Blacker than Black (44 page)

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face away, but that only makes my sire laugh harder.

The vehicle winds its way back down into the metro, familiar streets now beginning to glow as the evening sunlight recedes behind the skyline.

Noire sits in silence, save for the occasional chuckle that erupts from him to grate at my ears. I keep my gaze unfocused, my attention turned inward. Right now, my core of chi is greater than most
lyche
I’ve encountered over my years as a Nightwalker. Probably not enough to overwhelm my sire the cannibal, who only eats his own kind. But this other . . . yeah. I can take that one out easily enough. And on the off chance that they’ve both been fasting in preparation for the gorging to come . . .

It’s a slim chance. But the only straw I’ve got to grasp.

How the hell Jhez and I have lived on the streets for decades without knowing we were pure-blooded
lyche
? Without anyone else knowing? Without a soul figuring it out? How did our johns never notice? Not a single one?

It can’t be true. It’s impossible. It’s just another
lyche
game; that’s all it is. Because if it were true, at least one john over the years would have seen fit to mention it. Would have said something, even if only in the thrall that followed feeding. Though it does make me wonder about the long list of regulars both Jhez and I accumulated over the course of our time as Nightwalkers. A few have been coming to us exclusively since our earliest years on the boulevard. And not a single time has one ventured to question our heritage, never mind our longevity.

Lyche
are still human, after a fashion. And people only see what they want to, what they expect to. Seems that much hasn’t changed.

That heritage would also go a long way to explaining the . . . whatever this is . . . between me and Leonard. That first night, he unwittingly forged the equivalent of a
lyche
alliance with me. Given what he’s divulged since, the numerous orgasmic taps—that one on the couch was only the first, there’ve been many more in the past twenty-four hours—have done nothing but reinforce and strengthen that bond. It explains much, but leaves too many things unaccounted for. Like what’s so special about the Monsieur of York to make this happen, when it’s never happened before with any of the other johns I stole from.

Noire’s right about one thing—Leonard seems to know less than I.

When the vehicle comes to a halt, I’ve managed to pool every last drop of my chi into my core. Crammed it into my stomach, pulled my aura tight against my body, close as I can get it. I’ve no idea how to actually make use of it, not the way my sire does, winding it around his hand like a weapon to wield against one’s enemies.

One look out the window has me determined to try something.

Irony of ironies . . . we’re at Blue’s club. Well, it’s not Blue’s. I recall Leonard mentioning it being on embassy grounds in the metro. A slice of Alpha territory. I’m screwed once I set foot inside those ancient ironwork gates that bracket the driveway. Detailed work, beautiful in its own right, though I can’t tell if the artist meant for the winged figures to be angels or demons. A pair of sentinels at the entry to Hell.

Noire’s driver eases around a corner of the building and into an empty parking lot that’s shielded from the public streets. One way in, one way out. The gates clang shut with such force that I feel the vibration of the impact through the body of the car.

The
lyche
reaches for the door handle and disembarks without waiting for the driver, then leans back in to stare at me. “Move it, I’ve no intention of engraving you an invitation or hauling you around again. Be a good son and do as you’re told.”

I shift forward, and apparently the movement satisfies him, because he disappears around the back of the vehicle. When I stick my head out the door, he reappears with a linen-wrapped bundle cradled in his arms.

Soiphe’s body.

I swallow, hard. “What could you possibly want with her? She was drained,
fin
tapped. What was so wrong with leaving her to be interred in her home territory?”

A tendon bulges in Noire’s cheek, and the accompanying sound resembles the grinding of teeth. “It’s nothing you need be concerned with.”

What Leonard perceived as worth fighting for in this
lyche
is beyond me. Surely whatever nugget of decency that remained of the former member of Modere is dead. Crushed beneath the heel of Alpha philosophies long ago.

I spare a glance at the ironwork gate as I hop down out of the car, but Noire gives me a rough nudge in the thigh with his foot.

“Follow me, now.” Condescending. Like one would address a dumb animal being led to slaughter.

I follow, flexing my right hand with each stride. Trying to get a feel for how to channel the energy down my arm in something of a controlled fashion. Noire leads the way down a set of bare concrete steps along the side of the building, through an entrance leading into the basement. The air smells and feels dry, not at all what I expect. But the hallway is lifeless. Just sealed concrete, painted white, with evenly spaced sconces lighting the way. No smell that suggests how many humans die within these walls. Not a smell, but I can still sense death. It taints the energy of this place, gives it the chilled, hollow ambience of a mausoleum.

He stops at the first door and thumps on it with the toe of his boot. “In you go. Farken’s been waiting to meet you.”

Blue’s drug source? What are the odds? I mean, yeah, they’re both Alpha circle, but really . . .

I could make a break for it. I might even have a fighting chance to get a little lead on him, considering he’s bogged down with Soiphe’s lifeless form. But he’d drop her in heartbeat, and then where would I be? Pinned to the ground—or the wall—with two hundred plus pounds of enraged
lyche
, furious Premier, matured in his powers and fully charged and quite obviously not in complete possession of his mental faculties. He’s carting his sister’s days-dead corpse around, for Gaia’s sake.

“Eager, is he?” I ask the question with false composure while turning the knob, and push the door in a fraction. It makes no sound on the hinges. “How long’s he been waiting?”

“Months, I expect. This alliance is important to him. Get in there. Don’t keep a
lyche
waiting; thought you would’ve learned that much.” His foot, planted firmly on my ass this time, forcefully encourages my forward momentum.

