Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

38. Until the Bitter End.

Tristan steps over a broken chair painted in blood.

Circles a table with the charred remains of some Feral on top.

And the corpse of Director Andrea of the Seattleus domain on the floor, poking out from beneath the same table, her blackened bones twisted among shattered glass and cutlery.

The banquet hall is eerily calm.

Ribbons of smoke twirl from the red tabletops where once the flames raged, dancing to the heedless heavens.

There is no chatter. No clinking of glasses. No merriment.

Only eerie calm.

With the illusions stripped away, it comes as a surprise how much of the banquet was actually real. From the large, decorative centerpieces to the fancy red tablecloths. The chandeliers hanging overhead. Even the stage for the most part.

Tristan stops where the small and childlike shape of Director Peter drew his last breath—and choked on it. Kneeling on the floor cradling his lifeless body is Director Tsuki, skin spotted with blood and minor burns. She says nothing as Tristan approaches, only glancing briefly at him, the frames of her teal-colored glasses askew. Nearby, Director Ernest stands in his pink suit, which isn’t so pink anymore, as he gazes absently across the room of carnage. Next to him, Ms. Tamara of New Orleanea, a director Tristan has met only once, whose eyes seem trapped in the nightmare of the past hour. Ahead, seated upon the lip of the stage leaning against the bars like two rejected dates at prom, Cindy and Zara are side-by-side in their pretty dresses, now torn, burned in spots and stained with blood, both of them haggard and silent.

Tristan’s foot kicks into something. He steps back.

Markadian’s glittering, ruby-red bowtie. Also not an illusion. Somehow, impossibly, inexplicably untouched by the fire.

Tristan picks it up, shakes off stray bits of ash, holds it with both of his hands.

He thinks suddenly about how Kyle’s eyes seemed to smile as he helped him with his own bowtie a matter of hours ago. How they peered at one another through the mirror. How they were so touched by one another’s presence, as if not a single day had gone by since their lifetime in the cabin.

Tristan considers what a beautiful last moment they shared before their whole world burned, as he departs the banquet hall, moving past the shadowy edges of the room where the glowing embers have finally turned black, hissing out their last bits of life.

The bowtie is still in his hands when he finally arrives at the door to Markadian’s sleeping quarters. Miss May, both of her, are outside, but one is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, the other sitting on the floor hugging her knees to her chest. It is the first time Tristan has seen Miss May in a state of asymmetry.

Neither acknowledge him, faces obscured by their long hair.

May I enter? Tristan asks anyway.

Miss May does not reply.

Tristan enters the room. Only an armoire and a bed. Nothing on the walls. No windows. Illusion stole Markadian’s best décor, leaving his private chambers in a bleak, uninspired state. Only the faint light from a lamp near the bed fills the room, a soft, intimate light, pooling over the sheets and barely illuminating the tall shape of Ashara standing next to it.

“I told him to bury you,” she says without looking. Her words come out evenly, yet firm, as crisp as snow.

Tristan stays near the door, bowtie clutched in hand, staring at the silent bed.

“The moment I knew of your falsehoods, I told my brother, I said it firmly, I said it with conviction: you cannot be trusted. Yet still, he insisted that you be there, that you paid witness to your dear lover Kyle crumble as he watched his brother get eaten by a lion. He wanted you to see.”

I know . Tristan fidgets with the bowtie, its sandy texture, its weight, playing with it between his fingers. I know Markadian was counting on Kyle’s anger . With his brother in the cage, he expected him to break the truce they had just a second ago struck . He wanted a legal, viable reason to end Kyle, too . It was a very … Markadian thing to do .

“How dare you stand there so pompously,” she says, her voice still level, still calm yet icy, “speaking of my brother who lies here in a bed, on the verge of final death, because of you.” The parts of her dress that usually shimmer green appear black and deathly in the gloom. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Tristan’s eyes drop to the bed.

He can’t even make out Markadian’s shape in the sheets.

