Blacker than Black (17 page)

Is he saying my aura has a signature like a rodent? Is he looking for a fight? I lean forward and rest my elbows on the desk, poking a finger at the scrap of paper with its blood-colored writing. “Why don’t you explain to us exactly what this says?”

His lips curl, but there’s little emotion involved. “Ah, I should have known you’d not be familiar with Gaelic.” Garthelle steps forward with his hand extended and I relinquish the paper tucked safely in its plastic bag. “You deciphered the meaning of the medallion, I take it.”

Jhez clears her throat softly. “Not entirely. We’ve identified Soiphe Noire’s circle and the circle the medallion represents.” She glances at me meaningfully. “Without the overlay, however, we can’t be certain what the negative space really means.”

Garthelle’s eyes are wide when he looks up from the bloody script. He blinks and glances between the two of us a few times. And then he chuckles; this time when his lips curl, it actually resembles something like a smile. “You two are sharper than I gave you credit for.”

Just that flash of easy emotion is enough to send a jolt of lust through me. Those lips lingering on my neck . . . remembered sensation crawls over my skin, tingling my nerve endings. Birthing heat in my veins that thickens my blood and blurs coherent thought.

I lean back in the chair, studying him, fingers wrapped firmly around the leather upholstered arms. Taking a deep breath helps things come back into focus. It’s difficult to come to grips with the fact that I’m having such a reaction to his close proximity, even when the chi-link is dampened. Though the sense-memory is purely hallucination, the response is authentic, visceral, untainted . . . and every bit as strong as before. There’s something different in his demeanor. I can’t put my finger on what it is, which only piques my curiosity further. “Why don’t you try being more forthcoming with us?”

“Whatever do you mean.” Voice flat, he traces a thoughtful finger over the scrawled calligraphy on the heavy scrap of paper.

Jhez gives a hiss and shoves my shoulder. “What he means,” she hurriedly replies while scowling at me, “is that you’re giving us only half the information here. The negative space is substantial enough to warrant meaning, and it wasn’t lost on us.”

“The Gaelic translates roughly to say, ‘Beware the eyes of Marre.’ One might take it as a simple twist on an old superstition, but I think it’s more than that.”

I stare and wait. Watching his gaze flick over the clutter on the desk, wander my direction, only to jerk away with an obvious exertion of will. Not entirely sure what’s going on with that.

He tosses the bag back onto the desk before stepping forward to settle sideways onto the edge. “Marre is a legend amongst the
lyche
. Rather convoluted and vague, depending on which version you adhere to. Basically, it’s a threat.”

“Aimed at who? Fillun’s circle? Madame Noire’s? You?”

“All of the above.”

That certainly explains a lot.
I grimace, and Garthelle’s gaze narrows as he studies me. Jhez snorts and succumbs to a giggling fit.

I sigh. “I said that out loud, didn’t I.”

“Indeed,” the vampire assures me.

“Why’d someone take the time to leave a verbal threat, when a dead member of a prominent family screams the same thing?”

Garthelle shifts on the desk and folds his arms as if discomfited in some way. “There’s more to the story of Marre than that.” His gaze flicks around the room. “Now’s not the time to discuss it.”

I saw that one coming like the morning commuter train pulling into Center Station. “Please elaborate, then, on what’s safe for us to discuss. Or if you prefer, what setting would be appropriate for the subject. Or maybe we should just move our collective asses and get on with the interrogations. Nothing wrong with walking in blind.”

The Monsieur of York glances at his watch. “What of the book?” Leaning over, he snatches it and glares critically. “I take it neither of you has gotten this far.”

“No,” we admit in unison. Guilt in stereo.

“That’s a good thing,” he assures us with a nod. Wrapping the plastic more snugly about the small volume, he slips it into his pocket. “We’ll be able to discuss this further later this evening, I think. After we run through a half dozen interrogations.” His eyes flick back and forth between us, holding Jhez’s gaze but not quite reaching mine. “You understand they aren’t to feel like interrogations, right? As far as these
lyche
know, you’re assisting me. And serving as entertainment. The probability is high that they will feel the urge to indulge your ignorance even given who, and what, you are.”

