Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

32. It Starts With a Drop of Blood.

—?—

Kyle is struck by the sight of Cindy in person, who is shorter than he expected. She wears a black strapless dress with gemstones on her neck, reflecting purples and greens, and her hair is done up in a tight bun that shows off a pair of black hoop earrings.

“And he cleans up mighty well!” she goes on, waltzing up to his side and hooking her arm in his. “Come on inside, sugar. I’ll show you straight to the booze, which, let’s face it, is really the point of these stuffy gatherings. Tristan, why are you always keepin’ the good ones to yourself?”

Tristan, appearing still stricken, eyes on Kyle, says, There is no reason for anything anyone does anymore .

Kyle stares back at him. “Tristan?”

“Don’t mind him,” says Cindy, “as there isn’t any rhyme or reason for anything he says whatsoever. Hey, you don’t mind if I steal your date, do ya?” she throws back. “Didn’t think so.”

Kyle is peeled away from Tristan’s side before he’s ready to go, dragged into the main banquet hall by Cindy’s forceful arm. The enormous room is dim, loud, and full of unfamiliar faces as they pass through a maze of round banquet tables, each dressed up nicely with red tablecloths and matching centerpieces made of glass and wood, each one a unique sculpture. So many eyes fall upon him at once. It is a stark contrast to his experience of walking through the Devil’s Mouth in terms of environment, but the faces and eyes are no less threatening. Each face he sees is hungry and ambitious. And his Reach infiltrates every one of them with ease, bringing out flashes of greed, of pride and dark arrogance, of resentment toward everyone in the room, of lust and jealousy and confusing malice. Everyone in this room has an agenda. Do they all come to these social gatherings in hopes of fulfilling their dreams through Lord Markadian’s power? Is the Vegasyn world just another reflection of the human world and its toiling, never-ending game of politics and power?

Cindy introduces Kyle to several people along the way, but he retains none of it, his eyes scanning the crowd for Tristan who had been left behind. For some reason, it’s all he can think about. That twisted look in Tristan’s eyes, like he was betrayed. Did he think Kyle had been corrupted so easily, changed, a new person since he let him go? Kyle hated to believe that Tristan would so quickly think less of him, even if he had tasted blood.

Then Kyle at once resents the notion. Why should he care what Tristan thinks of him? They are no longer lovers. Tristan gave up his right to hold any sway over Kyle’s life choices when he staged his death and fled their sanctuary. Kyle doesn’t even care what reason Tristan gave for doing that. If Tristan truly loved him, he would have fought harder for what they had built over those twenty-six precious years. He wouldn’t have let it burn to ash in the morning sun.

But the resentment only makes Kyle hurt worse.

Is he still a teenager inside? Begging for Tristan’s approval? For Tristan to notice him across a crowded classroom?

Is part of Kyle still living in that cabin in the woods?

Did he ever truly leave?

“You’re one lucky guy,” says Zara in her dry tone, a woman Kyle distinctly remembers from his trial. She also wears a black dress, though hers comes up to the neck, with flowing sleeves that show only her pale hands and black fingernails. “I haven’t in my lifetime seen anyone get that close to a death sentence under Lord Markadian’s hand and not meet their end.”

“He’s a hot topic in my office these past few weeks,” admits Cindy after a slurp from her glass. Kyle also holds one. He has no idea where it came from.

“If any cute guy under a certain age passes under your nose, he’s a ‘hot topic’,” says Zara, rolling her eyes. “It has nothing to do with his controversy. He’s lucky he still exists.”

“Lord Markadian’s mercy is plentiful.”

“Not that plentiful.” Zara kicks back her own glass, eyeing Kyle with skepticism.

It’s just then that Kyle finally spots Tristan through the crowds of faces, several tables away. He’s watching, his eyes like grey-blue icicles, perfectly still. But the second they make eye contact, he vanishes, swept away into the crowd. Kyle turns, searches for his eyes again, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Have you considered coming to Texas?” asks Cindy, tugging on Kyle’s arm. “We can make use of your talents in the Dallasade domain. Isn’t it real close to your native mortal hometown?”

