Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

26. Pay the Pipers.

—?—

Tristan walks the Strip.

Crowds of drunk people. And sober. Quiet individuals getting on with their nights. Lonely people. Others trying to make a buck. Costumes. A guy with a sign around his neck that reads: “Tip me to kick me in the balls.” Homeless on the street who don’t have a cent to pay to kick that man in the balls, let alone feed themselves.

Tristan slips through the side door of the casino unnoticed by anyone, walks down a dim narrow hallway, passes an opened office door and a small, smoky lounge that is host to a suited man passed out on a couch. Tristan moves to a door and sees himself through to a lonely back section of the casino, where it seems no one at all is playing any of the penny slots on this late Monday night—except one man in a trench coat and tattered cowboy hat, seated all by himself at a short row of machines, a glass of melted ice next to him that once held an inch or so of whiskey, a sad, bent nub of a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Well, well,” grunts Mance, “don’t you look like shit.”

I’ve had a complicated night , answers Tristan, stopping a safe number of paces away, and you’re not even looking at me .

“I got eyes on the side of my head. Back of it, too. Eyes all around me, don’t matter where I look or don’t look, I see it all.” He grabs the lever with his odd, greyish fingers, sends the reels rolling. “The machines here are tighter than a nun’s pussy.”

Is it a sign of your increasing arrogance that we’re meeting here at night instead of the day , asks Tristan, or a sign that you trust me?

“How can I trust you? You can’t even be trusted to deliver a fuckin’ gift.”

And why should I have delivered your gift when my resurrected friend is now a blood-hungry beast who barely knows who he is?

“He’s alive, ain’t he?”

I wouldn’t consider your job well-done . It is a good thing I’m not compelled to write you a review on Yelp .

“Well, you let the wrong motherfucker open the box, then buried him under a tree,” he says, pulls the lever again, watches the reels go, “so it looks like neither of us get what we want.”

Tristan parts his lips, stops. How’d you know I buried him?

“What did you summon me here for exactly, sugar bottom? I’m a busy man tonight, a busy man with a backroom massage appointment in an hour—one of them massages that don’t just involve hands, if you catch my meanin’.”

Sadly, I do .

“And seein’ as you didn’t bring sweet-tush with the tits and freaky black-and-white hair tonight, seems like you don’t got an interest in keepin’ my attention for very long.”

Regrettably, she’s recovering from having half her arm torn off by the undead abomination you created .

Mance had reached for the lever again, freezes. “Say what now? He ate half her arm?”

Bit it right off . Broke some of his teeth in the process . I had to lie to an orthodontist and get him new ones . He doesn’t even know .

“Shit.” He leans back, folds his arms. “That’s fucked up.”

Tristan can’t tell whether Mance feels any actual guilt or is still just trying to picture a sexual situation with her. But even if by some miracle Raya had decided to forgive Tristan for what he’s done, he still wouldn’t dare bring her to another meeting with lecherous Mance, especially not to just keep his attention.

You can control the dead, can you not? Mance shrugs, pulls on the lever, watches the reels fly. Like you did with Raya in the tunnels . I was just wondering if there is a possibility you could control Brock .

“Brock who?”

You said his name a million times while resurrecting him with the forty-four books with B in the titles … you know exactly who Brock is .

“I know, I’m pullin’ your dick, and yeah, I can control the dead, easy peasy.” Only now does he half turn his head toward Tristan, smirking. “Want a demo? Maybe you can warm me up for my ‘massage’.” He grabs the crotch of his skintight leather pants and gives it a firm squeeze. “Bet your lips are awful soft. I don’t discriminate. Mouth’s a mouth with my eyes closed.”

Tristan takes a step back. No demonstration required .

“Aw, c’mon,” says Mance, rubbing his crotch to life. “I can do the denial thing if it turns you on. Keep you from bitin’ my dick, no matter how badly you want to. Forced to just suck it, nothin’ else. I know this is turnin’ you on.”

As enticing as that sounds , says Tristan, my question is whether you can control Brock from a distance . Remotely . Or if you must be near him . I think he might be … a danger to society at present time, and I happen to care for him .

“A magician never shows his tricks.”

Tristan wonders if that response answers a different question he hadn’t intended to ask. Good thing you’re not a magician .

