Blacker than Black (11 page)

Gaia save me, I need coffee if I have to deal with vampires this early in the morning. I chafe a hand over my face and massage the bridge of my nose. Garthelle turns away abruptly, throwing the bed sheets off his legs to sit on the edge. With his back to me, shoulders hunched, forehead cradled in his hands, elbows settled on his silk-clad knees.

The sinuous line of his back is a jagged yet symmetrically beautiful mountain range of bone beneath taut flesh. He’s right. As experienced as I am at walking the boulevard, I have no knowledge at all of their culture, society, stigmas, or way of life. I am as ignorant as the day I pawned a portion of chi off to my first john. It’s easy to lay the blame for it in his lap, fault him for submersing me so thoroughly in a world I have, as he so aptly observed, no knowledge of whatsoever. Thus far I’ve existed only on the fringes. And he has plunged me into the heart of it, baptizing me with pain and suffering.

Garthelle lowers his hands, dangling them limply between his knees, and turns to look at me over his shoulder. The tense lines in his features convey a wealth of emotions I have no capacity to translate, but his yellow eyes are soft as he studies me.

In a flurried invasion, the vampire’s butler hustles into the adjoining room. Accompanying his arrival is a fanfare of raised voices and tense alarm from the hallway.

“What is it?” Garthelle’s brusque tone makes me turn away, closing my eyes.

“Your presence is required, Monsieur.” The man pauses. “It seems one of the guests has a slight problem needing your attention.” Even I can see the butler’s wording is deliberately mild.

“Give me a moment.” I wonder if the man picks up on Garthelle’s strained patience as easily as I do. The door clicks shut and the bed shifts slightly as he stands. “Up. Dress yourself. You’re coming with me.”

Sitting up in small increments, I watch the vampire slide into a simple shirt of white silk and rest my forearms on my raised knees. He glances at me, his expression blank, before straightening the drape of the silk with practiced motions.

“I’m not certain I understand.” I key my voice low, not wanting to irritate him further. Because deference is the greater part of valor, or some such. Or is that discretion? Big difference, shame I can’t recall. Mother used to spout such drivel. At the moment, however, I’m acutely aware of the precarious situation in which I exist. I divert my eyes to the bedcovers, pulling at their slick material with nervous fingers when Garthelle grabs for the black slacks draped on his dressing table.

“You are my eyes and ears. I expect you’ll hear or see details I’m likely to overlook.” His tone is firm, flat. Makes the back of my scalp twinge to hear it, as if I can still feel his fist knotted in my hair. The matter is not open to discussion.

This is ridiculous. Yet I toss back the bedcovers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, then pull my clothes on. I’m wary of inciting an argument, of resisting the demands of the man who owns me now. Sensitive to my limitations, I stay seated on the edge of the bed until standing is necessary to tug the slacks up over my hips. My legs feel like insubstantial rubber weakened by prolonged exposure to sunlight.

Garthelle waits at the door, watching me in silence, hands buried casually in his pockets. His gaze flicks over me critically and I get the impression he observed my progress in excruciating detail. “Your sister said she would stop by this afternoon to check on you.”

I nod, but don’t feel words are necessary. Despite my semi-lucid state the evening before, I clearly recall her comments. They spoke for themselves, despite Jhez’s cryptic nature.

Please, give me a reason to trust you.

Only one door along the corridor is open, gaping the room’s innards to public view. A huddled collection of observers loiter near the narrow doorway, either denied entrance or lacking the nerve.

Garthelle pauses a moment to study them. Then I feel his aura flare, a brief spike of energy. As one, the small crowd of vampires turns and faces him, clearing a path.

Impressive, I decide, trailing after him. This composite slice of vampire society that’s descended upon
Dragulhaven
has some strange notions about demonstrating respect, hierarchy, and power. They defer to him now, yet last night more than one blatantly disregarded his limitations. Is there a nuance I’ve not yet identified? Is this beautiful vampire with a cruel streak in possession of more than one contradiction? Or perhaps the difference has to do with the fact that last night their disobedience revolved around me and Jhez. The notorious chi-thieves, put on display. That’s not all of it, though. Ferdinand, in particular, comes to mind. And Desmonde.

Is it possible the vampires perceive humans to be even lower than I initially assumed? My expectations were low. Very low. To think I aimed high is horrendously depressing. And makes me feel cold. I hug myself as I pass through the flanking ranks of vampires, not caring if I appear uncomfortable or self-conscious. I’m both. And they expect me to be weak, so they’re not likely to even notice.

I’m also feeling like a convict who just received a conditional stay of execution on the whimsical fancy of someone wielding more power than they’re aware of. Which is, fundamentally, precisely what I am. Except Garthelle is acutely aware of the power he possesses. It’s simply that I’m only now beginning to appreciate the breadth of it. Becoming rather intimate with what his control of this metro—and all of York territory—means, exactly.

I check my pace at a surge of profound reaction emanating from Garthelle. His aura is cool, still, ice-blue. I barely avoid slamming into his back and steady myself with a hand on his arm.

He stands three strides into the room, a monolith of stunned immobility. Given the fact that I’m practically breathing down the back of his neck, his shoulders are broad enough to block my view. I sidestep.

Bile swells up the back of my throat.

The nubile form of a woman—Soiphe, my aunt—stares at me from the bed with colorless eyes in a translucent face. Both scream of energy drain. A torturous method of expiration, even when swiftly executed. If not for that, she could be sleeping; curled on her side, her arms and legs bent into comfortable poses. Except for those eyes and the contortion of some inconceivable expression in her last moments.

Her black hair fans out over the crumpled ivory sheets, and it hits me.

Gaia. I didn’t even get a chance to do more than meet my aunt, and vicariously at that. Any chance I had of getting to know her was drained away hours ago.