Kyle’s still looking for Tristan. “Not really.”

“Texas is a big place,” agrees Cindy, gnaws on her lip, then says, “I’ll leave you my number, okay? Direct line. I really want to show you everythin’ my domain has to offer.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” sighs Zara.

“I don’t bark . I mewl .”

Kyle catches Tristan’s eyes again, this time from the other side of the room. “Excuse me,” he says to Cindy, slips from her grip—and ignores her whimper of protest—as he makes his way between the tables and through the crowd toward Tristan.

Only to then lose him again.

Kyle stops, frustrated.

Then: I really shouldn’t blame you .

Kyle turns. Tristan is nowhere. Only unfamiliar faces in all directions. “Tristan?”

The room is so loud, it’d be a wonder if Tristan could pick Kyle’s voice out of the noise at all. But with the unique way in which he communicates, Kyle has no choice but to hear his: I meant for you to live your life peacefully in Nowhere, or wherever you chose, with a newfound lover, even if he was mortal …

“Come out and face me,” says Kyle, still cutting through the tables, ignoring all the strange looks. He sweats under his clothes despite the cold air of the banquet hall. “Stop hiding.”

I know I made many promises to you . I know I’ve broken nearly every one . But I never, not even once, stopped loving you .

Kyle catches sight of Tristan’s eyes, but no sooner than he does, they’re gone. He stops. “I’m supposed to be your date, am I not? Why am I chasing you?”

And it is also why my heart breaks, hearing that you have been wayward with Them, the very ones I fought to keep you safe from . I think I’ve failed you .

“What’s a little blood?” asks Kyle, circling around a table. Can his Reach find Tristan the way it once found Elias in a sea of distraction? “Didn’t our entire relationship start in blood? A bloody house? My bloody house, where I had to bid my family goodbye? Where I ended my first life?”

Just a drop of blood, that’s how it always starts …

“You think I’m poisoned now? That I’m damaged goods?”

Just one drop of water makes a river, makes a lake, gives birth to an ocean … I should never have left your side …

“Why did you even bring me here?” Kyle pushes through more people, more faces, zeroing in on a pulsing conviction he picks up that strikes through the room like an arrow, certain it’s him. “I don’t accept your apology unless you say it to my face.”

I am not apologizing, my love . For what I have done … I am afraid there is no returning .

Kyle stops.

The crowd has parted, revealing Lord Markadian standing in front of a table, arms crossed, leaned back and smirking. He wears the expression of someone who’s been waiting patiently to be found. His handsomeness is ruined by his smug, malicious smirk, in the same way that his otherwise perfectly-fitted suit is garnished with an out-of-place, sparkling, ruby-red bowtie.

Markadian’s thin lips spread into a devilish grin. “Welcome to my party, Mr. Amos. I am ever so happy to see you.”

Kyle knew he would be seeing Markadian. However, he did not anticipate how it would feel. “Wish I could say the same.”

“Now, now, no need for the bitchiness.” Appearing entirely unbothered by the comment, Markadian reaches back, fetches a glass, and lifts it. “Call this our truce. You and I. Let’s drink to a better future for us both. After all, that’s why we are all here tonight. To see to a better future. Didn’t Tristan tell you?”

There is a tall, slender woman standing next to Markadian in a dress that is such a dark shade of green, it’s nearly black, shimmering in places when it catches the light. Her hair is gathered intricately at the top with a sparkling green hairpin, suggesting an air of regality, with long, straight hair cascading over her shoulder and down her front, looking perfectly styled and disciplined down to the strand.

Kyle has never seen this woman before. Her sharp, steely eyes have been fixed on him the whole time. Something about her expression strikes Kyle at once that she knows many things about him already, giving her a complete picture of who he is without ever having met him.

The way one looks at another after having sized them up before they’ve even entered the room.

“Have you met my sister?” asks Markadian lightly. “Ashara, this is Kyle Amos, the one I have told you so much about.”