“Sure you don’t wanna suck me off a little? It’ll sweeten the deal, whatever it is you’re here to ask.” Still rubbing himself, he pulls the lever. “Better get to the point soon before my patience runs out. It ain’t beneath me to force you to do what I want.”

You want Lord Markadian to pay .

Mance stops rubbing himself at the mention of his name. A flicker of darkness passes over his eyes, and for a brief, scary instant, everything becomes real, becomes dangerous, the room itself seeming to darken.

I wonder if I can tempt you with something … bigger .

Mance says nothing, pulls no levers, merely stares ahead at the machine. It isn’t clear whether he’s listening to Tristan or lost now in a maelstrom of dark thoughts.

There’s no telling what inspires Tristan to take no caution himself, but he dares to come right up to Mance’s side, crouch down, and bring his face closer. I wonder if I can tempt you … by offering the whole fucking thing .

Mance’s eyes snap to Tristan’s, still nothing, still listening.

Tomorrow night, they will be holding a banquet at the House of Vegasyn , Tristan tells him. Many higher-ups will be in attendance . From all across the west region, they’re already there . Markadian’s friends and colleagues . Even his sister , Tristan adds with a note of darkness in his voice. All of them will be at your disposal .

Mance squints, sucking on his teeth, still listening, still silent.

I know getting into the House is tricky for you . I will secure you a way in, a guaranteed way in . You can do what you want with them . I only ask in return that you don’t bring any harm to the humans we keep there, nor to Raya or myself .

“Wouldn’t dream of hurtin’ a freakish hair on her freakish head. Love a woman who puts up a fight. It’s hot.” He speaks distractedly despite his attempt at humor, gears still turning.

We will need to decide on this quickly , Tristan points out. The opportunity is soon, and I must prepare your way in .

“An invitation,” says Mance, greasy eyes on Tristan, “that’s what you’re tryin’ to pay the piper with. An invitation to the big bad banquet.”

An offer I pray is too irresistible to refuse . The dress code is black tie, by the way , Tristan adds quietly.

Mance surprisingly cracks a smile at that. “I bet you don’t think I clean up good.” He smirks at Tristan, his eyes turning playful under the sinister shadow of his cowboy hat, his voice low and deep. “You think I’m nothin’ but a greasy scab under these clothes. Wait ‘til I get a comb in my hair and a razor on my cheeks, boy, I’ll have you swoonin’ like a lady with a fan.”

Does this mean you’re interested? Tristan asks, a hopeful glint in his eyes. Though I know you work alone, I’m sad to say there are no plus-ones allowed to this party .

Mance’s smirk deepens. His eyes sharpen delightfully into blades. “Who says I work alone?”

Tristan’s expression falters, for a moment confused.

Until shapes emerge from the darkness around them. A tall figure from around the corner, long black hair, pale naked body and wicked eyes. From behind a machine, another tall shape in a long red robe, bald, beady eyes. From directly behind Tristan, causing him to leap to his feet and spin around, yet one more tall figure makes themselves known, stepping out from behind an old ATM machine, long talon-like fingernails, pointy nose, chin lifted arrogantly, dragging a tongue over their teeth.

Tristan looks from one to the next, at a loss.

Ferals. Three of them. Maybe more he doesn’t even see, hidden, waiting, greedily licking their lips, yet to show their twisted, inhuman faces, their long bodies and limbs.

“No plus-ones, you say?” Mance chuckles at that, kicks his feet up onto the machine. “How about plus-a-clown-car?”

Tristan, always an expert in shielding his emotions from his face, turns to Mance. I’m not so sure I’m in on the joke , he muses lightly. Are full-blooded vampires not your sworn enemies?

“You know the sayin’. Your enemy’s enemy is your friend.” Mance tilts his head, smirking. “Or maybe it’s total bullshit and your enemy’s enemy is just another fuckin’ enemy. But this lil’ team I got is workin’ out for me so far, and if you’re here offering an invite to the party, I think everyone in this room has somethin’ to gain by roughin’ up that douchebag a’ dicks callin’ himself Lord.” Mance’s eyes narrow. “Including you, sugar bottom.”

Is that a gay slur? Tristan wonders. It sounds cute, but I don’t think it’s intended to be .

