Blacker than Black (15 page)

We should be free to walk.

And he’s equally free to kill us.

The only card left on the table is the weight of our crimes against the
lyche
and his desire for assistance in this investigation. I don’t like being manipulated or controlled. The threat of death is there one way or another. Has been all along.

One moment I feel empty. Free. As though I can breathe for the first time in five days. I can relax the grip on my aura without fear I’m opening myself to anyone.

But the next, I’m stressed beyond imagining. All I can think about is what sort of reaction Garthelle is having. No doubt he can feel the change. Feel the void, the lack. Is he upset, concerned I’ve been injured or killed? Does he suspect what I’ve done? If so, I can easily imagine a replay of that barely-tamed rage from our first encounter. Or will he express pleasure, be relieved I’ve taken this measure? I don’t know the vamp well enough to tip the outcome one way or the other.

The limo lurches as it hits a pothole, bringing me back to my surroundings.

Muscle glances at me and then returns to focusing on the seat.

Jhez is staring at me. The concern on her face reminds me of a detailed sand etching on glass. She looks away, out the vehicle’s tinted window, refrains from commenting though I can feel her desire to. Palpable, the throb against my aura.

She wants to offer more empty reassurances, but I’ve no interest in them anymore. I’ve every intention of surviving this, and making sure my twin does too. The limo eases to a stop and then the door opens. I nod in thanks to the driver as I climb out, then glance back. “It’ll be fine, Jhez. If I have to drop an anvil on his head, it will be.”

Her bark of laughter eases the strain of tension a few notches. The vamp’s butler—why have I never heard his name uttered anywhere—glares at me, the chill in his gaze palpable, as he holds the front door open. Garthelle is waiting in the large foyer. Something in his stance, the tension in his shoulders as he clasps his hands behind his back, suggests our arrival interrupted a prolonged bout of pacing.

The Monsieur of York turns slowly, pivoting on the ball of his foot in a precise sort of movement reminiscent of soldiers. It screams of excessive self-discipline. Self-restraint.

He studies us, still as a marble statue draped in black.

Jhez shrugs her pack from her shoulder and holds it in front of her stomach, a crude and impromptu shield against the storm on the verge of erupting. Her movement draws his gaze and he blinks. I wonder if he’s only now registering her presence.

“Red. So good to see you. I collected some documented correlations and was hoping you would review them for me. In my office.” His gaze flicks to the butler standing off to one side, and the man gives a half-bow before motioning my sister to accompany him. “And you.” The tense stillness of his gaze is a reflection of his physical demeanor. “It seems we have a few matters to discuss. Come.”

Jhez’s stride falters as she looks back over her shoulder. I shake my head, a subtle, curt movement. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ll hold my own against him for now. Determined to. Failure isn’t really an option.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Monsieur.” I search his features for something, anything. The vampire pivots and walks off down the far corridor, certain I’ll heel like the Nightwalker dog I’ve lived as for the greater span of my life. It makes me want to gnash my teeth.

It’s how I survive, but it’s
not
what I am. It never will be. I follow him despite that.

The room he leads me to is a combination library and study. Here, the natural stone of the ancient castle is hidden behind layers of insulation and plaster. A machine churns in the corner, and I realize that he’s turned the entire room—it’s not small by any measure—into the book equivalent of a humidor. Environment perfectly regulated for the preservation of priceless tomes ensconced in floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted shelves. I’ve not seen such a collection since before the war. This is a library worthy of the castle that
Dragulhaven
once was. A smile curls my mouth as I tilt my head and read a few titles. No doubt they’re all first editions, autographed, each one worth a small fortune.

The door gives a soft click behind me and the sound draws me from my scrutiny. When I turn, Garthelle is hovering a breath away, and I flinch back. His brows arch up as if my reaction is unexpected.

“May I assume,” he begins slowly, his voice a low rumble, “since you’re very much alive and well, that you’ve
shot yourself up
”—the phrase drips from his lips in a snarl—“with some street drug popular amongst Nightwalkers?”

My brows pull together over the bridge of my nose, and I hate him for inciting such a reaction from me. “More than one, actually. What of it? It negates the unnatural aural connection. And in part, the necessity for your
demonstration of restraint
.” The phrase seems to hang in the air, almost corporeal. There. I said it. Now it’s his move. Pawn or queen?

He steps forward, cutting away the distance between us. Despite the abrupt nature of his actions, the precise and disciplined ambiance of his behavior, the thread of tension thrumming along the line of his shoulders, his face gives nothing away. Garthelle has certainly mastered the art of discretion.

“Do you think so?” A hint of unreadable emotion taints his whisper. A faint scent, a suggestion of something indistinguishable, tickles my olfactory memories. “Chi-thief. In just a few more days, the week will have expired and my guests will have departed. Yet this investigation will still stand. Our agreement will demand renegotiation. You think to return to the streets? Right now, you’re a hole to me—a void without signature or resonance of any kind. You might be safe.” His gaze flickers as he watches me closely. Too closely. “But can you ensure this state of invisibility in the future? Were I you, I’d be very certain. If you can’t, I may just finish what I started. Less hassle that way. Won’t be anything to stop me.”

