Page 93 of Darkness

Colm snorted. “It’s more like they have me. They’re the only creatures in existence snooty enough to tolerate my stubborn ass. Come in. Have a seat. Beer?”

Officially, Farren wasn't on duty, though in his former world, offering beverages wasn't a host's obligation. The visitor usually brought refreshments. Farren hadn’t. Colm needed no encouragement to drink his host into an early grave. An image of Morrisey came to mind. “Water, please.”

Colm's laugh sounded bitter. “Suit yourself.” He shuffled into the kitchen and returned with a dubiously clean glass of water and a bottle of beer. Oh, well. Farren could heal from minor human ailments such as botulism poisoning. He accepted the water, only pretending to drink.

Colm scooted the white cat over and sat on the couch, nodding toward a rocking chair across the way, stuffing leaking from a tear in the seat.

Farren sat delicately, shifting sideways to evade a spring poking his rear. He’d dealt with Colm enough to know that what others might take as a suggestion, Colm intended as an order—regardless of potential damage to one’s posterior, also an easily healed inconvenience.

“Speak your piece.” Colm washed his words down with a swig of beer.

Farren sipped his water to buy time, ignoring the grit on his tongue, all his rehearsed speeches suddenly leaving him. “You’re looking well.” This entire visit could have been avoided if the old codger wasn’t so against telephones.

Colm snorted. “Cut the bullshit. We both know I look like what I am—a dying man. I can’t heal cirrhosis. I’ve no intention of taking another host either. I’ve cheated the great beyond long enough.” He expelled a few body-rocking hacks.

Sounded like more than cirrhosis plagued Colm. One more reminder of home soon to be gone forever, and Colm too damned stubborn to fight for his life. No surprise there. "Still a blunt asshole, aren't you?"

“I’ve never understood why humans dance around the truth and don’t just come out and say what’s on their minds. So much easier when you just spit out what you gotta say.” The white cat jumped into Colm’s lap. He idly stroked its back.

Apparently, he wasn’t a hard ass with all creatures.

So much for exchanging social pleasantries. Farren got to the point. “You came here a few years before I did and have access to knowledge I don’t.”

Colm lifted one shoulder in an absent-minded shrug. The white cat glared, then dashed from the room, head held high. If Princeps took on animal form, they’d definitely be cats. “I know things many people don’t know. I’m old, wise, and nosy.”

True enough. Colm had been a scholar once, someone who’d thrived on knowledge. “While in Domus, did you know of a missing spawn, say, about forty years ago, maybe a little longer?”

Colm scratched beneath his beard. “I don’t think so. Folks didn’t start trying to save their little darlings until much later.”

Surely Farren hadn’t driven all this way to leave knowing no more than when he arrived. “Nothing?”

“The ruling couple of sector twelve were rumored to have spawned, and they died under mysterious circumstances. No one could really say for sure. You know how new parents are about hiding their young.”

In the old realm. Not here. Human parents scheduled photo shoots and birth announcements practically before the child entered the world. The Princeps were worst of all, thinking a young life to protect made them vulnerable. There was no such thing as nannies in Domus because parents trusted no one with their young. Particularly if the child were Tenebris. Reality hit. “To get the child, the parents would have to be killed.” Could Morrisey actually be Princeps?

Colm gave a sage nod. He’d been considered old even among Farren’s kind. “It’s not likely they gave up their spawn willingly.”

Exactly as Farren feared. He wouldn't mention Morrisey—for the time being. Though he’d fallen so far over time, Colm might still feel honor bound to kill Morrisey. Domus wasn’t fond of the unknown. Particularly beings whose skills they didn’t understand.

Farren changed the subject. “How are you?”

“I told you. I’m old, and I’m dying.”

“If you weren’t so against the idea, you could always find another body. I could even help you.” In fact, Farren had access to bodies no longer needed by their humans, lying beneath the FBI complex.

“What? And miss the fun of this one falling apart?” Colm coughed, his entire body spasming. A troubling sign for his continued existence.

They sat in silence, the click, click, click of the rocking chair counting down the minutes. “I don’t hold it against you, you know,” Farren mumbled, nearly inaudibly.

“You used to,” Colm replied just as quietly.

“When I was young and dumb. After my parents died—”

Colm smacked his palm onto the coffee table, startling the remaining cat. The tabby paused its napping, blinked a few times, and then went back to sleep. “Your parents didn’t die. For all you know, they could still be alive somewhere. We don’t know exactly what happened when the sector vanished.”

“As could Kele.” Farren abandoned hope long ago.

Colm remained quiet.

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