“Too much,” she says, her voice unexpectedly deep, sultry, full of amusement.

With a stroke of curiosity, or perhaps just by habit, Kyle lets out his Reach—and then his ears begin to ring.

Or something else rings. Not quite his ears. Is it his mind? Like a tuning bell struck within his brain, vibrating, painful and disorienting. He grimaces as he bears the uncomfortable sound.

Or is it less of a sound and more of a feeling?

Then he senses his own frustration. Senses his own anger. Senses his resentment at Tristan.

Then these feelings compound, growing. Then even more. The ringing intensifies. Kyle staggers back, fighting a sudden urge to vomit, gripping his head, squeezing shut his eyes.

“That’s so cute,” says Ashara. “He is trying to read me.”

“Oh, is he?” asks Markadian, then lets out a laugh. “I would not try to do that, Mr. Amos.”

“What the—” Kyle’s heels find a chair. He drops onto it. After clutching his head, the ringing sensation begins to recede, like the feedback from a microphone fading. “—the fuck …?”

“My talent is like a mirror,” says Ashara. “When you sense my feelings, you’ll only see your own, and back and forth the reflections go, back and forth, infinitely, until you look away.”

Only now have the vibrations calmed enough for Kyle to open his eyes, but he doesn’t dare bring himself to look Ashara in hers, afraid his Reach will fling out by habit. Other than Wendy, he’s never had to worry about its automatic operation.

“Sorry,” he finally manages to say, “didn’t mean to invade.”

“Yes, you did,” she says back—then smiles. “I’m impressed you weren’t driven insane after a few seconds, honestly.”

Markadian chuckles, his glass balanced loosely between his fingers, as he calmly observes Kyle’s discomfort. “It is not that special. Aren’t we all sensitive to others’ feelings? Sensitive to others’ falsehoods? Insecurities? Talents of the heart are weak.”

“I suppose that depends on the heart,” returns Ashara.

Markadian glances at his sister, his chuckling stopped.

She struts up to Kyle, stands over him like a tower made of dark green emeralds. “It’s true that not everyone has a powerful gift of the mind,” she says to Markadian, her sharp eyes affixed to Kyle, “like yours, brother. And not everyone has a powerful gift of the body, like I do with my … reflectiveness. We say the third kind come from the heart, but I’ve always found that to be misleading, as they do not literally come from the heart at all. In fact, no one knows where they come from any more than one can say what comprises a soul. The soul isn’t in any one place, is it? Not the brain, not the body, not the heart. It’s everywhere. Within you, around you. It’s … a part of your everything, maybe even a part of the people you touch along the way in life. Hidden somewhere deep in between all of that mess, that’s where the gift lives. In India, we call them ‘soul charms’.”

Without missing a beat, Markadian scoffs and sets down his glass. “Meaningless pretention. All of it’s a bunch of masturbatory conjecture. No matter what you call the gift, it’s weak.”

“But even weakness is a matter of perspective.” She takes Kyle’s hand, inviting him out of the chair, to his feet. “My life thus far has shown me even subtle things can be strong. Like the flick of a butterfly wing … the taste of vanilla ice cream …” Her eyes turn soft. Her voice, too. “… the stroke of a violin.”

Kyle peers back into her eyes. Noises of the party around them on all sides, yet none of it seeming to touch his ears. The cackling of laughter at a joke. The scrape of a chair’s legs across the floor. Tinkling of glasses. All of it fading.

“My brother thinks you’re weak,” she says, and though it is obvious that Markadian can hear her, it feels like the words are meant just for Kyle. “But I believe you are stronger than you seem, just from the brief time we have spent together here right now. Perhaps you believe it, too. People like you and I … we know it takes only a single drop of water to erode a mountain.”

Kyle hears Tristan’s words again—a drop of water, into a river, into a lake, into an ocean …

Kyle turns to Markadian suddenly. “Tristan … he said you invited me here to renegotiate our deal.”

