Blacker than Black (5 page)

Jhez abandons cleaning and leaps across the table to flop onto the couch, which complains loudly at the mistreatment. I cringe and venture into the room to sit next to her. Her gaze plays over my face in an attempt to read ahead, impatient.

“I didn’t do it any differently than I have to any other john.” His face is clear in my mind, hovering inches from mine as he twisted my neck almost to the breaking point. More than just rage and vengeance had driven him. “I don’t understand why I didn’t recognize him.”

I sip at the hot, steamy coffee. It’s stronger than I like, but Jhez brews it that way. It gives me a reason to pause and consider my next words carefully. How do I tell her we’ve been breaking the law? A law we didn’t know existed.

But then, we’re not regular members of the vampire circles in society.

“He had me writhing on the floor in pain without even touching me. I don’t know how long it’ll take for his energy to burn out of my system. Garthelle called it chi-theft. Said I’d be dead at the hands of my next john if I hit the streets again.”

Jhez props her elbows on her knees and buries her mouth in her hands, staring at me over her fingertips. She studies me in silence, watching me sip at the coffee. Then her hands fall, arms folded across her knees. “There’s more to it than that.”

I nod and swallow. “His price for restraint is that we both work for him.”

Her lips immediately purse into a thin line. “You know all too well how I feel about that.”

“I told him you’d have questions I couldn’t answer, that you’d want some clarification. He wants to meet us this evening at the java house.”

She hangs her head and laces her fingers together at the back of her neck. “What have you done?” Her hands clench, pushing at tension in her muscles. “What have
we
done?”

I stare into the depths of my coffee and say nothing. I know she won’t refuse the meeting. The odds of her refusing his demand for employment are slimming down to nothing with each passing moment. Jhez isn’t dense; she can see all too well that our well-being hangs in the balance. And precariously.

The java house is all but empty when we settle into a corner booth in the back, well secluded from the few regulars pontificating on the meaning of life and liberty from their couch soapboxes near the steps to the loft. Instrumental music drifts from the sound system veiled strategically behind vivid paintings, abstract sculptures, and bookshelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and dust balls amidst leather-bound tomes.

Few traces of technology here. It’s one of the reasons why Jhez and I are so fond of it. It doesn’t attract the riffraff out to score a hypno-hit.

She wanders off to the counter to snag us drinks and a pastry to split, and I prop a knee against the edge of the table to tug on a loose thread dangling from my pants.

I hate waiting. It makes me fidgety. Out on the boulevard, I can pace up and down the concrete. I do that more than I realize, apparently; Jhez is always berating me that the ceaseless exercise leaves me resembling some emaciated, underfed orphan.

I don’t have the heart most times to remind her that “emaciated, underfed orphan” is precisely what we are.

I lift my gaze from my flawed clothing and glance across the room at the other regulars. One corner of my mouth tugs up in humor that suddenly dies when I catch sight of Garthelle striding toward me. I should have known. Not until I see him, though, am I aware of the slackening tension in my body. His gaze is locked on me as if a homing beacon is perched on my head. My attention flicks over his attire as he draws closer, and I wonder if he even bothered to change his clothing today. Same ivory shirt, black slacks, and tailor-cut trench coat. He certainly wears it well, especially given the number of unused buttons on the front of his shirt.

Hey, I can admire. Even as the strain of fear increases, tension humming through my muscles. Garthelle holds all the cards in this game. I wonder, for a moment, if Jhez and I would’ve done things differently if we’d known of the statutes that made our actions a crime.

He slides into the booth opposite me and folds his forearms on the table, drawing my wandering gaze. Exuding confidence—that vampire arrogance. I don’t feel any inclination to speak. The fact that Garthelle appears content to resume devouring me with his eyes only solidifies my resolve. I find it fascinating, leaning a bit toward hilarious. As a Nightwalker, I’m used to people appraising me like that, yet he has an edge. Not just violence, tightly leashed. Something else, a subtle nuance I can’t identify. The mystery of it intrigues me. He can devour to his heart’s content so long as he restricts it to an ocular activity.

Garthelle’s neck cords with tension as he turns toward Jhez. She sets a steaming mug of cappuccino in front of me and then settles into the booth beside me. Her gaze doesn’t leave the vampire’s.

The strain is almost palpable as I glance between the two of them. Content to enjoy my hot dose of caffeine, I dip my finger into the foam and suck the steamed milk off while I reach over for the plate of hot pastry. The corner of Garthelle’s left eye twitches and his lips thin, but his focus doesn’t shift.

Snagging a fork, I decide that tasting the fresh cheese danish is more important than the niceties of formal introductions and such. Priorities. Those two can wait a moment. Besides, it’s not like they aren’t each aware of who the other is. When I slide the loaded fork into my mouth, Jhez turns her glare on me full force. “We’re sharing that, remember?”

I chew slowly and swallow before setting the fork on the plate and pushing it toward her. “Monsieur Garthelle. This is my twin, Jhez. Jhez, Garthelle.” There. Introductions concluded.

She keeps staring at me. “I am aware of who
Le Shite
is,” she growls, snagging the fork as if I’ve offended the pastry by having the virgin bite.

I glance nervously across the table at Garthelle, watching him carefully for a reaction to that street-pervasive moniker as I sip my cappuccino. “Well, now he knows you, too.”

The vampire has a faint smile on his lips as he watches our interaction. I feel a suspicious blush creeping up my neck. Garthelle’s edge of danger, and hostility, feels dulled. For the moment, at least. As though the nature of Jhez’s reception has put him back on familiar territory, stable ground.

