perhaps the chefs can prepare a plate of sashimi over rice .

“A trivial pursuit,” George goes on, “to collect time in the form of sand within glass, but it is my entire being. Some would say even world domination is a trivial endeavor. Or making ten million dollars. Or having a child.”

Butternut squash risotto … Lobster thermidor … A rack of lamb with herb crust …

“What does any of it truly mean in the end, when we are all simply returned to dust no matter what we do …?”

Tristan comes to a stop at the end of a shelf, in perfect view of George. It means that perhaps we should enjoy whatever we please however we please during our short time on this planet .

“And what if our pleasure is hurting others?” George lifts his arms high in the air, seeming positively euphoric. “You have awakened so many memories in me, Tristan, with just a taste, so many memories of my freedom. Did you know I was the one in my dear family who carried out the torturing of humans?”

Tristan moves in front of the shelf, a mere three paces from the desk George stands upon. Through ghastly long monologues?

“Blood laced with fear is the tastiest by far. The adrenaline is intoxicating. You wouldn’t like me to describe the methods of torture I employed to get precisely the taste my family and I so desired. That’s how one gets what one wants—through actions, threats, and fear, I have learned. Violence is a beautiful tool.”

I pray you aren’t suggesting to Lord Markadian that we torture and terrorize our Bloods , says Tristan. Or do I need to perform a bit of rudimentary math to remind you how very outnumbered we are?

“You said whatever we please however we please. My desire is to hurt people.” George hugs himself, eyes still closed tightly. “My desire is to watch others suffer. My nature cannot be wrong. My wishes cannot be evil. They are mine. Is that wrong?”

The rushing sands grow louder all around. No, says Tristan carefully. I suppose it isn’t .

“And if I want people to die?”

Any society, even our own, must be held together by common understandings . This is why we don’t kill anyone we please . Why we don’t steal what is not ours . Or wear brown belts with black shoes .

“Then I cannot do as I please?”

If you wish to be part of the world, you must learn the one principle under which it operates, one principle only: restraint .

“So we all must … deny our natures …?”

Curb your desires, but don’t abandon them . Refrain from your impulses, but always hear them . You must always be satisfied … even if you are starved . Tristan plucks an hourglass right off the shelf behind him, a small one, six inches in height, its sands slightly pink in hue, almost orange. The ones who survive longest are the ones who exercise restraint .

“Is that what you’ve learned, Tristan?”

Tristan stares into the hourglass, doesn’t answer. He finds himself thinking about Kyle, about Brock, about a violinist …

The next instant, George is no longer upon the desk. He is in front of Tristan, towering over him, his manic eyes widened, his breath reeking of sour blood. “The truth is, you are the liar. You know no ‘restraint’. You have lied to every person you ever loved. Betrayed every person you ever loved. Hurt every person you ever loved. Is there even a soul left on this planet you haven’t hurt?”

Tristan’s back is already against the shelves, hourglass upon his chest, nowhere to go.

“You take such a pious stance against the drinking of blood, acting as if you are so afraid to become a true vampire, clinging to your humanity. But I don’t for a moment believe it proves you are not bloodthirsty. All you know is thirst.” His words are as thin as paper. He lifts his chin. “I have stood in this office for hours thinking on the meaninglessness of everything … on our sad little existences … you and I … and I have realized only one thing remains in this world that means anything to me.”

Tristan smiles as he considers a funny response, one thing that is meaningful to George—his suits, his shiny shoes, these long-winded tirades of his.

Until George finishes: “My soul. And there is only one way in which my soul can be redeemed. It is by doing what no one would expect me to. Not even you. Not even me.”

Tristan freezes, watching the change in George’s eyes.

“I will tell Markadian everything,” he declares, breath spilling over Tristan’s blank face. “What we did. The necromancy. What he nearly caught on his midday journey to the Scarlet Sands. I will tell him. And no matter the consequence, even if the price is my life, then I shall depart this world knowing I have done one act to serve my soul. One act to serve my Lord. One act to save my—”

What bullshit , says Tristan almost politely. You are doing this only to hurt me . Your true desire: hurting people, just like you said . A desperate effort to serve yourself . You have no soul, can’t even pretend .

“We’ve done this dance for too long, haven’t we?” George smiles. It is unexpectedly gentle, even his tone of voice, even the look in his eyes. Does he believe what he says? That notion scares Tristan the most of all. “I think I shall tell him now.”

With that, George sweeps past Tristan, fleeing the office.

Tristan staggers, blinking. He is bluffing, isn’t he?

Telling Markadian such a thing could easily bring his own downfall. He can’t possibly risk that. Reputation and prestige is all George holds dear. He wouldn’t possibly throw it away.

Tristan is after him at once. You are drunk on the blood . When it wears off soon, you will come to your senses, you will realize —

“Think on those you have hurt and betrayed,” George goes on as he moves swiftly down the stone corridor, Tristan on his tail. “Think on your own need to practice restraint, to adapt.”