“Is it? Shit, we could be besties if you weren’t so stingy on the dicks you put in your mouth or the words that come outta mine.” Mance kicks away from the machine, drops his feet, and stands, towering over Tristan. “So that’s the final offer? You let me and my fangy friends into the party through the backdoor, and I get to do whatever I want, in exchange for your safety?”

Tristan peers up at Mance. It’s been so long since he dared to allow himself to stand so close to the necromancer, he nearly forgot how tall he is. And the humans’ safety . And me and Raya .

“Don’t seem like a balanced deal to me. You’re givin’ me an awful lot in exchange for next to nothin’.”

We both let each other down with our last deal, says Tristan. This is to make it right for both of us . Wreak your vengeance on your former best friend . Give me a chance to escape with my loved ones and the humans imprisoned there .

“Shit, boy, things have really gone south that fast for you, huh? Am I waltzin’ into the middle of a lover’s quarrel here? Honeymoon already over for you and hotshot Markadian?”

Do we have a deal?

“This is a lot easier than I expected. You’re just leadin’ me right on to the good water, ain’t you? And this isn’t even a trick,” realizes Mance, his eyes digging into Tristan’s in that specific way that feels like he sees more than anyone could ever suspect, like he knows how everyone dies, sees their end as clearly as he sees the colors of their irises. “You’re the real deal right now. You’re as horny for Markadian’s demise as I am. Itchin’ for it.”

Do we have a deal? Tristan repeats.

“How’s that dark blood doin’? Keepin’ it safe?”

Tristan is struck by the sudden, out-of-nowhere question. I keep it with me at all times, at all hours . It’s in a test tube, the only container I could find in a pinch in a hospital supply closet …

“Good. Because I’ll be needin’ it.” Tristan stares blankly back. “Collateral. So I got somethin’ to hold over your clever little head if you decide not to pay the piper. Or in this case: pipers .”

Tristan doesn’t need to look at the Ferals again—the other “pipers”. And he doesn’t want to, either. His insides are already plenty frigid in the presence of so many dangerous individuals in one small, suffocating space.

“Hand it over.” Mance extends his hand, palm up. His face turns to stone as he stares Tristan down from the mountaintop, triumphant before the battle’s even begun. “A precious item for a precious deed.”

Tristan stares at that outstretched palm.

He remains still.

“You want that mortal to stay alive real bad, don’t you?” asks Mance, voice taunting. “The one whose face and name you thought of a hundred times for a hundred hours for a hundred beads in that belly of yours …? You care about him so damned much, don’t you?”

Tristan’s eyes remain glued to his discolored palm, the dark greyish fingertips. Yes , says Tristan. I want him to stay alive, so he can … fulfill a bigger purpose …

“Ain’t that the greatest lie of all,” grunts Mance, “that any one of us has a fuckin’ purpose. All we live to do is eat, shit, and fuck. No sleep for the wicked, and boy, don’t I know, ain’t no one safe from being a little wicked.” He wiggles his fingers. “As soon as that tube sits on my palm, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

You may as well ask me to place my heart on your palm .

“Let’s not play with each other. Ain’t neither of us got one. I’m keepin’ the blood for collateral. To ensure you don’t walk me and my scary-ass friends into a trap. To ensure you keep your goddamned word for once, you slippery little minx you.”

Tristan closes his eyes. Instinctively, his hand moves to the breast pocket of the beige-and-lime patchwork coat he wears, the pocket with a subtle bump in the shape of a test tube.

“Keep your word,” says Mance, voice level, casual, sincere, “and on my daughters’ souls, I swear I’ll keep mine.”

With his eyes still closed, Tristan pulls out the tube, holds it in his hand for three precious seconds, as if wishing it good luck or bidding it farewell for now, then presses it too quickly into Mance’s ice cold palm. Then he lets his eyes open.

Mance closes his fingers around the tube of dark, sinister fluid. “Good boy.” He pockets it at once, then winks. “See you tomorrow night.” And with that, he turns and heads off.

The Ferals slip away as well, sliding into shadows, passing around corners, all of them gone as quickly as they had come.

Tristan frowns. I haven’t yet told you how to get into the House .

