Blacker than Black (18 page)

I manage to suppress my shock. Now is certainly not the time or place for me to stare at Garthelle. Even if I’m sorely curious as to why he’d abandon his Modere strictures, as Soiphe called them, simply to see justice served. Clearing my throat, I tuck a stray clump of hair behind my ear and rub absently at the nape of my neck. “So then, it would seem she came prepared specifically to . . . court an alliance with you. Or is your preference widely known?”

Alyn’s dark eyes narrow. “It is not.”

I recall Desmonde all too well. The hostility toward Soiphe, the hard edge of the
lyche’s
aura in mine. “Who else did you visit with during the evening?”

Alyn’s irritation increases visibly, back stiffening, shoulders squaring. Not that the
lyche
wasn’t ramrod straight to begin with. “In what manner, visit? I spoke with fully half of those in attendance. Shall I name them all for you? I’m certain I will miss a few.”

The sarcasm isn’t lost on Jhez, and my twin doesn’t hesitate to thrust it right back in equal measure. “Just the ones you sought to form relationships with. Or those who specifically sought you out. I think that’ll suffice. For now.”

Garthelle taps a silent rhythm against the leather arm with his right hand, fingers moving in a flashing wave. I wonder if he has any formal piano training, because the rhythm isn’t repetitive or random. It looks as though he’s playing music in his head, and if I’d just reach out with a tendril of energy, I’d be able to hear it as well.

“My brother Edmund, albeit briefly. The Durram twins, though I declined their offers. Ardienne of Orleans. ’Moiselle Ferdinand. And Andre Farken. At least, I believe that’s what his name was. That was after the ferrets though, if I’m not mistaken, so I cannot be entirely certain as to whether my recollection is accurate.”

“You sought out your brother to forge an alliance?” After all Garthelle has explained, I think I’m really missing something. Even making the assumption that the Durrams are the exception instead of the rule, I struggle with a
lyche’s
acceptance of that level of intimacy with a blood relation. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of mirroring on them a human cultural taboo. I was too distracted that evening to more than notice them. And too abhorred by the unprofessional behavior of the ’walker they shared.

“Armonie circle maintains a standard secondary alliance with Modere. Individually, though, we’re free to forge closer bonds. But he approached me for a slightly different purpose. A business merger. Something about port cities and feeding the source. He was babbling nonsense, which was disturbing now that I think about it. Rather early in the evening for it.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure. Babbling about port cities, and you go straight to the Madame of Orleans?” Jhez straightens beside me, shoulder brushing my elbow.

“Child, I fail to see what my business dealings and professional alliances have to do with the death of Soiphe Noire.” The corner of my sister’s eye twitches at the utterance of our surname.

“Madame of Venice, yet another territory ruled by a port city.” Garthelle’s tone is bland, salmon on a bed of rice without any spices. “The connection is not lost on me.”

Alyn blanches, eyes widening. “Monsieur, I promise you. This is not at all what you perceive it to be! My ethics forbid it, just as yours do. Armonie is much the same—‘take nothing not freely given,’ yes?” Alyn rises from the couch, pacing off across the room with stiff strides. Generously increasing the distance between the two
lyche
. “The undercurrent you suggest is purely circumstantial, nothing more. I bear no ill will against Noire.”

Jhez’s eye twitches yet again. I think we both need some space to come to terms with just how often we’re going to be hearing our sire’s surname bandied casually about.

“It would behoove you to engage my generous hospitality for another day or so.” The Monsieur of York speaks softly, rising from the armchair with slow, deliberate movements. He inclines his torso a fraction, a sketchy bow in the younger Fillun’s direction. “Until circumstances are clarified to my satisfaction. Good evening, Alyn.”

I chafe my hands over my biceps as I step out into the hall and turn back toward the door. The slide of satin against skin soothes my frayed nerves, tactile sensation to distract me from the jumble of thoughts in my head. Jhez pauses to stand at my shoulder without turning around.

“Cats?” she whispers, sounding incredulous. I can feel her studying my profile as I watch the room. The two
lyche
, staring at each other, a gulf of space between. Neither one saying anything, nor making a move. An invisible battle of wills? I could feel Alyn’s aural energy earlier, but now there’s just nothing. They could be mundane humans for all I know.

“Am I missing something? Or are they just having a staring contest.”

She turns her head further, looking back. “Something going on with their auras. Couldn’t say what, though. Certainly doesn’t look . . . friendly.” I guess my words sink in, then, because she frowns at me, brow creased in a deep furrow. “The hell, you mean you can’t see that?”

I shake my head. “Started earlier. Felt like someone turned down the contrast on the television. Now? I get nothing. They could be any two regular Joes off the street.” The random human gutter trawlers that approach us thinking we sell sex to our clients, thinking we’ll sell it to them.

Alyn eases back. It’s only a fraction of an inch, but the tense aggression immediately bleeds from Garthelle’s posture. “Vows and allegiances alone cannot absolve you of suspicion.” His tone doesn’t sound chastising, not to my ears, but there’s no mistaking the heated blush crawling up Alyn’s neck and cheeks suddenly. The
lyche
looks away, hiding not just from the Monsieur of York but from us as well. Right. Another first to add to the list—an embarrassed
lyche
.

Garthelle joins us in the hall, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, not bothering to button his jacket. “We can visit Desmonde next. This little intrigue they have going on might be completely unrelated, but I’m not certain I want to risk dismissing it just yet.”

“Uh, one quick question, please,” I say, turning to match his stride as he starts off down the hall. Wasting no time. He glances over, nods. “Cats?” Jhez’s shoulder bumps against mine, hand sliding down my arm, fingers gently encircling my wrist. The comfort of touch, unspoken support.