But he can smell him. The charred skin. The smoke. The fire that raked across his body by Mance’s power.

I never meant for this to happen .

“Give me one reason I should hear another word that comes out of your mouth.”

Technically, none of my words come out of my mouth .

“And you make a joke? Even now? Even here? I did wonder recently if you would die laughing someday.”

You could kill me , reasons Tristan, taking one more step into the room. It would be so easy . You are now the Lordess Regent, with Markadian incapacitated . The directors are here . You could forego need of a tiresome trial and simply kill me in front of them . Or omit even the need for witnesses and kill me right here .

She remains silent, peering down at her brother, eerily calm.

Tristan takes another step. But you don’t . And there’s a reason . He stops at the end of the bed, eyes falling upon Markadian. You need answers . How all of this happened . Who let in the necromancer and the Ferals . And George … is mysteriously absent . You’ve noticed . He has been absent the whole time, nowhere in sight during the whole affair .

Her eyes close. Lips purse. Jaw tightens.

She is holding back with all her might.

Tristan moves to the other side of the bed, across from her, Markadian’s body between them. You are wondering if perhaps there was another reason I buried George . If there wasn’t some other, darker plot afoot right under your nose, something that eluded you completely .

She remains quiet, teeth clenched within her sealed lips.

The reason I buried George … was because he planned it all .

Ashara’s eyes flap open. She turns her face to Tristan.

He worked closely with the necromancer to concoct a nefarious plot , Tristan goes on, that would result in the death of Lord Markadian . He knew the necromancer sought revenge . So did George . He is, himself, formerly Feral . He resents Markadian’s power over him . He resented my return . He hated the violinist being Markadian’s new obsession . He found a way to deal with it all by aligning with his former Ferals, as well as the hateful necromancer, to end Lord Markadian . And George would have ended you, too, had I not intervened and —

“You expect me to believe this farce?” Ashara snaps.

After a moment’s pause, Tristan shakes his head. Of course not . You’re much too smart . He peers back at the door. But they will .

She frowns, glances at the door herself.

The directors don’t trust George . Most don’t trust you, either . But they all adore me . And while they are clueless and seeking explanations for this terrible night, the one thing they did pay witness to was me outsmarting the necromancer and giving us all the upper hand to defend ourselves against the Ferals . In essence, I am the hero tonight, even if I don’t deserve such a title . But only you know that . Tristan peers back at her. Only you are smart enough to see the truth .

Ashara turns her icy stare back onto him.

Tristan searches those cold eyes of hers for the single glint of curiosity still remaining in them. Yes , he finally confesses, I was the one who summoned the necromancer for the purposes of bringing Brock back to life . I broke Markadian’s sacred law to never fraternize with the practitioners of preternatural arts . I involved Raya, who is innocent . I used George to collect ingredients for the ritual .

Each statement of his becomes a tiny flame of vindication in Ashara’s eyes, nearly salivating at hearing the confession.

But what I did not count on was George interfering by opening a spell box and infecting himself with the necromancer’s dark powers . He is the true reason Mance was able to break into the unbreakable House of Vegasyn … along with an army of Ferals . George is, in fact, the cause of this terrible night . George … has fled with the Ferals .

Ashara’s face twists. “He has gone completely?”

And Mance is nowhere to be found . His current status is unknown . George might be involved with that, too … helping him to safety .

Her eyes narrow. “You’d better hope Mance is dead, because after tonight, you have certainly made a mortal enemy of him.”

Tristan doesn’t wish to sit with that disturbing thought any longer than necessary. I should also mention the night the directors arrived and I was sent to prepare martinis of our Blood’s blood, George stopped me on my way back and … took one right off my tray .

“He is expressly forbidden from drinking blood,” Ashara says at once. “A drink to him is not like a drink to us. He did this?”