“The box was opened, wasn’t it?” Mance calls out over his shoulder. “That’s all I need to do my part. Your contribution was telling me the when . Hey.” He stops at the end of the row of slot machines, smirks back at Tristan. “If this is the real deal, no sweat wasted on this dark blood I’ve got now. As long as it remains safe, your loved one might live as long as you do.”

It’s only Mance and Tristan now. Was that … box enchanted somehow … ? Contained a child’s spirit who’s been enslaved to you, now hidden in the walls of the House? Reporting back to you? Are you able to see what that spirit sees? What was in the box, Mance?

“Don’t make me take off all my clothes in front of you, you naughty thang .” He playfully pulls his trench coat closed, then wags his finger at Tristan. “Let me keep some of my secrets.”

You still have all of them , says Tristan, every last one of them . I don’t for a second believe that the vampire who killed your family is still out there . You got them already, didn’t you . Got your vengeance . Do you really need to destroy Markadian, too?

“Cold feet already? Too late, sugar. Plan’s in motion. No take-backsies .” He stops by the exit door. “Bet you’re already excited to watch me kill your boss in full black tie. Don’t worry. I won’t disappoint.”

Then Mance is gone.

And the slot machine bursts into music, jackpot, pouring tokens out of its mouth, a pile on the floor at Tristan’s feet. It keeps ringing and ringing, pouring and pouring.

Tristan closes his eyes, clenches his teeth.

The long walk back down the Strip is considerably more tense. Tristan tries to avoid eye contact with anyone he passes, but now instead of playful, drunken, costumed individuals, he sees monsters. Anyone who is slightly tall is possibly a Feral in disguise. No one is trustworthy. No one is friendly.

“When did the Ferals start organizing? Did you know?”

It’s minutes later that Tristan is back, making his way down the long corridors of the House of Vegasyn, and through every shadow he passes, Wendy speaks to him.

“Your plan makes less and less sense to me,” she says from the shadow of a potted fern Tristan walks by. “You get rid of George, securing your inevitable return to Lord Markadian’s side,” she says from the shadow of a thick red-and-gold striped curtain he passes. “You mollify Ashara by supporting the notion of a joint Lordship in front of the other directors,” she says from the spidery shadow of a chandelier he passes under. “And now you have struck another deal with the witch to take down the very House you are gaining power in, sparing only you, Raya, and the Bloods. Is there a bigger picture I do not see?”

There are always bigger pictures , says Tristan.

“It is too chaotic a picture to comprehend.”

Perhaps you are standing too close . As long as this next step goes to plan, and I retain my ability to move the pieces where I please, you will have nothing to fear, nor any bigger picture to decipher . Really, Wendy, haven’t you known me long enough to trust my plans?

“Do you remember what I said once? Long ago? When we stood on a set of train tracks, and we had just saved a boy from a burning house?” says the shadow of an opened door. “Do you remember how you claimed to keep that boy alive for a purpose you did not yet know?” says the shadow of the archway Tristan passes through. “And when I said that it would only be a matter of time before your every effort was undone?” says Tristan’s own shadow as he enters the Midnight Garden. “That the act of saving the boy may someday cut your immortal life short?”

Then Tristan sees no more faces in the shadows.

Hears no more words. No more Wendy.

Tristan comes to a stop, heart turning cold in the abrupt silence. He looks to the left, feeling a chill. To the right. He spins around completely, looks the other way, eyes darting here and there. All the trees and flowers and plants sway ominously. Hissing against one another’s leaves and branches. Whispering words that make no sense.

Tristan knows at once that something is wrong. He hurries down the cobblestone path, makes a left, hurries further, makes another, then stops in front of a tree. Where once was a mound of dirt, now is a hole.

Tristan turns at a sound. Standing there: Ashara. And George.

“What a funny sight,” says Ashara. “To see the creature of Tristan in shock. Is he ever shocked?” she asks a stoic George, covered from face to shoes in dirt, unsmiling, unmoving. “Oh, by the way.” She saunters up to Tristan. “I just happened on an intriguing discovery. The violinist you and Raya tried to hide. I knew it at once, something was amiss. With the littlest effort, I found his true name. Shall I give you three guesses as to whom I plan to take this information? Or will you need only one?”

Tristan reaches at once, drags fingertips over her face. It is he, instead, whose eyes rock back, as he collapses to the floor.