Blacker than Black (26 page)

I know without a doubt that the metro’s
lyche
didn’t collectively crawl back under the rocks where they came from. They’re still there. The pedestrian walking down the sidewalk, silhouetted in the flaring colors of sunset. The limo driver, whose reflection in the side mirror is frowning at me.

In the back of my mind, I’d been convinced this was a temporary thing when it happened. That if I kept taking the dampener, I could find my way somehow to “see” through the side effects.

“Damn it, Blue,” I mutter, and clench my teeth so hard my molars grind audibly as I climb into the dark interior of the vehicle. It smells of leather and merlot, tobacco smoke and cologne. The urge to escape is strong, even after the door latch engages and the locks all click into place. Jhez is glaring at me. My hands feel moist and clammy. I feel drenched in sweat. A very attractive concept, let me tell you.

I can’t feel him. There’s no tug of tension in my chest to tell me whether he’s sitting in the front seat next to the driver or waiting at the chateau. I can’t tell. It’s going to drive me crazy, I just know it. Luckily, that dose I took last night should wear off in two or three hours.

Not going to dose myself again. Not even if Blue threatens me with bodily harm. Just no. I can’t function this way. I’ve tried, hoping I would acclimate to not feeling them, to not knowing. Learn to work around it. Or through. Over. Under. Something.

My pulse hammers through my temples, and my left eye is twitching. Odd. Leonard’s does that rather often. I rub at it, but it doesn’t stop. So I lean back into the seat and close my eyes, trying to relax. The adrenaline and panic of my racing heart make it a struggle to breathe deeply, but I shut out everything else and focus on pulling my chi down into my core, with the hope that it will calm me. Emotion feeding energy, and finding peace. Grounding.

The limo comes to a halt and the black stone estate looms outside the tinted windows, a shadow within a shadow. It’s that brief moment when the world seems blurry. Not quite there. Not yet night, no longer day. That instance of suspension when everything and anything feels possible. No matter how fantastic or ridiculous, like maybe we’ll both survive another night with our sanity and appendages intact. And chi. That would be nice also.

Jhez slides out of the limo in my wake and glances at me. Her expression is far from encouraging. Great. I glare at her in warning, but she brushes past me into the foyer, pretends to be oblivious.

She stops just inside, and I practically run into her. Don’t blame her though; translucent black silk shrouds every inch of the walls, drapes every piece of furniture—tables, chairs, vases, mirrors, paintings. Not an inch of the interior remains untouched. The midnight cloud of despair—are they all attempting a flagrant display of gothic cliché “vampirism”? Or is the Monsieur of York making a formal demonstration of mourning?

I cross my fingers and hope for the latter, although he has in my humble opinion gone completely overboard.

Perhaps his mental scales have finally stopped teetering and tipped in the wrong direction. The thought is humorous. I hide a smile behind my fist and force a cough out to cover the giggle tickling the back of my throat.

There isn’t much I can think of to say that doesn’t sound utterly sarcastic or inane as it bounces around inside my head. For instance, I was on the verge of saying, “Did someone die?”

Must be another side effect of the drug cocktail or something. Yeah, that someone was my aunt. And this shouldn’t feel so ridiculously funny. Don’t want it to.

I glance over at Jhez to see if I’m the only one getting a very strange—eerie, even—vibe about the interior design. Her face is scrunched up on the verge of laughter. Much as I had been just moments before.

Great. Guess I should count myself lucky that she didn’t bust out when I did that cough.

“It has a very . . . airy . . . feel to it, don’t you think?” I say finally, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially.

She hiccups and squeezes her eyes shut, lips pursed in a tense line.

Well. I thought of something to say after all, it seems.

“Yes,” my sister declares, gasping. “Airy. Yes. Rather . . . free. Almost intangible.”

“And no doubt difficult to clean.” I frown and try to look somber. Most likely I’m only succeeding in looking constipated. I don’t do serious well.

Still, his dry-cleaning bill is going to be absolutely phenomenal.

“Monsieur Garthelle awaits your presence in the parlor, if you will follow me?” The butler’s icy gaze seems blind as he bows in a smooth, precisely measured movement and swivels to lead us through the maze of
Dragulhaven
.

His every footstep lands with obsessive precision on the tiled marble floor. I bet if I measure, his tread would be perfectly centered in each square.

Slightly compulsive. As are the placement of ancient urns, whose locations appear haphazard. Far from it, I’m certain. I wonder what would happen if I moved them, at random, an inch or so out of position?

Laughter tries to bubble up again.

Sure as hell beats obsessing over the fact that even though I’m descending into the viper pits, I still can’t sense a single snake. I spend the next few moments mentally stringing together a colorful collection of expletives to suit the occasion, until I’m left with no recourse but to begin reusing some.

“I’m feeling the urge to detour, I think.” Jhez doesn’t take the news of my inspiration very well, and even the butler striding ahead of us falters.

“To where, exactly?” Is that a hint of resignation? Or curiosity? My sister has the inquisitiveness of a cat, most days. Maybe she’s off her game a little. Or maybe, like me, walking through the heart of
lyche
society just doesn’t sit well with her strong sense of self-preservation. Can’t blame her, there. She should try doing it sense-blind.

“You remember Desmonde from that first night, I’m sure. There weren’t any good vibes going on there between her and Soiphe.”

“She refused to be available when we were there yesterday, what makes you think she’s going to make a greater effort at any point in the near future?” Jhez laces her question with disdain the way an assassin would lace their victim’s food with arsenic.

“Difficult to make yourself unavailable when you’re given no forewarning of invasion.”

“So we just don’t knock?”

I grin at her and catch the butler staring back at us over his shoulder. Slightly unprofessional, the wicked twist at the corner of his mouth. But he diverts down a side hallway without missing a beat, and I’ve no doubt where he’s leading us.