I pivot immediately, presenting my back to the morbid display. My gaze flicks over the curious observers still loitering in the doorway.

“Who found her?” I need something, anything, to distract me from the image freshly emblazoned in my mind. Not a single vampire bothers acknowledging me. Their attention doesn’t waver from Garthelle.

“Answer his questions,” he snarls.

The silence stretches out for another heartbeat.

“We came together,” one says finally. His pale blue eyes don’t turn in my direction. I can’t blame him. Here I am, a Nightwalker straight off the boulevard. What am I doing? I don’t have the first clue what questions to ask.

Because, as Garthelle so kindly pointed out, I don’t know half of what I think I do. And I know next to nothing about vampires. No, not vampires
.
What was the term he used yesterday?
Lyche.

“Did any of you enter the room, touch anything, when you arrived?” That gets their attention. As one their heads swivel toward me, brows furrowing in confused frowns.

“No, we did not.”

“Monsieur?” I turn only enough to catch a glimpse of Garthelle’s profile. “Is it possible to sense any sort of energy residue on her?”

His shoulders twitch, but he turns to face me after a moment. “Yes, it is. Though whether the signature can be identified is another matter altogether.”

“Is there some service you can call to handle the investigation?” Obviously it’s not suicide. And I’m far from qualified for this sort of thing, in my personal opinion.

“There is.” One corner of his mouth twitches up in an empty grin. His gaze shifts past me to the five loitering
lyche
. “Return to your respective suites, if you would. Do not talk to anyone. Do not discuss this. I will speak with each of you when I’m done here.”

Their departure is immediate. They just turn and leave as one. A wheeling murder of ravens.

I study Garthelle, take in his features, his body language, looking for any trace of what I’m missing. Because I really don’t understand.

He glances at me, a lopsided smirk pulling his lips. It makes his face resemble one of those dramatic masks. The yellow eyes are cold, hard, unresponsive.

“Ironic, don’t you think,” he says, glancing at the bed, “that I’m the one responsible for supervising investigations of this nature.” He moves toward Soiphe’s inanimate form with palpable reluctance, hands braced on his hips.

“Don’t you have a team of assistants at your disposal?” Seems there’s a blatant conflict of interest here. Dead body of one of his peers, on his property and all.

His head swivels as he scans the entire room, even the ceiling. “Not for this sort of thing. With
lyche
, the process more closely resembles the culinary art. The more hands involved, the less likely one is to uncover the truth.”

“For what sort of thing?” I blurt the question while struggling to wrap my brain around it. I’m still half-asleep here. Coffee wouldn’t be entirely remiss. “A death? Or the possibility of a deliberate act as opposed to an accidentally excessive theft?”

“Our nature tends toward the devious.” His shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m not the sole person overseeing such matters within the metro. If I were, I’d never find time to sleep.”

Even chefs have assistants. In large restaurants, they have many. I’m still confused.

Garthelle pivots to face me and folds his arms across his chest. “One of the other reasons, I think, that I’ll be grateful for your employ.”

What does he think we are, the Black & Red Detective Agency?
Fuck
. “I’m sure my sister and I would be of some assistance to you in dealing with our own kind in this matter—”

He studies me with a hooded gaze, but the yellow eyes burn into me all the same. Either that or Garthelle’s emotions are slipping their leash. “I don’t concern myself with such. This victim is
lyche
.”

The enormity of it hits me, then.
Someone drained a
vampire
.
The thought screams in my head like one of the e-mag hovertrains hurtling through the metro. I try to wrap my head around that for a few moments, the influx of energy it would entail—the caustic sensation that burned through me with just a sliver filched from Garthelle, multiplied indefinitely.

Images slam into my head, a hundred Nightwalkers and more I’ve seen over the years, discarded in the gutters, lifeless and drained to the dregs. Nobody cared because they weren’t
lyche
? The need to vomit almost overrides everything else and I close my eyes in an attempt to calm down. My thoughts are all over the board. This is not going well.

I need to focus.

Wait just a second.

“You’re willing to completely rule out any measure of . . . human involvement?” Assumptions can be dangerous disabilities to one’s perception. Garthelle proved as much to me not very long ago. Left me curled in a ball on the floor, begging for mercy.

A black brow arches up his forehead. “A
lyche
drained in this fashion does not suggest human involvement. Such a conclusion seems safe to me.”

“And so it would appear.” Not direct involvement, at least. But I’m not really interested in arguing with him. The sooner he lets me leave this room, the better we’ll all be. “What of the signature?”

“It’s not immediately familiar.”

“And who does that rule out?”

“Everyone currently within the walls of
Dragulhaven
.”

I mirror his surprised, doubtful expression. “Another broad assumption, I think. The presence of the corpse suggests otherwise.”

He smiles. “I doubt whomever is responsible would linger for the purpose of amusing themselves with our investigative process.”

“An assassination, then? Or is this the accepted definition of
lyche
punishment?” Seems a safe assumption. It’s no less than he threatened me with, after all. So casually done.

Garthelle’s body tenses, hands resting on his upper arms, grip looking painfully tight. “It is one form of judicial punishment,” he admits, glancing over his shoulder. “But this would not be the venue of choice.”

I force myself to look at my aunt’s face, try to dredge up details from the previous evening, but my memories are vague, slurred into hazy, dim recollections by lowered energy levels. And I’m too tired.

“Who is she, then?” It’s becoming obvious that the Monsieur of York is indulging my simple line of questioning in hopes it will spark . . . something. I suspect who she is to me, but in his circle that means nothing. And I have no way to confirm my instinct.

“She is the Madame of Venice, Soiphe Noire. You’ll recall her, I think. She wasn’t scheduled to be in attendance. Her appearance last night was unexpected.”