Likely you’ll catch him on the cameras of the Scarlet Sands, making his way with the Ferals to wherever they reside, a place I can only hope is as far from here as Death itself . You will see the blood in him . He isn’t who we thought . Perhaps he never was . Just a Feral bound by chains, which a mere sip of blood was enough to break …

Ashara drops on the edge of the bed suddenly, as if unable to stand anymore. Before, she had no puzzle pieces to place together. Now, she has too many.

Tristan sits across from her. Ashara, maybe I played a role in the tragedies that befell us tonight . But do you truly believe it would do your Lordship better to punish me for something I did in good faith and with good intentions … over being rid of the pest of George once and for all?

Ashara stares down at her brother. “You mean to use George as a scapegoat.”

Yes, answers Tristan simply, though as you well know, he is far from innocent, so it isn’t such a stretch to blame him for it all . Had your brother not been harmed tonight, I would bet my own immortal life that he would think to do the same, if anything just to save face .

“There will be so much damage control needed after tonight. After what has happened. Our poor guests. The directors who’ve lost their lives. Lord Xiang will hear about this, will want to know how it came to be that we left ourselves so vulnerable to such a hideous attack, that our own Lord … that Markadian …” She puts a hand on her brother’s over the bed sheets, shuts her eyes as she swallows back tears, seems unable to say anything more.

Tristan peers at Markadian’s face—the bandages, the spots of oily residue from ointments and medicine that have been applied, the festering black and red lengths of skin between the bandages where the demonic fire played the worst on him. He can only bear looking for a matter of seconds before casting his eyes away.

“Should we …” Ashara speaks with a tender and unexpectedly vulnerable tone. “Should we utilize … an older method … to heal my brother?” She worries to even say the words. “A quicker, more natural method …?”

Tristan is surprised by her suggestion. To heal Markadian with blood? It would take so much of it, to recover from those … burns . No , he says, sighing. That method is too barbaric . It would change him .

“He cannot die.”

I know, but —

“He cannot die,” she repeats, firmer. “Not like this. Not the great Lord Markadian of the west region, my magnificent brother, he does not deserve this … this humiliating end.”

There are great risks, healing with such an abundance of blood, says Tristan. Yes, he’ll heal quicker, but he may also acquire a dependency on the blood . Let us trust his body to know what’s best, to heal itself …

“And if he isn’t strong enough? He could die by morning.”

If he is fed too much blood, especially in this weakened state, it could suppress his ability . Perhaps permanently . His illusions …

Her voice sharpens. “Filling this House with actual furniture is a small price to pay for my brother’s life, I do think.”

But to save his life by turning him into the very thing he despises?

“He will not become Feral. At least not by definition. He will simply be a stronger Lord … who no one will dare stand against.”

Tristan fails to see the difference. Ashara …

She rises from the bed. “I will address the survivors. I will tell them about George’s involvement. I will name him as an enemy of the region who must be found and brought to justice immediately. Once he is found and buried, so will our troubles be.”

Tristan is surprised by her sudden cooperation. So you will go along with it? You agree it is the best course of action to blame him?

“There are no best courses of action. Every course is terrible. But yes,” she says with a nod, “that is the course I am taking. The very one you advised.”

Tristan returns her nod. Thank you … Lordess Ashara .

She grows still. “Being addressed in that way … was once my only dream. Now upon hearing it, I feel nothing.” She gazes back at her brother. “I want the nurses summoned back here with every bag of blood we have in storage.”

Tristan winces, comes around the bed. Lordess, the Bloods …

“Have escaped, yes, I know, every last one. Many of them still scurry helplessly around our halls, lost. They are being handled.” She peers at him. “I suppose you have some deftly crafted reason for why I should not punish your dear companion Raya for freeing them and absconding with Blood 1025? Don’t worry,” she quickly says the moment Tristan parts his lips. “I will protect her as well. You have earned my trust for now. In confessing the whole truth. In your reasoning for pinning the necromancy on George. Even now for the way you stood up to me, against saving my brother’s life with blood … even if I must do it anyway.” Her eyes narrow as she studies Tristan. “I think you are, in more ways than I once thought, cleverer than I took you for. I’ll need that cleverness if you’re to be my right hand when I rule in my brother’s absence.”