I close the door behind me and lean against it, listening to the sound of his receding footsteps.

By Gaia’s grace, if you’ve any intention of saving my hide, Leonard, now would be a really good time to do it.

“It seems Noire managed to do something right for once.” The disembodied voice is refined, the tone eloquent, but there’s a hint of a burr in the low register. Is it even possible for a
lyche
to sustain permanent damage to the vocal cords? Maybe a result of constant smoking, judging by the heavy scent in the air. Either that, or the
lyche
always sounds that way. Makes my skin crawl, listening to it. Please, stick to the upper registers.

The room is well lit, though it carries the same minimalist quality as everything else I’ve seen in this building. A large area rug covers the center of the floor space, its woven design an intricate Celtic knot. Stark black against vivid red, it feels almost mandala the way it draws my eye and demands my focus.

A
lyche
—a very tall, willowy looking individual—turns from the sidebar along the left wall to face me, a snifter in one hand and a smoldering pipe in the other. He strolls toward me, his expression neutral, skin so pale it seems to glow against the dark red silk of his smoking jacket.

“Mesmerizing design, isn’t it,” he acknowledges in a conversational air, motioning to the rug with his pipe before taking a puff. He swirls the amber liquid in his snifter, takes a sip, licks his lips in obvious pleasure. “No doubt you’re his get. You look too much like him.”

This
is Blue’s source? The street dealer who loathes
lyche
couldn’t tell what he was? I don’t believe it for a second. Possibility exists that Blue couldn’t tell because the
lyche
used its own substance to maintain a veil of anonymity, but Blue claims he doesn’t “sense” them that way. That he can’t. Which means Farken must have been “masking” himself the same way Garthelle did when he approached me on the street that first time. And that absolves Blue of his guilt, in my mind at least.

The connection to my sire is just as baffling. Then again, they’re both Alpha circle. Maybe that’s all the commonality they require to work in tandem.

My brain feels like a mouse in a maze, the scent of cheese strong no matter which way I turn. I need some answers, fast. I need to figure out what’s going on, exactly, and who the players are, if I’m going to have any chance of slipping the noose before it tightens in earnest.

“You’re Farken, then?”

He blinks, and a beat of silence passes before he flashes a toothy smile from thin lips. His gaze narrows a fraction. The details resolve themselves as he steps closer. A sneering, masculine mouth above a soft, feminine chin. Hard, wide-set eyes with a faint almond shape below a brow that’s weak. A sloping forehead with a severely receding hairline. Where Leonard’s duality is perfectly blended, Farken is the exact opposite.

Feeding on energy gives
lyche
a perpetually youthful appearance. Which means Farken’s just one ugly fucker who’s aged with the grace of a giraffe. A three-legged giraffe.

“That’s my surname, yes. And you’re Vincent Noire the fifth, right? Version one.” He laughs, and it reminds me of one of those old nature shows I watched as a kid. Lions on the Serengeti, with hyenas cackling in the background. Scavengers lurking in the shadows. “Expendable. I imagine your sire is immensely grateful you’ve managed to survive all these years.”

“I’m rather grateful for that myself, actually.” Smart-ass comebacks probably aren’t the best technique in this situation, but Farken’s just begging for it. How asinine can a
lyche
possibly be? I mean, I get that they’re pretty much preloaded with a superiority complex. But come on. “And I imagine you’re grateful my sire never forged much of an attachment to me, as it serves your purposes rather nicely.”

Farken clamps his teeth around the tip of his pipe, steps closer. He flexes the fingers of his free hand, lips curling upward in a sneer full of teeth.

He lashes out. The slap whips my head around so hard my ears ring, my vision blurs, and the back of my skull feels like someone whacked me with a hammer. There’s a slight lag before the pain explodes in the right side of my face, from temple to chin.

I’m grateful he elected to do it physically, though. As opposed to the alternative.

“Insolent.” The
lyche
turns away, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “I beat it out of your father as well, you know. It would behoove you to remember your place. It’ll go easier for you that way.” He turns back abruptly, gaze scanning me again. “Unless you prefer the discomfort that struggle brings you. Do you like it that way? A
fin
tap has the potential to be extremely painful or pleasurable. The choice is the victim’s.”

I’ve no intention of submitting. Or cooperating. But I slide my gaze away, down toward the floor, feigning both. Hoping it will lull him into false confidence.

Farken just barks a laugh. “Yes, definitely your sire’s get. He tried that one with me a few times also. As if I can’t sense the defiance. How gullible do you think I am?”

 Sadly, not nearly enough.

He sets his snifter down on the sidebar, balances his still-smoldering pipe in a cradle with obsessive care. When he turns back around, he’s hefting a neatly coiled bundle of rope. Paracord. Old military issue. Cold sweat breaks out along the length of my spine as he approaches me again.

I take an involuntary step back. And then a second, deliberately.

“See? It’s a good thing I enjoy a bit of fight. Makes things challenging. Problem is . . .” He pauses and flicks his right hand at me. I manage not to flinch, whole body bracing for another backhanded slap that doesn’t come. Instead, his hand is suddenly engulfed in the same muddied blackness that Noire used to threaten the Monsieur of York. The
lyche’s
energy lashes out at me, whipcord thin strands that wind around my body from shoulders to knees. One moment I’m backing toward the door, and the next I can’t move, can’t breathe, his aura burning me like a glowing-hot brand wherever it touches bare skin. My clothing doesn’t offer much buffer, either. “You’re only half
lyche
, so you really aren’t much of a challenge at all.”