Blacker than Black (27 page)

Jhez shifts beside me, working up some nerve. Or maybe trying to figure out how best to go about this particular inquiry. The
lyche
smiles, though, and manhandles the decision away from us. Takes control of the conversation with ease.

“Of course it was murder.” She stares at her perfectly manicured nails, holding her hand in the air, fingers curled claw-like for perusal. “A
lyche,
drained, could be nothing else. Finding the culprit is as simple as locating the individual whose core chi has experienced a recent basal increase that coincides with the incident.” Desmonde glances up at us and offers a condescending curl of her lips that I suppose would pass as a benevolent expression to any less aware human.

Someone not
lyche
, or mutt.

“Of course. Because only a fellow
lyche
would be capable of successfully performing such a feat. Correct?” It strikes me as a dangerous assumption to make, just like Garthelle’s dismissal. With a grimace, I assess the nearest piece of furniture. Not wanting to actually recline in it, I perch my hip on the solid wood arm instead.

She arches one artistically shaped brow and sniffs. “Indeed.”

“Seems to me that would make a solid cover for any murderer not
lyche
.” Jhez widens her stance and folds her arms. Looking every bit the aggressor, not about to back down or budge even a fraction. “And while I appreciate your willingness to illuminate us, I’m certain Garthelle is acutely aware of that generally held belief.”

Yes. That widely embraced perception of invulnerability. It would leave a gaping hole, a blind side. Because if I’m able to slip into Garthelle and snag a thread of his chi so easily when he’s not on his guard . . . who’s to say I wouldn’t be capable of draining him entirely?

Are we looking for a
lyche
in this? Or a mutt? I highly doubt a single individual could orchestrate what occurred. And it goes without saying, insofar as I can see, that if a mutt were truly involved, they didn’t act alone. What use would a mutt have for selecting that particular
lyche
to drain? A Nightwalker, a street dealer, wouldn’t care. To them, one’s the same as the next. Much as we are to them. A mutt may very well have been the tool, but like any rudimentary projectile device, it’s the person holding it who selects and aims for the target. Who pulls the trigger.

“Madame Desmonde, what was your relationship with the deceased?”

“Relationship? She and I didn’t have one.”

Jhez grunts. “Black didn’t ask if you and Soiphe were bosom buddies, Madame. What was the nature of your relationship? Any history of alliances, however truncated they may have been? Or was it always that barely suppressed hostility whenever you came together?”

The
lyche
stares at Jhez for a pregnant moment, her eyes slowly narrowing. I wonder if that’s what a predator looks like when it suddenly realizes it’s underestimated the prey and begins reassessing it as a potential threat instead of just a meal.

Apparently, my sister enjoys flirting with death.

Desmonde rises from her perch on the couch and approaches Jhez, fluid and graceful. Unhurried, but intent, so much so that my pulse ratchets up and my entire body tenses. It’s that flood of adrenaline, fight or flight, ingrained self-preservation. Every inch of the
lyche’s
demeanor communicates aggression, challenge.

And yet her voice is soft, hushed. A whisper is sometimes louder than a shout. “You speak of alliances and hostilities.” She stops within arm’s reach of Jhez, lifts her hand and waggles her fingers in a languid wave near my sister’s abdomen. Not touching, but visibly within the bounds of her aural field. “Suggesting that, what? I would gain from her absence?” The upward curl of her lips is not a smile, not friendly. Desmonde moves her hand, twisting it, tensing her fingers as if to pull at the energy she drags her fingertips through. “Sweet, sweet, the taste of chi. So naïve, coming here alone this way. You know so little of our kind, and yet you think to uncover some thread of truth with your questions.”

Her fingers clench, curling inward, and then she wrenches her hand away from Jhez, who tenses and steps back with an audible grunt of pain. Desmonde lifts her fist toward her mouth, opens her hand, and drags her tongue through the aural halo of her fingers. I can’t see it, but she isn’t licking or tasting her skin. She’s tasting
my sister
. I can’t see, but I know.

Why did I not realize how dangerous this would be? Jhez interviewed a
lyche
alone yesterday. I thought that the two of us together would ensure a greater level of safety. But Mademoiselle Ferdinand is nothing like Madame Desmonde, apparently. Stupid, Black. Very, very stupid. Brave, daring, courageous . . . sure. Won’t make us any less dead, though.

“What is your circle loyalty, Madame? And with whom are you personally allied? We can begin there, if you prefer.” I push off the chair, move to Jhez’s side. Careful to not turn and face the
lyche
fully. Don’t want to even suggest that I’m challenging her position or authority here. I’m acutely aware that I’ve not the first clue what Jhez and I are doing, the rules and procedures and traditions that we’re operating within—a pair of randy teenagers on jet skis cruising through the
altes Geld
flotilla of yachts.

Garthelle is going to get us killed. Oh wait. This little detour was my idea, so I better pull something out and turn the tables on this vampire wench really fast. Before things get ugly and Jhez bitch-slaps her.

“Soiphe was a member of the esteemed Illium circle, just as I am. While I didn’t consider her a sister,
per se
, there was no hostility between us. Except that which would naturally exist between rivals.” Desmonde licks at the aura around her fingers again, eyelids fluttering, and then lowers her hand. She gathers herself with a deep breath, the effort obvious. “She and I were amongst the ranks of those vying for Premier successorship.”

“Two out of how many?”