Tristan stiffens up, taken aback with surprise. Right hand …?

“Welcome back to your former position. See to those nurses.”

After a moment’s bewilderment, Tristan comes to, gives her a nod, then sees himself out of the room at last, stopping only by a table by the door, where he gently sets down Markadian’s bowtie.

Tristan can’t shake the feeling of weightlessness as he walks. The feeling that all of this has fallen into place so easily. Too easily. The drab halls. The lackluster lighting. The rough edges and chipped paint on the walls. The lingering stench of fire and death, even so far away from the banquet hall. Every inch of the House, now bathed in smoke. Can Ashara’s kindness be trusted?

Or is this simply a situation of “keep your enemies close”?

Tristan sits on a bed in the donation room after the nurses are gathered, ordered, then sent away toward Markadian’s chambers with the blood. Task complete, he stares at the undecorated hall nearby, the cheerless infirmary, the bare walls. The longer Tristan stares, the more he feels this sense in his gut, like something big and significant is ending, like the credits of a sad and crushing film are rolling before his eyes, a feeling like grief but so much worse, all of it made apparent by the absence of Markadian’s illusions.

And the sight of his pathetic, broken body in that bed.

Ashara struggling to be brave in front of him.

The silence of the surviving directors, still in the banquet hall.

Tsuki cradling the lifeless Peter, the two of them constantly bickering and hateful for years, now joined in a moment of frozen sadness, all the time they could have made up for, stolen away, all the things they could have said, all the apologies …

Much like Tristan’s last moment with Kyle. Holding him in the art gallery. Smelling him. Feeling him. Praying there’s still a part deep inside Kyle that feels a trace of love for Tristan—just a trace will do, a trace will be enough, it’s better than nothing at all.

He can live with a trace.

“I followed the bus as long as I was able.”

Tristan looks up. The shadowy figure of Wendy sits in a nook in the wall where an illusionary window usually lives. Her eyes are obscured by her hood, though a silhouette of the pretty, youthful face she projects when standing in front of officials like Markadian remains. Tristan wonders why that aspect of her is visible tonight.

“The mother and daughter have succeeded in their efforts,” she goes on coolly. “A warding spell is now in place that obscures the location of the town from anyone looking for it. Even me.”

Tristan tries to imagine what that looks like. Do you mean you will be unable to see them? To know if they are safe?

“Yes. An unfortunate side effect. Unless you can employ the help of abler witches to see through such a shroud.” Wendy slides like black silk from the former windowsill to the bed across from Tristan. “There was a complication.”

Could you please lie and say there wasn’t?

“No. The complication is that one Feral followed them. The one with the sword. He made his way onto the bus and took a life. Not Kyle, Kaleb, or Raya. I tried not to intervene, as you ordered, but the situation was dire, and I calculated that you would have approved of my disobedience. I resorted to a desperate measure.”

He dreads to hear the measure. What did you do?

“I had detected a powerful being on that same highway—the only being within my range of power that could match the Feral in both ferocity and strength. A being who was still wandering in those sands, aimless, lost to his own nightmares.”

Tristan realizes it at once. You mean Brock? He was still — ?

“Yes.”

He slips off the bed. You were able to communicate with him?

“I regret to say, I had to make my true form known to him.” Even in the amorphous shadow of her face, Tristan sees her eyes narrow with discomfort—or whatever sensation she experiences that Tristan can loosely interpret as discomfort. “He swiftly took care of the Feral, as I knew he would. Then I followed the bus until the warding spell stopped me. It is done. Kyle. Kaleb. Raya. All are inside the town. Their conditions: unknown.”