After a brief look at his sister, Markadian nods. “To be fair, it’s the deal between me and Tristan that has been renegotiated to spare him his immortal life. It’s much too valuable to hold in the balance of your cooperation, anyhow. I thought it only fair to relieve him of that responsibility and, instead, offer you a far, far simpler agreement. A truce, like I said before.”

“A truce with what conditions?” asks Kyle.

Markadian chuckles. Kyle picks up Markadian’s amusement at how skeptical Kyle is being. There is a dark undertone to the man’s amusement, something deeply unsettling and cold.

“The conditions are simple.” Markadian folds his arms. “As long as you cause no harm to me or any member of the House of Vegasyn, you and the people of Nowhere will be left alone to live your life in any way you please. A suspiciously simple task, is it not?” he asks. “But there is zero catch. Zero need for suspicion. Take me for my word. If you do not harm me, I will not harm you. A truce in the truest sense that a truce can possibly be.”

Kyle cannot detect any falsehood about Markadian’s words. No ulterior motive. He has no reason to doubt the terms of this so-called truce—if it weren’t for that dark, unsettling amusement in Markadian’s heart.

“And what’s in this new arrangement for you?” asks Kyle, diving straight into the darkness in Markadian’s heart.

He shrugs. “Peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind?”

“Yes. It takes too many resources to keep eyes on everyone in your little town. I have more important matters. Believe it or not, you are not the center of my fucking world, Mr. Amos. Just one day spent in my shoes, you’d understand. The clearer my mind, the more contentment I’ll find, and the better Lord I can be for my region. This truce is meant to clear my mind of you .”

That can explain the darkness twisting Markadian’s heart. “But why all this fuss? Why this party?”

Markadian laughs again. “Did I not just say you aren’t the center of my world? This banquet has a far different purpose entirely. My sister and I …” He glances at Ashara and smirks. “We have an announcement to make to our peers.”

Ashara’s smile brightens, for the first time appearing fully human and warm. “That we do.”

“For which we’ll need more wine. A lot more. Where the fuck is George?” he asks, then nods at someone nearby. “Go find that petulant pole of a man, tell him to bring wine, wherever he is.” He faces Kyle again. “But before celebration is due, let’s secure our deal. A binding contract. You don’t harm me. I don’t harm you.”

Markadian extends his hand.

Kyle stares down at it.

He cannot shake the feeling that the fate of his entire world rests on whether or not he shakes that hand, securing a deal with the Devil, a contract with small print he can’t hope to find.

“Oh, it ain’t no big deal, I’m sure,” comes Cindy, appearing next to Kyle. How much she overheard, no one can know. “He is a man of his word, Markadian is, and I can vouch for the fact that he wants you well off his plate.” She nudges Kyle in the ribs with surprising force. “And onto mine .”

“Do we have ourselves a deal?” asks Markadian once again.

Kyle starts to reach, hesitates, then finally shakes the hand of Lord Markadian.

The smile that spreads over Markadian’s face is, to Kyle’s surprise, one of great relief. “You … will never know how much this night now means to me.” He lets out a laugh, glances at his sister, then Cindy. “Both of you, witness to our deal. Please do hold me to my word, will you both?”

“Sure will,” agrees Cindy. “Keep your paws off my Kyle.”

Still shaking Markadian’s hand, Kyle peers at Ashara. Her eyes seem to sparkle with pride. She winks playfully at Kyle.

Kyle cannot make sense of any of this.

Then the lights in the room flash. Markadian gasps. “Just in time!” he cries out, lets go of Kyle’s hand, then spins around to grab himself a glass, which he taps over and over with a fork, quieting the room with impressive speed. “Attention, attention! My guests, colleagues, friends, and pathetic subordinates …” A ripple of laughter is cast across the room, then silence again. “It is time for our main event!”

“Oh, I do hope it’s them hunky fire jugglers!” hisses Cindy half to herself, licking her lips. “Or those naked acrobats!”

Light spills from the ceiling over a curtain at the center of the room, which had evaded Kyle’s attention until now. As the room dims, the spotlight grows brighter, and soon, the curtain is lifted, revealing a large round stage—which itself is enclosed by bars that curve upward into a dome, creating the appearance of an enormous birdcage.