I glance at Jhez and a sense of foreboding crawls up my spine with ice-cold fingers. We’re the serial chi-thieves, obviously. But what else are we that matters to a
lyche
?

“My guests will begin departing in the morning. I’ve retained them as long as I dare. It will be some time before the traces of this incident are purged.”

Oh.
I wonder if that was the intent of the hostile display all along. Disburse the friendlies, diffuse any potential alliances.

Garthelle straightens from the edge of the desk, heading for the door. “Most likely, it was.”

My forehead hits the desk. Jhez rests a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you did,” she says in answer to my unspoken question. “Must be one of the side effects of that cocktail Blue shot you up with.”

Garthelle stops, turns back to face us, and I straighten. Rub at my neck, which feels hot and flushed. “We will move the investigation from the grounds later this evening. For now, however, I would like to get the questioning done. At least for those individuals who will be departing first thing in the morning.” He nods toward the desk. “There’s a portfolio along the back wall that you can carry the papers in, later.”

The unspoken demand of
now
and the expectation of obedience chafes a good bit. Like too-tight underwear. Or a collar and leash, for fuck’s sake. I push away from the desk and trail in Jhez’s wake as she makes her way toward the
lyche
.

He jerks his chin in my direction. “Is he going to be doing that all evening?”

“Most likely, yes. I think we’ve determined it’s a side effect of the aural dampener.” Her tone is demure, almost apologetic. I want to glare at her, but settle for elbowing her in the ribs hard enough to make her lurch and grunt. I’ve no idea what I’ve vocalized this time, and that irritates me every bit as much as her sudden change in demeanor does.

“Should make for an interesting few hours.” The
lyche’s
gaze actually meets mine for a moment, before he turns away and opens the door, leading the way out into the corridor.

“The first
lyche
you’ll be interviewing is Alynna Fillun, the Monsieur’s younger sibling.” Garthelle half-turns his head, his voice carrying over his shoulder to us as he strolls down the corridor. She might seem a bit flighty. Last I spoke with her, she was more than eager to be away from the drama. She has less tolerance for it than most Modere.”

Something from the previous evening flits through my head and snags. “Modere? Isn’t that the circle you’re part of?” Soiphe mentioned it, in passing, if I’m not mistaken. It sounds familiar, now that I hear it again.

He nods. “It is.” Sadly, that revelation means little to me. I’ve no idea what it means to be Modere. Leonard Garthelle is so insular. Reluctant to share. Something tells me we’ll have better luck wheedling details out of these “interviews” than we will from him.

I glance over at Jhez, but she just shrugs.

He stops and raps against the frame of a nondescript door, intently focused. The silence stretches, without a response. Just as I draw a breath and start to say something, Garthelle turns and stares at me. That glance cows me to silence, despite the fact that there’s no overt body language, no emotional engagement.

The door swings inward while his gaze is still locked with mine. Even the sound of the
lyche’s
stilted greeting doesn’t immediately draw his attention back. Not until I glance away, curiosity overcoming all else. Looking away is difficult, though. Like squatting in a snug-fitting pair of new jeans, it takes deliberate effort.

“Monsieur. I knew you would find your way to my door eventually. Was rather hoping it would be later than sooner. Do come in.” Don’t know what I expected, in some recessed corner of my brain, but that husky tenor is a wrench in my gears.

When Garthelle steps through the door, Jhez grabs me by the shirtfront and drags me along in her wake. I blink and gather myself, sliding into the room after her, flicking at her fingers to disengage my shirt. It’s satin, a black sheen that shimmers charcoal and gunmetal. Goes well with the black, formfitting slacks I’m wearing. The comfort of my favorite clothes goes a long way toward giving me the confidence to stride into the room with my shoulders back, to let the faint yet intimidating aura of the strange
lyche
roll over and past me.