“Something tells me Garthelle will be more explicit with the details of his requests for the foreseeable future.” Jhez is more amused than concerned, judging by the giggle of laughter she lets slip out.

“Indeed,” the butler assures her in a dramatically mournful tone. “That only makes circumventing him a greater challenge though.”

“I usually enjoy a good challenge.” Leonard’s butler is a man after my own heart. A pleasant surprise. And it’s a wonderful feeling to have an ally in this place. Not that it’ll get us very far, but I’m not about to complain—allies are in short supply here, where every
lyche
would as soon
fin
tap us as look at us. Never mind listen to the words that come out of our mouths. Which seriously makes me wonder what I’m planning to accomplish, confronting a decidedly hostile
lyche
on her own territory.

“Stop overthinking it and second-guessing yourself. We’re doing this now, because there’ll be hell to pay for our indirect route as it is.” Jhez smacks me in the chest with the back of her hand—hard enough to sting—and I glare at her while rubbing at my abused pectoral muscle.

“Fine. Don’t blame it all on me when the shit hits the fan.”

“Right. But if we somehow manage to pull this off, you’ll take all the credit for the idea.”

I grin. “Of course.” Which gets me smacked again.

The butler halts and turns to face us, gaze playing back and forth between us as he follows the verbal tennis match. He points at a vaguely familiar door a few dozen feet down the hall. “These are the assigned quarters of Madame Aidalisa Desmonde. I’m certain she’s still present within, as she’s not ventured out since . . . the incident.”

Jhez arches her brows. “Hasn’t she.”

“
Nein
. They all come to her.”

“Like a queen holding court, if you ask me.” I grab Jhez by the elbow and move past the butler. “Wait here, if you would?”

“I would not.” He trails in our wake, and Jhez grabs the door handle and twists without any preliminaries. “Not only don’t I wish to miss such a confrontation, but the Monsieur of York will have my neck in a noose if I leave your company prior to seeing you into his presence.”

I glance at him, surprised at the man’s attentiveness to the nuances of his duties, and help Jhez muscle the heavy doors open. Talk about following the letter of the law instead of adhering to the spirit of it.

Then again, all things considered, Leonard does enjoy a challenge. And a bit of spirit. I rub my fingers over the small bald patch hiding in my hair, and grind to a halt at the scene before me.

Jhez straightens, her back stiffening. I recall Desmonde’s features and vivid hair color rather well and pick her out easily from the mass of bodies writhing on and around the couch. They’re everywhere. On the furniture, the floor, and a number of in-between combinations that train-wreck all rational thought. Has to be something like thirty of them, bodies gliding, humping, shuddering, glistening with sweat, and emitting occasional moans of pleasure. Desmond is at the center of their midst, half-clothed, one bare breast being palmed by the individual laving her neck with enthusiasm, while the male whose cock she’s sucking rather avidly is giving her sheathed breast some rather rough treatment.

My eyes hurt suddenly, and I realize it’s because I need to blink.

I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a count of ten and then blink repeatedly before I can see straight again. Jhez makes a strangled sound and twitches, as if she’d love nothing more than to turn her back to the display. Or leave again, as quickly as we entered. I decide it’s my place to take the initiative, since this was my idea, and clear my throat loudly.

“Madame Desmonde, I see you’ve recovered from your indisposed state. I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a word with you.”

A drawn-out, wet sucking sound precedes her response. “I would mind, actually. And as you can well see, I’m rather busy drowning my remorse over the other evening’s incident. What would possess you to invade my space without announcing yourself?”

Well, she’s coherent at least, although there’s a healthy drawl to her voice. Coherent means she hasn’t fed so thoroughly she can’t converse. “The thought that, had we announced ourselves, you would have once again been indisposed.”

Desmonde stares at me, one hand cradling the head of the person still caressing her neck. Her other hand tightens around the shaft she’d been so attentive to not moments before, and the man hisses in pain despite an obvious effort to suppress the sound. The
lyche
grimaces at him, then pushes both humans away from her with rough, dismissive gestures.

“Perceptive of you. Surprising, in a human.” She speaks slowly, then clears the raspy quality from her throat while righting her clothing with casual, uncaring movements. Her nudity doesn’t disturb her, although I don’t doubt our invasion of her privacy irritates her a great deal. “What does Garthelle think to accomplish, sending me his chi-thieves? Or are you here as a peace offering?”

“The sole purpose of our presence here is to conduct the interview you demurred from subjecting yourself to on the previous occasion.” Jhez sounds as stiff as she feels, her arm brushing against mine.

Desmonde stares at her, unblinking, her hand stilling where it grips the folds of her dressing gown. “Get out, all of you.” She doesn’t raise her voice or direct the words to anyone else, nor does her gaze waiver from my sister. But every individual in the room save Jhez and I suddenly ceases their activities and scrambles from the floor and furniture to disappear through one or another of the doorways deeper in the suite.

The
lyche
motions toward the nearby settee with one hand. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

“Thanks, but I’ll stand.” Declining the invitation has more to do with what was previously taking place on that particular piece of furniture than anything else. “Are you willing to answer some questions about your activities on the evening of Soiphe’s death?”

“You do mean murder, don’t you?” she asks. “By all means, ask your questions then. Let’s have it done.” Desmonde sits down on the couch with her chin angled up, nose in the air. Like one of those old European queens, deigning to give us an audience.

Just go with it. This is what you’ve got to work with. If you offend her, she’s going to claw every last shred of chi from your skeleton before you even know what hit you.

It’s true, too. She has as much of a
lyche
signature as Kenna did that night I met Leonard. That is to say, none whatsoever that I can sense.