Tristan looks away. He tries to picture the scene. To imagine how horrifying it must have been for them all. To have narrowly escaped such a scary situation here with Mance and the Ferals, only to face a worse one on the road. A battle for their lives.

And Tristan will never know its final outcome.

Brock . He turns back to her. Where is he?

“His father’s suite at the Scarlet Sands. He has been sitting in a bathtub for hours, perfectly still, neither moving nor blinking. Do you wish for me to take you to him?”

I will go myself . Tristan moves away from the bed, stops, turns back to her. You have done me such favors tonight, Wendy . More than I will ever be able to repay you for .

“It is my duty. The contract.”

You remind me of that so often lately, I noticed .

“Because it is the final year.”

Tristan is struck by that information. Nearly as struck as he’s been by everything else she’s reported tonight. He swallows as he observes her. We have … been by one another’s side for so long … like companions in crime . I suppose I forgot our friendship had an expiration .

“It is one reason I remind you constantly we are not friends.”

Of course . Tristan tries to be strong. So much about tonight. Markadian upon the brink of death. Kaleb’s face bloodied by the lion. Kyle’s last words. Raya’s last words. Yes, we are … not friends , he agrees, as if uttering the words himself gives him some kind of power over them. Upon taking his next breath, his throat tightens, choking back a tear. We are business partners, of a sort . Bound by the terms of … of a contract .

“I detect your emotional state collapsing.”

Excellent observation, I shall note it in your monthly employee eval .

“If you prefer I call our contractual relationship a ‘friendship’ instead, then I will oblige, as it is my duty.” She pauses. “Is it better that I say: our ‘ friendship’ will end?”

No , Tristan decides, that is not better, not at all .

In the blink of an eye, Wendy stands before him in her sweet, human-girl-like shape, wearing a hooded cloak, soft-eyed, a hint of a smile upon her thin lips. “I am your friend, Tristan.”

He meets her eyes. The eyes she’s created for him. The eyes she has perfected to put humans at ease over the years.

He smiles wistfully. Your eyes have improved . Your emulation of human emotion, nearly indistinguishable from … from the real stuff .

Wendy smiles back. The smile looks wholeheartedly, utterly, fully, unquestionably genuine. Even if Tristan knows with one-hundred percent certainty that it is not.

Less than twenty minutes later, Tristan stands in front of the door to the Hastings suite. The door isn’t closed.

He moves inside, closes the door behind him. A dark room. The shutters left wide open, exposing the starry sky, the night, the glow of the moon. He follows a trail of bloodied clothes to the bathroom, where he comes to an abrupt stop at the opened door.

He hears nothing. No breath. No whispering. No droplets of water. Nothing at all.

Tristan steps inside. In the bathtub sits Brock. Water to his chest, just beneath his nipples. Arms resting on either side. Staring ahead, yet not seeing a thing. Eyes totally blank. Dry. Reddened. In his hair, bits of blood, thin trails of watery red spidering down his ears, his neck, pooling in spots upon his muscular shoulders.

Then Brock turns his face.

Sees Tristan.

Says nothing at all.

Tristan suspects this is the first time in over an hour, maybe two, that Brock has moved at all. Or is it presumptuous, to think that he is special enough to be the one and only thing in the world to draw Brock’s attention?

I’m sorry , he says.

Brock says nothing back.

His dry, reddened eyes trapped upon Tristan’s, crusted with clots of blood and dirt that never quite wiped away. Never once blinking. Never once flinching. As still as glass.

Even now, Tristan thinks on Brock’s handsomeness, and how he’s always looked so sweet beneath the brawn. A sleeping face on Tristan’s lap in the hallway of a Texas high school, vulnerable.

The man sitting in that tub is anything but vulnerable. He is deadly. Yet his eyes tell another story, a story Tristan sees.

It’s to those eyes that Tristan speaks. It’s my fault, everything, all of it . For what’s happened to you . For your wife . Your son . All of it .

Brock continues to stare. Silent as death. Vacant.