Desmonde blinks slowly and turns her attention toward me. “Originally there were nine. There always is, in the beginning. It is how such things are done. Only the strongest is left standing at the end, and to that one the reward is given.”

The strongest . . . or the most devious. If all but one play fair, the one who cheats will win. Every time. “And with Soiphe dead, how many remain in contention for the successorship?”

Silence hangs in our midst like a dense fog clinging to the streets between the hi-rise buildings in the metro.

“I’m the sole remaining contender for successorship. When the sitting Premier retires, the position will pass to me.” Desmonde shows her teeth in a raw display of hostility and then turns away swiftly, her silk robe billowing in her wake. “You will of course assume that such an admission is indicative of guilt. Motive. If you knew anything of
lyche
society, however, or Illium circle specifically, you would understand that eliminating rivals from contention in such a manner is not acceptable practice.”

What, they don’t kill for power? Bullshit. They just don’t openly
admit
it. Vampires . . .
lyche. Lyche
will always play games. They love their games above all else. Or there would only be two circles, not thirteen. Black and white. No shades of gray between.

“And what is it about Illium circle that we don’t fully appreciate?” Jhez asks in a soft, neutral voice while taking a step back. Toward the door. Her hand clamps to my wrist, dragging me backward with her.

Desmonde returns to her perch on the couch, but her attention is already elsewhere. She’s had her taste of the monsieur’s toys, and her fascination is already moving on to something else. “Illium adheres to enlightenment through the pleasures of the flesh. We are wholly nonviolent.”

Right. Sure. Pinnacle predators, nonviolent. I don’t believe that for a second. Not after what I just saw. Nope. Sure, she doesn’t dirty her hands—it doesn’t necessarily follow that she’s wholly innocent. Jhez drags me backward another step, then stiffens to stillness when the
lyche’s
gaze swings back to us again. I’m reaching a point where it doesn’t much matter to me anymore who she’s created personal alliances with. All I care about is retreating to the safety of the hallway fully whole.

“Surely you aren’t leaving so soon?” The
lyche’s
voice is laced heavily with humor, derision. “I haven’t told you anything at all, really.”

“Is there something else you’re willing to divulge?” Oh, she’s said enough. Not all of it in words . . . but if Leonard, the feline connoisseur, can find himself out on the boulevard picking up a mutt to feed on, I don’t trust any vampire’s so-called circle adherence. They’re nothing but veils of civilization to hide their animalistic inclinations behind. “Like, perhaps, the names and natures of your personal alliances?” Desmonde stills on the couch. Not so much statuesque as coiling to pounce. “I didn’t really think you’d give your cooperation so easily. We took note of that previously. This encounter simply reinforces it. I’ll be sure to convey to the Monsieur of York your fondest regards.”

And lack of cooperation. I glance over at Jhez. And borderline assault, too, maybe.

Jhez meets my gaze and gives a faint shake of her head. No doubt she knows exactly what I’m thinking. The concern is probably visible in my gaze, or my face, considering how well she knows me. Frankly, I’m kind of surprised the vampire’s let me get so many words in, edgewise or otherwise. She’s either horridly off her game, or we’ve managed somehow to set her on the defensive. I use Jhez’s grip on my wrist to haul her back beside me, forcing her to stand her ground.

“Yes, do offer my
finest
regards. And gratitude, for permitting me a few unsupervised moments with his precious acquisitions. The two of you are quite the find.”

“Jealous, much?” Jhez quips, leaning her shoulder into mine. I feel her aura slide through my energy, a tingling nervousness, adrenaline heavy in her blood coloring her chi a dark shade of red.

“Disappointed I didn’t find you first. What the pair of you would bring on the open market . . . would forge a very strong alliance indeed. For generations to come.” I can hear the honesty in her words, thanks to Jhez’s aura blending into mine.

“Ah, you’re the weaker party in your alliances then, aren’t you. Don’t have as much to bring to the table, despite vying for the successorship?” I make a
tsk
sound, hiding the shock I feel well enough. Madame Desmonde struck me as stronger, more formidable, than that. To find out she’s actually a . . . bottom feeder . . . amongst the
alte Geld
is more than slightly disturbing, to say the least.

My observation doesn’t put her on the defensive again, though. Rather the opposite effect. She draws herself up, jaw canted upward, and regains that regal bearing. “Power is not purely measured in the chi one possesses. Much to the chagrin of those who adhere to such a belief.”

“No, not power,” Jhez agrees. “But status certainly is. And in that regard, you’re sadly lacking.” She drags me backward quickly, toward the door again, even as Desmonde launches up from the couch, hissing like a doused cat. “Good day to you, Madame.”

Leonard’s butler is there, opening the door to facilitate our retreat before we reach it.

The butler stops, performs a pivot that any drill sergeant would doubtlessly praise, and raps on the wooden frame of Leonard’s study.

Not wood. Carved obsidian. Why did I never notice that before? The construction is so meticulous; the entire frame of the doorway appears to be a seamless piece of stone. Freaky. I wonder if Jhez notices. Such a minor detail. She’d probably frown at me if I nudge her and point it out.

The door swings inward and Leonard looks up from the newspaper spread before him on the coffee table.

“There you are.” He doesn’t look pleased. Not that he’s ever looked pleased since the moment Muscle dragged my ass back to his flat the first night I met him. The butler steps in and tucks his hands behind his back, holding the door open. His expression is utterly impassive. As if he didn’t just witness his master’s pair of pet mutts going head to head with the next Premier of Illium circle.