Byzantine Heartbreak (11 page)

 
“Why did you refuse him? Surely, you wanted him to stay, too?”

Ryan put his glass down and stared at it. “Of course I did. Who would not? Salathiel, the human Salathiel...” He rubbed at the bar with his thumb, removing a particle that only he could see. “Lathe was a different man, when he was human. Full of life, laughter, joy. He always had a plan for the day, a scheme. A way to bring novelty or spontaneity into it. For a vampire who has seen too many days, that was a remarkable thing.”

“Then why not turn him?” Cáel asked gently.

“No one deserves to become one of us,” Ryan replied. “It’s not a gift.” He lifted his head, drank his shot and turned to look at Cáel. There was a deep bitterness in his face. Pain. Sadness. And for a moment, Cáel caught a glimpse of the long years and centuries Ryan had passed through in the weariness in his eyes.

“Immortality is not a gift?” Cáel asked.

“It’s not immortality,” Ryan replied. “We can still die. We just go on, unchanging, until we do. After long enough, that unchanging state can grow to be unbearable.”

“And that is why you refused?”

Ryan picked up his glass. “I thought it would be enough for Lathe that we didn’t want him to suffer the pain and loss we had to suffer, but he was a stubborn, wily son-of-a-bitch. He went and found himself another vampire and set up a blood pact. She got to feed from him until he died,
gratis
. In exchange, she would turn him when he died. He didn’t tell either me or Nia and for the next five years, we thought the matter had been shelved.”

“Then he died,” Cáel concluded. “When the Turks broke through the walls.”

“Fourteen fifty-three.” Ryan sighed. “It took the invention of gunpowder to bring the walls down and we were so complacent, sitting behind them. We never thought anyone would get through. Well, serves us right. The Turks killed anyone of influence those three days they sacked the city.”

Cáel’s shock made him jerk. “You?” he breathed. “Nia?”

Ryan nodded. “Their version of killing us was to push a sword through our guts, which didn’t do more than tickle either of us, but we had to pretend to die, right alongside Salathiel.” Ryan frowned. His hand, Cáel realized, was gripping his glass hard enough to make the knuckles whiten, even though he was speaking casually. “Once it was dark, we pulled Salathiel out of the pile of bodies and tried to steal out of the city. That was when—well,
she
turned up and insisted she abide by her bargain with Salathiel.”

“And you let her?”

“It was a blood promise. We could not put obstacles in her way.”

Cáel leaned closer. “Did you
want
to, Ryan?”

Ryan took a deep breath. Then another. “No,” he said, his voice low. He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Cáel silently refilled his glass.

“Politics has a lot to do with timing,” Cáel said firmly, lifting his voice a little to compete over the sound of the raucous jazz and the audience that were clearly enjoying it.

Ryan snorted and filled his glass again. “Your timing is off. I’m up one shot on you. Drink.”

Cáel picked up the glass. “Take your vampire rights, just as a for instance. You will never get full rights while the current president is in office.”

“Which president are we talking about?”

Cáel laughed. “The only one with any real power left. Worlds Assembly.”

“Him?” Ryan picked the bottom of Cáel’s glass up and hoisted it up to Cáel’s mouth, assisting Cáel’s grip.

Cáel drank and cleared his throat. The whiskey had stopped burning with each mouthful by the top of the second bottle. Now it just tasted very smooth and mellow.

“Why’d’you say that?” Ryan asked. “He’s a good man.”

“’cause he’s a vamp hater,” Cáel replied. He shook his head. “A great man, ‘cept for he’s flawed.”

Ryan was staring at him. “That’s...he comes off like he’s Henry Kissinger. How could you know that?”

Cáel shrugged. “We were lovers for nearly a year. Then I found out.” He shuddered and drank. He reached for the bottle to refill and realized that Ryan was still staring at him.

“Lovers? You?” Ryan said.

“Think you’ve got a corner on the market, Irishman?” Cáel topped up Ryan’s glass. “Not everyone goes for poetic lilts, you know.”

Ryan half-laughed. He picked up his drink. “So...what is this, then? Are we on a date?”

Cáel’s stomach seemed to drop out from his body with a sickening, electrifying rush. It had nothing to do with the whiskey. He let his hand drop away from the glass and looked at Ryan, wishing his heart would quieten. “Do you want it to be?”

Ryan was sitting motionless in the chair, the forgotten whiskey glass held in mid-air. His eyes were narrowed, all emotion shielded. After a moment, he gave a tiny shrug and his mouth lifted in a little smile. “You’ve gotta know, Stelios, I haven’t had a lover for centuries. Not since—“

“Bullshit,” Cáel replied.