You were right , says Tristan, slowly approaching the bath. All those years ago . You did right by trying to protect Kyle from me . I am … I am bad . I am a bad person . You deserve … Tristan stops. His eyes are full of tears, all of them clinging to his lashes, refusing to fall. You deserve a better existence . You deserved a better death, far, far from now, when you’re old and grey … I don’t even know if this is another chance at life you’ve been given … or just a living hell .

There is no change in Brock’s face. It is like talking to a wax model, to a mannequin in a store. Tristan’s words, filling a room, falling upon a dead man’s ears, falling upon the silent walls.

Tristan bows his head, unable to look at Brock anymore. He drops to his knees, hands on the floor. He can’t bear to breathe.

He barely hears the water stir.

Wet feet appear in front of Tristan’s spread fingers.

He lifts his face, stares up the naked mountain of Brock, tiny fingers of pale pink blood and dirt dripping down his body, murky veins across his skin. Tristan slowly sits back on his heels, stares up at Brock, silent, stunned.

Tristan trembles deep inside, deeper than bones. Brock …?

Only reddened eyes meet Tristan’s, perfectly still, silent.

Until a mighty hand reaches out.

Wraps itself around Tristan’s throat.

Slowly lifts him up, to his feet, then off his feet, up in the air, dangling from Brock’s mighty grip.

Tristan chokes. Sputters. Gasps for air.

Tristan could reach out. Easily. Touch Brock’s face. His Lull. Put an end to it.

For some reason, he doesn’t.

He lets this happen.

He welcomes it.

To Tristan’s face, up high in the air, many feet off the floor, dangling by that mighty hand, Brock says, “I … think … I did … something bad …”

Tristan continues to choke.

Gagging.

Sucking in to no avail.

“Do you think …” Brock swallows. Dry and hoarse. Difficult to speak, to draw breath. “Do you think I can … be good again? Do you think … there is something I can … still live for …?”

Tristan gasps out unintelligible words.

If they’re even words at all.

Just noises of desperation.

Of defeat.

Or maybe they are pleas. Begging Brock to just finish the job.

“I … I have seen beyond. I saw the darkness. I …” Suddenly, light returns to Brock’s eyes. Something sensitive. Human. Alert. “I don’t want to go back there. I don’t ever want to … to go back. I am …” His brow creases, lips spread, eyes crushing as the first trace of emotion spills over his face. “I’m … more scared of death now than I’ve … I’ve ever been … n-now that I’ve felt it.”

Tristan feels the room spinning away.

Growing darker.

Then Brock’s face grows closer. The mighty hand retracting. Their faces, closer and closer still. Brock’s dry eyes. Nose. Lips. “I want to …” Brock’s words echo, like a dream. “I want to be good. Please keep me here. Keep me on this side. Don’t …” Closer and closer Tristan comes. Their lips touch. “Don’t let me go back.”

Tristan’s feet touch the floor again.

Brock’s lips press into Tristan’s.

All he tastes is blood.

Soured and terrible.

Brock’s lips, as dry as sand.

“Don’t let me g-go …” murmurs Brock against Tristan’s lips. “Don’t let me … go back there … ever again.”

The powerful hand never lets go of Tristan’s neck, but its grip loosens, and just as their united lips become a kiss, the grip becomes an embrace. But even while kissing, at any second, the hand around Tristan’s neck could squeeze. At any moment, Brock could lose control and bite Tristan’s face off in a fit of rage, or just by pure reflex, completely eviscerate him, end him in such a grisly way that no one even recognizes the remains.

When Brock pulls away at last, the eyes that bear down into Tristan’s are entirely human. The Brock he knew from years ago, alive, fully aware, staring back. Is this the final result of the dark magic? Has it, in fact, after all these trials and worries, worked?

I will do my best , says Tristan, with Brock’s hand still wrapped around his throat, not unlike a collar, not unlike a prison, to keep you … from ever returning to that dark, dark place again .