“Alyn. My apologies for intruding. I know you’re intending to depart as quickly as possible, so we came to you first.” Garthelle moves off to the side of the sitting room, hands clasped behind his back. Not hiding behind a piece of furniture, but not relaxed enough to sit in the nearby recliner, either.

So do I use Alynna, or Alyn, then? Garthelle gives no clue. I study the
lyche
, confused. Long, honey blonde hair, faintly auburn in the highlights, straight as an arrow. Not even a slight wave to hint at body. It hangs in a sheet a few inches past the
lyche’s
shoulders. The face is thin, sculpted by the prominent edges of cheekbones, jaw. Despite the exquisite tailored lines of the suit, the fine clothing is no clear delineation of gender. Arms folded across a narrow chest, all the weight balanced on one foot. The other black wingtip looks on the verge of tapping an impatient tattoo against the shag carpet.

Alyn gives us each a quick onceover, then turns to hold Garthelle’s gaze. “What’s the point of this, exactly? Is it supposed to be a flaunt of some kind, prancing them in here?”

I glance between them, feel my eyes widening in surprise. Rather brutal, straightforward, with a blatant expectation of honesty. Is it because they share the same allegiance, or does it go deeper than that?

The Monsieur of York exhales slowly and lowers himself into the armchair. Rests his forearms against the leather upholstery with meticulous precision. As if arranging himself is an art form? What the hell is he on about? I flick a glance at the expectant Alyn, then study Leonard more closely. The complexion, slightly paler than I remember last night. The tension threading through his shoulders, but that was there earlier.

“Rest assured they are here to serve as assistance in the investigation.” Completely skirting around the fact that we serve another purpose also. Or what investigation we’re assisting with. Nicely played,
lyche
. He gestures toward the couch, a faint hint of a smile creasing his lips. “Please, Alyn. Sit.”

Jhez growls something under her breath, too low for even me to make out, and takes the other armchair flanking the couch. I perch on the arm of her chair, since I’m not about to put myself anywhere near, or in between, these two.

After trailing a dark, brooding gaze between us and Garthelle, Alyn moves to settle on the couch. Posture stiff, uncooperative tension radiating in the sickly red hue of the
lyche’s
aura. I wonder at that. Why the energy is still trailing through the open space like wrist-thick tentacles, when every other
lyche
we’ve encountered thus far pulls their aura in tight around us. Around others. Thankfully, it has no effect on me. Slides right past as if I don’t exist. And even as I watch, it fades slowly. Not as if retracted—more like a picture when the colors bleed away, leaving nothing but monochrome.

“First thing we’d like to know, Alyn Fillun, is where you were late last night.” I break the thickening silence, not willing to sit here and witness the two of them playing aural tiddlywinks.

“Specifically, between the hours of three and seven a.m.,” Jhez adds.

Alyn arches a brow. The left one; its pale yellow coloring crawls up the unflawed expanse of forehead. “I was in the company of Madame Desmonde. She’d invited me to enjoy the hospitality of her entourage.”

“An Illium?” Garthelle’s interruption draws my attention as well as Alyn’s.

“What of it, Monsieur? Was that not the purpose of this gathering? To forge new alliances?”

“And when did you leave her company? An exact time, if you would.” He doesn’t appear quite as receptive now.

Alyn pouts, taps a finger against puckered lips painted the color of fresh cherries. Waves a hand in dismissal, wrist flicking like a bird with a broken wing. “I have no idea. She has a rather extensive collection of ferrets.”

Jhez and I share a glance, mirrors of confusion. “Ferrets?” We blurt the word in stereo.

“Really, Leonard.” Alyn glances at him, but he just meets the dark gaze ounce for ounce, unwavering. The utterance of his name has nothing of the same effect I recall it having with Soiphe. Garthelle refuses to respond, to drop his mask. Why? All because of a mild fraternization with Desmonde, who has Illium allegiance? Alyn turns back, arrowing us each in turn with a penetrating, hostile expression. “I am Modere. We don’t feed from humans. On the rare occasions we do feed, we use lesser hosts. Mammals. Leonard’s preference is felines. Mine is ferrets.”