Ryan’s eyes widened, losing their guarded expression. The surprise was quite clear. He put his glass back on the bar.

Cáel didn’t give him time to pull his defence shield back together. “You’ve had plenty of liaisons and partners and a ton of sex and that’s just in the 23rd century that Lyle Bean could find out about. Do you want me to actually name names?”

Ryan opened his mouth to speak.

Cáel jumped in again. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because you’re hiding behind a distinction. You don’t mind hot sweaty sex with whoever appeals to you whenever you feel like it, but what you really mean when you say you haven’t had a lover in centuries is that you haven’t
fallen in love.
You haven’t had a relationship that lasted longer than a week.
You haven’t had the guts to try and that’s pretty sad, isn’t it?”

Ryan was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed with anger. But that was a natural reaction. Cáel had just kicked him in the guts. Now he had to get him past the moment.

Cáel knocked back his drink and put the glass on the bar with a rap. “Let’s get rid of the tap-dancing, because we both know how to do it too well and we could talk me into a too-early grave with diplomatic waltzing.” He took a breath, to steady himself. “Do I want to fuck you, Ryan? Yes.”

Ryan drew in a sharp, quick breath.

Cáel ploughed on, not giving him a chance to speak. “But I’m not interested in becoming another statistic so you can prove to yourself how long and lonely your life is.”

Ryan’s backhand was fast, but Cáel had been braced for a physical reaction and got his hand up in time to block Ryan’s fist. He grabbed his wrist and wrenched his arm back down to the bar, pinning it there.

They froze together in that position, Cáel holding Ryan down. Ryan was breathing heavily. “You son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“You’re human here,” Cáel told him. “You think I’m going to just let you take a swing at me?”

“Even human, I’m stronger. I
should
be stronger.” But Cáel was the one holding him down.

“I’ve had ninety-three years to build muscle and strength, Ryan and I’ve
used
those years.” Cáel stepped back and let Ryan’s wrist go. “What have you done with your time?”

Ryan rubbed his wrist. “It’s not the same for us,” he muttered.

Cáel shook his head. “There’s always a fucking excuse, isn’t there?” He looked around, at the packed bar, at the people trying hard not to watch them, at the drinkers watching them with open curiosity, maybe wondering if they would fight. “How the hell do I get out of here?” he asked, suddenly tired, drained of energy and more than ready to go home.

He spotted the big double doors with their elegant wood blinds. “You can pay the tab,” he told Ryan and headed for them. He had a sudden urgent need for fresh air. Air would cool his heated body and let him think about how to pick up the pieces of this disaster he had created.

And he thought he could hold his liquor.
Ha
!

Chapter Ten

Rome, 95 B.C.

A Roman patrician party was an experience to remember. Demyan had never had reason to get himself invited to one before and after thirty minutes wondered why he had not bothered until now.

The entire house had been thrown open to the guests and featured room after room of exquisitely painted walls and coloured fabric draping furniture, scented candles, cushions and tables groaning under the weight of the food. There were people everywhere. Walking, standing, lying on couches, eating, making love and not a few of them bathing together in the deep family bath at the centre of the house.

Household slaves slithered between the bodies, providing more trays of food and drink and anything else the patricians and their guests might want.

There was even soft music playing, lutes and harps strumming in the background.

“The more things change...” Demyan muttered in common language to Jane Alexander.

“Where is she?” Jane returned. She was almost vibrating with excitement.

“Don’t forget, you’re the wife of a patrician. You should be looking as bored as the other wives here,” Demyan warned softly.

They stepped back into the room that seemed to be the hub of affairs. It was large, colonnaded and featured a small open square in the centre of the roof. The courtyard.

“That’s her,” Demyan murmured, nodding his head toward a dumpy matron sitting on a broad couch, another younger women beside her, chatting with their heads together.

“What makes you so sure?” Jane whispered back.

“The head slave is standing right behind her, so she must be the domina.”

Jane’s lip curled down. “She looks nothing like they said.”

“History is subjective,” Demyan returned. He’d seen this type of response in clients before. “‘Great beauty’ could merely mean she had all her own teeth and therefore had an attractive smile.”

“That? That’s the woman who held such power, who ruled over—” Jane’s eyes suddenly grew wider and she clutched Demyan’s arm. Her lips parted a little.

Demyan looked around quickly to see what had startled her, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. “What...?”

The grip on his arm tightened and Demyan realized that Jane was pulling him forward, toward the corridor that gave on to the bathing room. “What are you doing?” he muttered.

“When in Rome, hmmm?” she said.