In the middle of that stage stands a lone performer.

A violinist.

He slowly but confidently lifts the violin to his chin, then the bow to the strings, an artful air to his movements, and at last, he makes the instrument sing.

A melody of solemn celebration fills the air.

Proud and robust, every note that comes from the strings.

With each measure, climbing higher, a steady pace.

Kyle is struck, but doesn’t yet understand why. He studies the violinist’s eyes, gentle and familiar.

His face. His posture.

The disciplined way he pushes and pulls the bow.

So precise, yet carefree.

Kyle steps forward, confused, captivated, listening.

As the man continues to play, he closes his eyes, lips curling with determination. The notes ascend, as does the tempo, and with seeming effortlessness, the melody takes flight.

Kyle knows this music, even though he’s never heard it in his life. He recognizes the rhythm somehow. Knows every one of the violinist’s instincts, sensing the notes before they come.

Then his Reach takes flight with the melody.

Touches the man on the stage.

A flash. Kyle’s teenage bedroom. Brother by the window, struggling with notes on his violin, then finding the melody and gaining confidence. A slip of a note. The teenage brothers look at each other, then burst into laughter.

The laughter in that memory fades, leaving two men and the music singing out of that birdcage, radiating from the stage like poetry. How music builds and shatters simultaneously. The violin, how the man so expertly inspires it to weep.

Kyle doesn’t even notice the tears forming in his eyes. Now drawing glassy trails down his cheeks.

That violinist …

“No …” Kyle murmurs to himself, barely heard under the rich, swelling song. It isn’t him. It isn’t Kaleb. This is a trick of the eye, a trick of the heart. Wishful thinking. This is just … “An illusion,” he decides out loud. “Just another illusion.”

“What’s that?” comes Markadian, who has followed Kyle, standing at his side. “An illusion? This …? How flattering, that you think my power to be so capable as to produce such music. No,” he then says, a note of humor in his words, “I am humble enough to confess that this … is no illusion at all.”

The resemblance is uncanny. “He … He looks just like …”

“You?”

Kyle can’t take his eyes off the violinist. The tears run. “It can’t be real. It can’t be, because … because he’s—”

“Exactly as old as he’s supposed to be?” suggests Markadian kindly. “Appearing exactly as you may have expected him to … had he survived a certain … fateful … night …?”

Kyle brings a hand to his mouth.

The tears keep flowing.

A river made from a single drop of water.

Kaleb is dead. This man can’t possibly be him. This man is a trick to torment Kyle, the reason for the darkness behind each and every word Markadian has uttered since Kyle arrived—a cruel, unforgivable joke.

“Kaleb?” calls Kyle.

“He’s much too far away,” insists Markadian, “too into the music, amplified in his ears. He can’t hear a word.”

“Kaleb??” Kyle calls out again anyway.

“By the way, if you wish to thank anyone, I must confess it is not me to whom you owe your gratitude. Thank your dear friend Tristan … who saved your little brother’s life, then hid him here, in this very House, all of those years ago.”

“You’re lying,” says Kyle, but he knows it isn’t a lie. Even his Reach can confirm it, feeling the familiar presence right there on that stage, his brother, his real brother, alive …

This is no illusion.

“Kaleb here is playing you a song of sweet endings,” says Markadian. “I only hope he can make it to the end of the song.”

Kyle can’t peel his eyes from the violinist. “Why wouldn’t he make it to the end?” The song is so beautiful, so captivating. “He’s … playing strong. With confidence. Not a single note falters …”

Kaleb, the pride and joy of their family.

Kaleb, now a man of thirty-nine.

Kaleb, still playing the violin.

Still alive.

Markadian’s lips draw close to Kyle’s ear. “Tristan told me what your favorite animal is, yet noted you had never once seen one in the flesh. How sad. So I wish to present you with a gift.”

A second curtain, unseen, sweeps open behind the violinist.

It reveals a lion.