Page 101 of Envious Of Fire
“You want your position back. You want George gone. It’s why he’s been missing or busy lately.You’vebusied him. Yes,” she then says, bringing a finger to her lips, nodding. “And I am the perfect leverage to send George back to the store rooms, nose buried in bullshit and books where it used to be. You want to align with me. You sense my rising.”
Tristan smiles.You caught me.
Ashara crosses her arms. “It won’t be easy. There will have to be big changes, Tristan, if you really want your position and status back, sitting next to my brother, and even then, it won’t be the same as it was before. You still wish to support me?”
Tristan’s smile persists.Until the bitter end.
Her eyes narrow critically. She steps back. “Martini glasses. They’ll hold more blood, easier to sip. Everyone is asipperthese days. No one knows how todrinkanymore.”
I will return soon. Tristan bows again, then at last departs.
Upon leaving the ballroom and the laughter and the blood-drunk faces of directors and self-important individuals licking each other’s asses and drowning in their luxuries, Tristan feels at once as light as a birthday balloon. He skips down the halls, makes a wrong turn, doesn’t care, takes some lesser known path down a long corridor that is reminiscent of a dimly-lit casino. He pulls the lever of a machine, laughs when it scores a jackpot (they all do) and pours fake golden tokens out of its mouth onto the floor, forming a pile. When he’s made it to a more familiar area—a big circular room lined with doors along its perimeter and buttoned in its center by a round fountain with glowing green water—Tristan comes to a stop, staring at the glistening green water, spraying like tiny emeralds.
It’s then he stops feeling happy and light.
He thinks about Kaleb playing that violin. Thinks about a soft, explorative hand constantly on Kaleb’s ass. Squeezing and caressing and enjoying as it pleases. He thinks of Markadian’s curly smile. He thinks of Kaleb’s racing heart, how he can tell the difference between the racing of passion and the racing of fear—and that Markadian tells no difference between the two.
Kaleb is being smart. He’s playing to Markadian’s desire. It is easy to fool Markadian once one learns how simple his needs are. It’s his life’s work that is complicated, not his private life, which is rather singular. He’s lonely. He craves companionship. That kind of closeness is something he’s lacked over the past two and a half decades spent with cold-and-heartless George. It’s no wonder he’s grown so bitter toward Tristan for leaving the way he did.
It’s also no wonder Markadian attached to the first sweet and innocent thing that came his way in the form of a violinist.
And their relationship will remain sweet and innocent.
Provided Markadian never learns who Kaleb truly is.
No matter how deeply Markadian feels for Kaleb now, once he learns the truth, he will feel no pity as his adoration convertsto hatred. He will devour every drop from Kaleb’s veins and toss him aside like an empty juice box. He may even delight in the cruelty.
Tristan cannot let that happen.
When Tristan reaches the blood donation center, four Bloods are present, sitting in chairs having their blood drawn, the nurses in attendance walking about ensuring all is going comfortably. All of them notice Tristan, stop what they’re doing, and bow their heads.As you were, says Tristan tiredly,I am here to fetch some blood, that is all. One of the non-illusionary nurses hurries to him. “Oh, I would be honored to do it for you, please, allow me.” As Tristan stands by, waiting, the eyes of the four donating Bloods are upon him, staring, wary, as if waiting for something as well.
Tristan knows most of the servile attitudes of the humans is disingenuous. They simply don’t want to be killed. They all hate their existences. They resent Tristan and the so-called gods and goddesses who feed them, only to in turn feed off of them.
“Blood 1025.”
Tristan looks up. It came from one of the Bloods donating, a young man. His eyes are on Tristan, his teeth clenched, brow furrowed, nostrils flared.
Tristan tilts his head.Sorry?
“Where is he?” asks the Blood. The three others are quite attentive as well, listening, eyes on Tristan. “1025?”
“He plays violin,” says another, a woman. The third speaks up, too: “Every night, we’d hear his music.”
“Someone thought he was sent for his first blood donation,” says the first man, “and had complications. But he’s not here. Last Wednesday, vanished overnight for no reason. Where is he?”
Tristan’s eyes flick from one Blood to the next.
There are many ways he can handle this situation. Manythings he can tell them, half-truths and total lies. Or full truths. He could threaten them into submission. He could avoid their questioning gazes and refuse to answer them at all.
The nurse returns a second later with a discreet container. “Is this enough for your needs, my good sir?”
Tristan smiles, thanks the nurse, then takes a step toward the Bloods.Your friend Blood 1025… he starts to say.
All four Bloods lean back in their chairs, alarmed.
Just that single step in their direction was enough to scare them. Their heartbeats, galloping.
Even the nurse appears uneasy.