When he dug in his heels, halting her progress, she turned to him. There was a ferocious triumph shining in her face and she pushed up against him, making him stagger back until the wall halted him. She pressed herself up against him. Dressed as she was in a fine, flowing silk robe, bared shoulders, exaggerated eye-makeup and jewellery on neck and arm and ears, she looked every inch a Roman woman and was just as dangerous as one. “Demyan, you are my hero.”

“I just do my job,” he told her and could hear for himself that his accent had grown abruptly thicker.

“You’re marvellous.” She kissed the tip of his chin. “Wonderful.” The end of his nose. “Powerful.” Her lips pressed up against his. The scent of lilacs was powerful and the soft touch of her full lips heady beyond belief. He swallowed. Her breasts were pushed against his chest.

“It would be unusual for a husband and wife to make love in public,” he told her, struggling to speak clearly.

“Then take me like you don’t care,” she said, her lips brushing his. “You vampires...you like to make love, I know. Especially when you’re back in time and your emotions are restored. You really like it then, don’t you?”

True
. He brought his hands up to her arms, curled his fingers around the slender width of them and with supreme effort, pushed her away from him.

“You meet Aurelia and we jump back home,” he gasped. His heart was pounding in his ears and, yes, his body had responded to her with almost painful intensity. He swallowed and his throat clicked with dryness. “Come. I will introduce you.”

Jane began to laugh, but there was little merriment in the sound. “You really...you really think I wanted to meet her? You fool!” She wrenched herself out of his grip, lifted her hand and slapped him across the face.

It was a minor blow, compared to those he had suffered on the battlefield and elsewhere, but the unexpectedness of it more than made up for the lack of impact. The shock slithered through him, cold and sobering.

“Who are you?” he whispered, honestly bewildered.

She stepped forward again and rested her head against his so that their temples were touching. She was breathing hard, too. “Good, yes, I can feel it. See it.” Her hand reached up to rest against his other temple. “Demyan, my fiery Russian prince, with the tormented heart and the noble thoughts. I can see everything. Feel everything. Oh, such intensity...!”

He realized that her hand was applying pressure, making sure their heads stayed in contact. He ripped her hand away, straightening up with a jerk, to look at her. “You’re...you’re psi,” he breathed.

She laughed. It was a cruel sound. “Surprise!” And abruptly, she was gone, taking his memory with her.

* * * * *

Bourbon Street, New Orleans, 2003 A.D.

Bourbon Street was filled with people. Tourists, Cáel realized. And it was blazing with lights and sound. Music spilled from the dozens of clubs and bars that lined the street, every time someone opened a door. Some bars had their French windows thrown open, so the music simply beckoned the passer-by in off the street.

It was chaotic. Cáel wanted room and time to think. This was not the place to be. He started walking, looking for somewhere where he could get off the main street. Somewhere quiet.

He was getting glances and stares. It took a moment for Cáel to realize that many of the lingering looks were of appreciation. Flirting. It finally sunk in that he was alone on one of the busiest streets in one of the most connected cities of twenty-first century north America. And Ryan’s people had given him clothing that matched his current status so that he wouldn’t have to adjust his usual habits and behaviour for what was supposed to be a short trip back in time.

These Louisiana natives thought they were looking at a rich New Orleans businessman in his mid-thirties. Apparently they liked what they saw.

Cáel halted, considering his options. He had learned, wandering the streets of Paris, that hoping for inspiration didn’t mean it would come to him. He had to think faster and smarter than this.

A hand gripped his elbow and yanked backwards.

Cáel reacted with well-honed and practised instincts. His mind flowed smoothly with the commands of countless instructors and masters. He let himself fall back with the pull on his arm instead of resisting it and kept moving backwards until he felt contact with the body behind him. That let him locate the attacker. The lock was on his right arm and the tug had been very slightly upwards, meaning it was probably a man, just slightly taller than him, so he turned in that direction, using the grip on his elbow as the pivot and drove his stiffened fingers into the soft tissues under the ribcage, where all the vital organs like the kidneys and solar plexus were located.

Ryan doubled over, his breath whooshing out of him like air from a bellows. He coughed and tried to breathe.

Cáel swore. He half dragged and half carried Ryan over to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned him up against the building. There was a half-pocket there, where one building ended and the next began, about eight inches back from the first.

Ryan was wheezing noisily.

“Don’t try so hard to suck the air in,” Cáel told him dryly. “You’re just stressing your diaphragm. Relax and you’ll be able to breathe better.” He glanced around, checking to see if anyone was paying any attention to them. But the merriment had rolled on undisturbed.

Ryan glared at him, but he let his breathing shallow out and his breath did come more evenly.