“Well, Garthelle. My twin tells me you’ve made an offer of employment. Before we discuss what it is you have in mind, I’d like a few answers.” One of the few things Jhez and I have in common is that we’re both horrendously blunt.

“Would you.” His tone doesn’t sound too indulgent. “What I have in mind,” he begins slowly, “is an offer of solid and regular employment for both of you.”

“If I wanted a pimp, I’d have one.” She taps the prongs of the fork against the porcelain plate, and I abandon any hope of another bite. Jhez possesses a hostile streak that can turn indiscriminate in a heartbeat.

“I am looking to acquire quality entertainment for a number of distinguished guests I’ll be hosting in the near future.” His gaze falters, flickering down to the pastry Jhez is clinically devouring. “While I must admit that I’ll take advantage of your skill as a Nightwalker, my interests are slightly more complex than that. Which is why I thought the pair of you would suit my needs.”

Jhez sets the fork down on the table with great care and turns to study me, her gaze flickering over my face. I can almost hear her asking,
What did you tell him?

I shake my head slightly.
I didn’t tell him anything.

Her attention shifts back to Garthelle. I’m glad she isn’t focusing that ocular drill on me this time. “And how, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion?” Her soft, cautious tone almost matches the vampire’s for subliminal hostility.

“Your experience, for one,” Garthelle admits, leaning back and resting his hands in his lap.

“What experience? Our prowess as notorious chi-thieves?” She utters the term with a condescending drawl. “Tell me one thing, please. Why now? Why’s what we’ve done all these years suddenly a problem?”

The vampire hoods his gaze. He probably thinks neither of us notice the sudden flash in the yellow hue of his eyes.

Jhez rakes the fork across the plate, hacks off another bite of pastry with surgical precision.

“I did my research. Few Nightwalkers have a period of employment comparable to that which the two of you can boast.” Jhez stiffens, and he waves his hand dismissively. “I’m willing to overlook your rather extensive list of offenses in exchange for cooperation. Though my peers may not agree with my stance, I believe there are more dangerous individuals roaming the streets of my territory.” Is that a hint of dry sarcasm in his voice? I could be mistaken, given how loudly my stomach is growling. Jhez blinks at me with a slight scowl and slides the remnants of the pastry in my direction. “The offer of employment is not so much a matter of prostitution as it is espionage.” Garthelle folds his hands on the Formica table with careful precision.

I choke on my mouthful of cappuccino and somehow manage not to spray it across the table. My eyes water as I stare at him. “You did
not
mention anything like that last night.”

He lifts one shoulder a fraction, but the vampire’s attempt at shrugging is . . . stilted, at best. “It seemed unnecessary.”

“You want us to spy on your guests and report back to you.”

The vampire nods. “I need eyes and ears amongst my kin.”

I haven’t forgotten just how livid he was last night. Or early this morning. A hair’s breadth from obliterating my existence. Why the sudden change? The disparity only sets off my alarms.

Jhez and I stare at him in silence, unresponsive. Our mutual need for more information from the vamp happens without any side communication. There are things we’re always on the same page about. Dealing with vamps is one of them.

Finally, Garthelle’s lips twist into a grimace. “The undercurrents in
lyche
society make the politics of old look like child’s play.”

We share a glance. Politics equals criminal activity. Some things just don’t change.

Jhez isn’t the only one experiencing a marked level of discomfort at Garthelle’s word choice. They don’t call themselves vampires like we do. They consider the word offensive for some reason. “And you think that these . . . guests of yours . . . will be careless enough to let information slip in our presence. Sensitive information?”

“Such is the nature of the beast. Especially under the influence of hallucinogenic substances, an energy thrall can be a highly vulnerable state.”

“The only result I can see is the endangering of our lives.” My sister has a death grip on her mug. “Careless vampires, substance abuse . . . It’s almost asking to be drained.”

I share her concern; I’m so tense I can’t swallow. What a waste of perfectly sumptuous caffeine.

“They will have other avenues to meet that need if it strikes them. You two are unique, oddities. A delicacy to be tasted and passed around. Not gorged on.” Garthelle’s lips twist into a very thin line and he glances at me, a surreptitious flick of his yellow eyes.

Not
gorged on? Really.
Presumably a privilege reserved exclusively for you, Monsieur.

“Unique.” Where does that come from? What does he know? Put on display. That really sticks in my craw. Look at the might of Garthelle, who singlehandedly netted the tag-team chi-thieves of the metro. Given how
unhappy
the vampire was last night, some of the things he said, I can’t dismiss the possibility of our notoriety. I’m certainly not willing to risk even the slightest chance that my next john will drain me to the dregs out of a sense of vengeance.

If Jhez notices my discomfort, she doesn’t show it. Still, her laughter has a sharp, cynical edge. “All of your guests will voluntarily show restraint? Pardon me for being skeptical. How can you be so certain of that?”

The vampire leans forward. “Because I am their host and that’s the way things work in our circles. Guests abide by house rules.”

He’s revealing more than he wanted. Perhaps it’s the trace of tension in his posture, or the faint lines visible between his brows and at the corners of his eyes that’s keying me into it. He is far from pleased with this arrangement. And yet he is determined to employ it at all costs. I can feel his determination resonating in my veins, like calling to like, that sliver of his chi inside me humming softly. Letting me read him like a book.