You call this restraint? Goodness, I’ll think twice before trusting you with the company credit card .

“Nothing you say will change my heart, Tristan. It is set.”

Poor Raya, our dear innocent party, she will be punished by your confession, too, I am sure . Do you really want that?

“A natural consequence for which I hold no guilt, as it was by her own choice that she became involved in your game.” He takes a corner, Tristan following, and the colorful glow of the Midnight Garden now envelops them, a starry sky over the glass dome high above. “You two were always a pair, even before you left.”

I have already hurt her gravely . Do not hurt her worse . She has paid dearly for … for playing my game, as you put it .

“I care not.”

Paid with half an arm .

“I shall do one right thing for my soul, one meaningful and proper thing, before it’s left to time …”

Was there really nothing inside the box?

George stops under the shadow of a willow tree, glowing butterflies overhead, turns to face Tristan. “What of the box?”

Tristan smiles, lets go the little hourglass from his fingers.

Somersaulting midair.

On a course for the harsh cobblestone floor.

The next instant, George is at his knees, catching it.

I wonder if you even remember whose blood spilled to obtain that hourglass , wonders Tristan, amazed at how so quickly George’s attention shifted to his one true love—the hourglasses.

George, out of breath, hourglass resting upon his palm like a precious newborn babe, a priceless treasure, peers up at Tristan’s words, meeting his eyes, frozen.

Tristan brushes his fingertips down George’s eerie face.

His eyes turn as dull as stones. Hourglass rolls freely from his limp fingers. Shatters on the ground. Then goes George’s body, tumbling as quickly, asleep.

Tristan stares down at the shape of George.

He stares at him for too long a time. Was this what Tristan meant to do all along? Was Ashara right about his intentions? To be rid of George and reclaim his seat by Lord Markadian’s side?

Tristan laughs suddenly, wondering who had to die to get the hourglass that just broke upon the pretty cobblestones, if multiple lives had to end, if any person on earth is still alive who can say. The laugh ends, and suddenly Tristan feels sad. He takes a step back, realizes some pink sand landed on his shoes.

Thirteen minutes later, Tristan steps away from the willow tree. A fresh mound of dirt spreads from its base, where stones have been artfully placed. For each and every hourglass you ever collected , Tristan says to that dirt mound, to the stones, to the body now deeply buried in there, sleeping, dreaming, I wish you a lengthy, safe, and enjoyable spell of silence in the ground . May no one remember or care for your purpose in existing at all .

A sprig of rosemary rests atop the grave.

Tristan stays there for quite some time, staring at the base of that tree, at the stones. Did he bury George deep enough? It was quite deep, significantly more than six feet. Will George be able to break free should he wake? Not likely, in a coffin that is, from within, lined with silver bolts and bracing.

As deep as the body is buried, George’s words still linger.

Tristan, betraying everyone he’s ever loved, hurting everyone he’s ever loved. Does Tristan have a soul left to defend?

The shadow of the willow tree twists suddenly, and from it, the shapeless face of Wendy appears. “Haven’t you gone too far?”

Tristan is never surprised by her surprise appearances. You have been absent for so long, I nearly thought you took a vacation .

“I bear some disquieting news. There was an unfortunate … scene … made upon a certain highway in northern Arizona. The scene involves Brock, his wife, and his son. The wife is no more.”

Tristan, his mind already a mess of conflict, zeroes his eyes down upon Wendy. Please tell me …

“Brock is wandering the desert. He has been seen by no souls. He is …” Wendy searches for the word. “Bloody.”

And the son?

“Run away. Lost. There is no knowing.”

Tristan sits upon the ground suddenly, overwhelmed. In other words, no, I did not go too far, George very much deserves his fate .

“George loved to tend this part of the garden. It is almost a thoughtful kindness, to bury him here.”

I added a sprig of rosemary . He detests rosemary . I pray the healthy roots grow over his grave in a matter of hours .

“I do not think anything grows that fast. Except hatred.” Her shadow swirls away from the tree and rises out of the cobblestone, becoming her familiar hooded form. “George did open the box, I can also report. What he said is true. There was no entity inside. No dark power. Nothing I could detect with my own.”

I very much doubt there was nothing inside .

“I presumed you wished me to clean up the scene on the highway. There is no more car. No more wife. Though in truth, there was little ‘wife’ left to clean up.”

Tristan could have done without that detail. You are working overtime these days, dear Wendy .

“Only fulfilling my terms of the contract.”

Admittedly, he forgets about the contract too often. Without being reminded of it, he could simply assume they’re friends. As it turns out, Tristan is in short supply of them these days.

He peers at her. Have I ever hurt you? Ever betrayed you?

“There’s still time,” says Wendy.

Signal Mance for me . There is no more time to spare . Actions must be taken . I believe I have something far more enticing to offer him . He peers upward at the glass dome, at the moon and the thousands of tiny, faraway suns. More enticing even than Lord Markadian’s head .