Cáel interpreted the glare. He scowled back. “Did you think just because I’m surrounded by armed guards at public events, I’m not going to learn how to defend myself? It only took one assassination attempt for me to figure that one out. I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” Ryan said hoarsely. “Stupid is about as far away from what you are as a man can get.” He pushed out another lungful of air. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the stars above,” he breathed, his accent suddenly pure Irish. He dropped his head back to rest it against the stonework. “I asked for that,” he acknowledged.

“Yes, you did,” Cáel agreed.

“I was going to apologize.”

“That’s a really stupid way to try,” Cáel observed. But his pulse leapt.

Ryan flattened his hand against his torso. “I know that
now
.”

His gaze met Cáel ’s.

Cáel did what he had been doing since they had jumped back to this timeline. He let his instincts guide him. He threw everything he knew about politics, strategy and psychology overboard and went with his gut and his heart.

He stepped closer to Ryan, moving out of the constant stream of people brushing past them. It brought their thighs almost within contact.

“Cáel—” Ryan began.

“Shh...” Cáel told him. He let his fingers curve around Ryan’s neck. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

He inhaled Ryan’s shuddering gasp of shock as he kissed him.

It was a powerful kiss. Cáel could feel want and emotion surging in response to it, making his body tighten and throb.

Ryan’s hand, trapped between them, turned and gripped Cáel’s shirt, drawing him closer.

“Get a room, you fucking freaks!” someone groused as they went by.

Cáel stepped back, his heart racing, his breath ragged.

“Good advice, especially for here and now,” Ryan said breathlessly.

“There’s your place,” Cáel suggested. “That’s what all the other keys are for, isn’t it?”

Ryan shook his head as he dug into his trouser pocket. The front of his trousers, Cáel noticed, were as swollen and bulging as his own. Cáel swallowed as his pulse seemed to lodge in his throat. “You’re a constant surprise, Cáel. Why is it some Greek heiress hasn’t nailed you to the marriage altar long before now and had you sire a dozen copies just like you?”

“
Too
smart, I guess,” Cáel replied. “Or too stupid. I never did figure that one out.”

The studio apartment was above the jazz bar, further confirming in Cáel’s mind the personal connection between Ryan and the bar. With the sound of a mournful trumpet filtering up from below the stairs, Ryan flipped on lights, using a manual light switch set in the wall by the door.

The apartment was neat and impersonal. “I only use it when I’m here on Friday nights.” Ryan said. “The bar staff keep it clean during the week.”

“Convenient.” Cáel saw actual printed books on a shelf over the bed. “Are those real books?” He headed for the shelf, wanting to pick them up and check them out. He only got three paces across the highly polished hardwood floor when Ryan’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“Later,” Ryan said. He turned Cáel to face him. There was a glittering, intense emotion in his eyes. “I’m very sober now, thanks to your chop in the gut.”

“Why do you say that?” Cáel asked.

“Later, you’ll start to ask yourself if my judgement was fried because of liquor and human feelings I couldn’t handle, or if you applied too much pressure.”

“I don’t second guess myself that way,” Cáel told him.

“This time, you will,” Ryan said with complete certainty colouring his voice. He rested his hands on Cáel’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. “The answer, when you do ask yourself, is ‘no’.”

“I’ll remember that. Why will I need to?”

“Later, Cáel. First, there’s something I need to do.” Ryan tossed his keys onto the small table next to the door and turned back to face him. He simply stood, looking at him and Cáel realized that he had been right all along. Fear had Ryan pinned like a moth to the board and as much as he was struggling to break free of its constraints, he couldn’t take that last step. Six centuries of dedication were confining him.

Cáel watched him struggle. He let him do it. But when the torture had extended for long enough, Cáel picked up his hand. “You can’t do it, can you?”

Tears glistened in Ryan’s eyes. “Not by myself,” he said hoarsely. Honestly.

“Do you really want to, Ryan?” And Cáel held his breath.

Ryan was trembling. Cáel could feel it through his hand, which lay passively in his. Ryan lifted his head to look up at the ceiling, like it might give him inspiration. Then back at Cáel. “I think...with you...for the first time since Salathiel...since Nayara...” He blew out his breath. “
Críost
, I can’t even
say
it—”

Cáel stepped forward and silenced him with a kiss. “You don’t have to say it, Ryan. No one ever gives guarantees. They just promise to try.”

Ryan caught Cáel’s face in his hands. “I will try,” he said. “I can do that.” He returned the kiss, but his kiss was not to stopper fear or silence words. The sensual curve of his lips pressed against Cáel’s mouth with hungry passion and his tongue pressed past, to sweep inside. Cáel tasted lingering whiskey.