Page 145 of Envious Of Fire
“Drink,” says George again, as calmly as the first few times.
Kyle only now glances at the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. And his Reach, ever so delayed in his distractions since entering the limo, suddenly picks up a braid of obedience and needle-like fear twisted tightly together inside the man. It is nearly impossible to distinguish whether he’s more obedient or afraid. Maybe the two feelings have been so deeply associated with each other throughout his life that he literally can’t tell the difference between the two—like a metal alloy made of the two, now becoming something entirely new, unable to be separated. He is both afraid for his life and completely loyal to George.
“You keep humans at the House of Vegasyn?” asks Kyle, breath sucked from his lungs after experiencing the unique fear cocktail within the driver, turning his eyes back to George. “Is that not against some laws you guys have? Protected Blood and all that? Do you keep … human slaves?”
“I am not a slave,” says the driver, and despite sounding at ease, Kyle instantly picks up a robotic undertone—something a soulless creature like George might quickly overlook. “I am an honorable servant to the House of Vegasyn.”
George turns his head once more, eyeing Kyle. “Drink.”
Kyle looks at the champagne again, sitting there, looking likea deadly threat. He feels so strangely alone. He wonders if this isn’t the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life, to go with a person like George, to agree to any of this.
“If I die, I die,” he says to himself. “I was so close, anyway.”
“You will not die,” George states, hearing him, continuing to stare ahead blankly. “You will only sleep. When you wake, it will be in a lovely guestroom. There will be an outfit for you, in precisely your size, to each and every measurement. Tristan will then collect you and take you to the event. Despite all you have come to believe about the House of Vegasyn and its occupants, there is no harm intended to you this night. No harm at all. At the event’s conclusion, like I said in truth, you will be returned safely to Nowhere, alive and well.”
Kyle sighs, bored of hearing George talk. “Fine.” He opens the unsealed champagne, pours a flute, then brings it to his lips without further protest. It tastes just like champagne, not even the slightest bit off. He wonders for a moment if George didn’t make up all of that about the blue lotus extract.
Until the champagne bottle becomes two, then three, the lighting in the limo glows brilliantly bright and begins waltzing around him, and he decides quite suddenly to lay back his head.
···
The next thing Kyle knows is silk.
Silk sheets beneath him. A firm mattress. Scent of lavender and oak hanging in the air. Warm, amber lighting.
He sits up with a start. A bedroom, Victorian vibe, much like Markadian’s office—one of the only rooms in the House of Vegasyn Kyle remembers in vivid detail. Spacious and clean. He’s on a large bed, fingers curling around silk sheets. He rises, bare feet finding hardwood flooring that creaks softly. His eyes search around, blinking, as he takes in the room. He’s alone.
He spots a bronze clothing rack. Hanging from it: a suit.Black pants, white shirt, black vest, black bowtie, black jacket. After a quick moment of rubbing his eyes, he pads over to the clothing rack, fighting off drowsiness. He touches the material of the shirt. Surprisingly soft, luxurious, expensive.
He peers over his shoulder, spots a door. Next to it, a large archway leading into a bathroom. He stumbles there with his clothes in hand, squinting against his confusion, is startled to discover his reflection in a big mirror over the sink.
And he only now realizes he’s naked.
He tries not to wonder who undressed him. George. The driver. Someone else. He even smells fresh, like he was bathed. Again, tries not to overthink who possibly bathed him. Maybe some other terrified, brainwashed servant of this place.
Or Tristan.
Could it have been Tristan?
The prospect of Tristan bathing him isn’t so bad. After all, they bathed together for decades. They were intimate lovers, a married couple without the trouble of paperwork. Just two men in a secluded cabin, only trees for neighbors, only squirrels.
Kyle puts on the shirt. It fits perfectly, as if stitched to his precise size. The vest, too, hugging him exquisitely. He’s never worn or tied a bowtie, and after only four attempts, he gives up and sets it aside. After running water through his hair and fixing it as nicely as he can, he stands before the mirror and studies his striking new look.
Has he ever truly dressed up like this?
Not since he was a mortal, perhaps. The old days. School dances. A couple of his brother’s violin recitals. A neighbor’s wedding they went to once, the whole street so happy that she found herself another husband after the passing of her previous one, and Kyle’s mom made a fuss about her kids looking totally adorable in matching little suits. He was seven, maybe eight.
No reason to look fancy anymore, it seems.
But why not? He and Elias should do this sometime. Get dressed up. Go out to dinner. Do those gross couples things, feed each other bites of buttered linguini, clink pretty glasses of champagne that hasn’t been tampered with by chemistry.
It’s an emotional reaction, a strong one, standing here and studying his own reflection, like he forgot how fancy he can get with a little effort. How careless he’s been with his appearance over the years. How little love he’s shown himself.
You look beautiful.
Kyle turns. In the middle of the room, Tristan stands in a fine suit of his own, much like Kyle’s, only his shirt seems puffier, the sleeves lined with lace. His blond hair is swept upward, styled in such a way Kyle has never seen before, which shows his cute ears, both of them dressed with a sparkling stud earring. Tristan looks so different, yet totally himself. Kyle doesn’t know what to say.
Tristan smiles.May I?