Knight, then. Circling He’s outmaneuvered me, aiming straight and true for my greatest weakness: freedom. I have no idea how long it will take the aural sympathy to expire. No idea how long I’d have to mask it. I stare at him, unable to breathe, unable to think, incapable of forming a single sound—let alone a witty and coherent rejoinder. He has me, thoroughly. I know he’s correct and can’t think of a single way around it.

Yet none of that will stop me from shooting up. There’s no way I’m willing to hand him such control. Not without a fight. Perhaps the drugs will encourage the dissipation of whatever is sustaining the pull, through severance and alienation if nothing else, however artificial.

I might be fantastically demented to hold out such a hope. But I do. And life has honed me into a complete
starrkopf
, as my fellow ’walkers are so quick to remind me. Not always in the fondest tone, either. I can tell the coming weeks will be an enduring battle of wills. No black and white sides here. I study the vampire. Just Black . . . and blacker.

I don’t believe Garthelle
would throw me away so easily. The impression builds and solidifies as I watch him, the intensity of emotions in his body language. Sacrificing pawns without purpose is the mark of an amateur. The Monsieur of York is far from that. “What’s stopping you from doing that right now? You’re not pleased with this development. Or with me.”

Garthelle takes a step back. And then another, as if abruptly aware of my proximity. “What leads you to that conclusion?”

I wonder how long I can goad him into retreating. “You seem disturbed.”

“Disturbed by the sudden inability to sense your very existence?” He turns away. “Indeed. I would not put it past my opposition to facilitate such.”

“And you’re unbalanced by the prospect of my death. At hands other than yours, I presume.”

He glances at me, a quick furtive look over his shoulder, prey fleeing unflappable pursuit. “No.”

“Because that, as I recall, was the alternative you initially offered me.” I don’t succeed in keeping the rough edge of resentment out of my voice. “My death. By your own hand.”

And that marks the extent of his retreat. Garthelle turns back and faces me, arms folded loosely across his chest. “Your point being?”

“I want to know why you’re so concerned over the welfare of a mere gutter trawler.” That’s the phrase I heard bantered around last night by the
altes Geld lyche.
They dislike the term “vampire” but are oblivious to the offense caused by the epithets they use just as freely.

He laughs, dark brows arching up his forehead. “Such knowledge you desire. At what cost?” He tilts his head as though hoping an altered perspective will help. “All the ugliness in the world, my dear innocent, lurks in the shadows, in the most obvious—and humble—of hiding places. Don’t go rooting around unless you’re prepared to live with the consequences of what your curiosity drags into the light.”

“And what if I am, Garthelle? What then?” Brazen of me to address him in such a manner. The vampire halts in his progress toward the door but doesn’t turn back.

“Then I would ask what motivates you.” He turns his head a fraction. Brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. Wary, defensive.

“The desire to understand isn’t enough?”

His head lifts slightly. “What is it you desire to understand? Psychology? Sociology? Politics? I am teaching you what I can, you and Red both. It cannot possibly be absorbed in a single afternoon.”

I hesitate, not entirely understanding my own motivation, deep down. He’s right; nothing is simple with them. It’s not “brooding”; it’s “the contemplative assimilation of one’s reflections on individual sentiment and the profound existential implications.”

I think he knows better than me what I’m after. I also believe he’ll continue refusing me until I become aware of it, at least enough to state it.

Perhaps it’s Garthelle—
Leonard
—I actually wish to understand.

I stare at some indefinite point on the shagged carpeting between us, and the vampire turning to confront me registers as a blur of movement. I look up and feel my eyes widen at his expression of disbelief. Heat crawls up my neck, choking me like a vine of ivy strangling the life from a tree.

“I . . . ah . . . wh—” I give up, swallow roughly, and try again. “I said that out loud, didn’t I.” Not really a question. I can’t think of anything I possibly could’ve said to elicit such a reaction from him.

“Indeed.” The fingers of his left hand twitch, dangling loosely beside his thigh.
Fuck.
He starts to smile, but it fades away so swiftly I wonder if it was just a figment of my imagination.

“I think Red has been left to her own devices long enough.” And just like that, Garthelle turns back to the door, smoothly detouring around my entire
faux pas
.

Jhez looks up from her perch on the edge of Garthelle’s desk when we enter his office. Judging from the glint in her eye and the loosening of her mouth and shoulders, she’s relieved that I’m visibly intact and none the worse for wear. Her attention returns quickly to the small collection of papers in her hand.

“Come look at this.” There’s strain in her voice that I suspect has nothing to do with her previous concerns, now allayed. “These genealogies . . . are . . .” Her statement trails off unfinished. I move to stand at her side.

Scrawled across the top in bold font is the name “Noire.”

The current generation fans out at the far right, and veins of gold track to the left like glowing rivulets tracing backward from the mouth of a river delta. Judging from the dates in small font beneath each entry, the large page follows the family to its origins over a thousand years before.

It’s mind-numbing to look at.

Trying to comprehend the implications borders on dizzying. A collection of colored symbols scatter the page, notations referencing missing information.

Vincent Noire IV m. Alennia Fillun, ch. Caitlin, Andre, Vincent V.

I try to swallow, to breathe. Neither happens.

Soiphe Noire. Kathryne Noire. Alexandre Noire.

Siblings. More than just one. More than just the echo of our father staring at me from sightless eyes. And children.
Three of them.