“I do believe I mentioned my Modere alignment.” So nonchalant, his tone, as he waves a hand in the direction of a cross corridor, veering to the right. A large Manx comes bounding down the hall toward him, sheathed claws silent on the flagstones. The feline curls about him as he walks, not hindering in the least, and purrs loud enough for the sound to echo off the unadorned walls.

“Yes, you did. But neither of us understood what that meant. And . . . sorry, Leonard, but last time I checked I wasn’t feline or anything.” A rather heavy trace of sarcasm in my words, but he should be glad I didn’t teeter over the edge into caustic. I haven’t forgotten how dangerous he’s capable of being. Maybe it’s another side effect of the dampener? Suppressing that healthy edge of fear.

The
lyche
remains silent, offering no explanation.

I’m not jealous of the Gaia-cursed cat. Not even thinking it. Need something to distract myself from thinking that. Dancing penguins. Soiphe’s chi-drained body, ghostly pale against ivory silk sheets. Okay, dancing penguins.

Jhez’s grip is firm on my wrist, fingers warm and comforting, until Garthelle raps on the door of Desmonde’s suite. One of her lackeys opens the door and steps aside to admit us. Every last member of the
lyche’s
entourage is present in the front room. The air feels thick, dead. I know there’s at least a dozen
lyche
in the room, even discounting Garthelle, but I can’t get a bead on which ones they are. They all feel the same, mundane. I’m not liking this one bit.

Desmonde is the only one not present, it turns out. And in her absence, silence reigns. Garthelle stands there, inches in front of me, hands still crammed in his pockets casual as you please. Unmoving. Jhez’s presence is warm and solid against my back, a support I’m intensely grateful for, lean back into. It’s both fascinating and frightening to have Garthelle so close and not be able to feel a thing. No pleasurable lack of tension making me giddy with relief. No tingle of aura trailing along mine.

It feels like someone stole the color from my world, though. That aural awareness has come to be yet another sense I depend on when interacting with my environment. To have it so thoroughly ripped away is beginning to grate along my nerves. I feel like I’m walking blind.

Benefits. Must focus on why I shot up to begin with. Fucking Garthelle and his manipulative threats.
I only feed from cats
my ass.

Someone snickers, laughter muffled behind a hand. The not-insubstantial spread of shoulders in front of me stiffens, and Garthelle twists his head to look back at me. Gaze flat, fierce, eyes narrowed. An expression of tense fury twisting his mouth, furrowing his brow.

Oh, snap. Again? Shit.

The Monsieur of York turns that sharp, yellow gaze of his on the origin of the laughter. “We are here to speak with the Madame of Vega. You will inform her we require her presence immediately. Now.” Not an ounce of deference in his posture, expression, or voice. Chair legs thump back onto the carpet, the swish of material accentuating the person’s progress across the room. A door slams, and silence ensues—so thick I hear the door hinges creak as the person eases it back open. I step out from behind Garthelle’s immobile figure, watch a waiflike young male slide into the room with obvious reluctance. He moves through the ocean of Desmonde’s entourage unencumbered, and drops to his knees on the ivory shag before Garthelle.

“Madame Desmonde conveys her regret, Monsieur. She is unavailable for interview at this time.”

“Did she offer an excuse?”

The young male shakes his head. “She finished feeding not long ago, though. That may have something to do with it.”

“And how many does that make for today?”

His pale green gaze flicks up from the carpet, startled, before he glances away with a flinch as though expecting to be struck for insolence. “Fifteen, if my count is correct.”

An arctic breeze sneaks into the castle from somewhere, because my skin temperature just dropped twenty degrees and I’ve got chills crawling up my spine.

“So very Illium of her.” His observation sounds far from complimentary. The words are clipped, enunciated with such care and precision that his disapproval is obvious. She’s given him a direct cut, and he knows it. So does everyone else. “Do convey my condolences on the loss of her rival. I mean comrade. And caution her to recall whose territory she resides within. As she will reside here until this matter is resolved to my satisfaction.”

I stare at him a bit owlishly when he pivots back around. All that angry
lyche
right up in my face like that, close enough to scent the incense clinging to his clothes. Almost touching, I feel a faint hum of his energy vibrating against mine, muted. Jhez tugs at my wrist and I stumble backward with blind obedience, moving where she guides me, out into the hall, Garthelle shadowing every step.

When she stops, I bump into her and come to a halt. Garthelle does as well, barely a pace of distance between us. He holds my gaze, the furious intensity enough to make me swallow past the tightness in my throat.

The
lyche
doesn’t say a word, though. Just turns and paces off down the corridor, expecting that we’ll heel along behind him. That we do precisely that chafes a bit. Lots of things are chafing today, though.

“Red.” Garthelle turns his head, slowing to a stop. “You recall Mademoiselle Ferdinand, yes?”

“I do.” Jhez releases my arm and steps forward when I grind to a halt, cautious.

“You think you can handle her solo?” He pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “She and the Durram brothers are scheduled to depart shortly. I can’t retain everyone, unfortunately. And given your sibling’s . . . altered condition, I don’t feel it’s safe to have him interrogating alone.”

“I’d rather go with her, if you don’t mind.”

His brows arch. “I do mind, if it’s all the same.”

It’s not, but I chew the inside of my cheek and remain silent. I know why he’s doing this, or at least I think I do. I know Jhez can hold her own, and I have an inkling that he isn’t going to want me out of his sight so long as I’m shooting up with aural dampener. If he thinks that’s enough to persuade me to stop . . .

Well. Maybe he’s on to something.

Gaia, vampires are a manipulative lot.