Page 6 of Envious Of Fire
When he at last finds his way out of the circular maze, he discovers another one, wandering through a complex gallery ofincreasingly demented artwork. Six corridors he passes through in his pursuit of someone and doesn’t encounter anyone willing to give him even so much as a nod in return. Tristan doesn’t often wander in this corner of the House, to be fair, so most of the faces he passes are as unfamiliar as the halls themselves.
The House of Vegasyn is intentionally labyrinthine, so that only its most loyal residents can find their way about. It is also twisted with illusions, courtesy of Lord Markadian’s powerful talent of the mind, seeming to bend the laws of physics, with hallways existing where they cannot possibly, rooms appearing larger within than they ought to be, and other visual oddities that play with the senses. There is even a space that appears like a large domed greenhouse enclosing a forest that is populated by cute colorful butterflies, as well as a foyer with upside-down staircases that seem to lead toward doors upon the ceiling.
It appears to Tristan that several renovations have occurred during his long absence from this place, renovations that make him feel less like a loyal resident and more like the dishonored guest he has become. Every corner he turns, every archway he passes under, it feels like another punishing smirk from Lord Markadian, who will never forgive Tristan for those decades he spent away, feebly attempting to start a new life.
A new life that perhaps never had a chance.
He comes to a stop in an utterly blank foyer of four white walls, with a white ceiling and white floor, featureless and with not a seeming way in or out, that exists only outside the private office of Lord Markadian. Perhaps arriving here was entirely by design, too, as if the House itself had directed him to this spot without his realizing it. Does the House have a will of its own? Is it another dark companion loyally serving Lord Markadian? Perhaps seeking someone to clean up the headless corpse of a musician was not, after all, his priority.
Tristan hears a shout beyond the doors, startling him.
“Tristan,” say a set of twins in unison who guard the door, both slender, pale, their white hair running down their faces to their waists. It has never been made clear whether they are the same person or two individuals, but they speak in unison always and both answer to the name Miss May. There is another shout from within the office. Something breaks. Porcelain or glass, perhaps. “Lord Markadian will receive you now,” say the twins.
Tristan peers curiously at one of them.Are you quite sure it’s not a bad time?
The smooth white doors spread open before he’s ready.
A vase takes flight, rushes toward Tristan’s face. He catches it midair, stares calmly ahead.
Lord Markadian’s office is the center of the kaleidoscope that is the living House of Vegasyn, its hexagonal room warmly lit from a chandelier hanging above with amber shades, pouring its honeyed light over a hardwood desk with two armchairs set before it, the walls dressed in dark oak paneling.
From behind the desk stands the proud, regal shape of the Lord of Vegasyn himself. On most nights, Markadian can be described as classically handsome, perhaps thirty or so years in appearance, yet unknowably ageless in his wise, vibrant eyes, which burn with centuries of pain. He has a model’s jawline, a dusky brown complexion, and short buzzed hair faded up the sides. He is always thoughtfully attired in a slim-fitting, stylish shirt-and-tie combination with a tiny hoop earring in each ear.
Though he seems entirely poised, it was from his hand that the vase came flying, which Tristan still holds.
“Explain to me again,” demands Markadian, “what exactly you plan to do regarding the alleged accidental demise of a Protected Blood outside the doors of this very office?”
The person to whom the question is addressed is the one who inherited Tristan’s former rank as the Lord’s right hand twenty-seven years ago. At first glance, one might simply see asix-and-a-half-foot-tall librarian, until one notices the artificial pink coloring in his otherwise pale as paper cheeks, his thin lips and pencil mustache, his joyless, sunken eyes and brownish hair parted only somewhat crookedly down the middle, making him appear just odd enough to notice. Tristan has never heard the man raise his voice, nor shed a tear, nor seem even the slightest bit excited or happy about anything in the whole wide world. A walking skeleton in a dull sweater vest or suit. Coldhearted. Depressingly devoid of personality.
“I regret to say that we have exhausted all options,” recites the man, George, as if from a script, his voice as thin and wisplike as his body. “The mortal called Brock is, as they say, as dead as dead can be.”
Another vase goes flying so fast, Markadian’s arm does not even appear to move. Tristan catches it with his other hand.
“And what exactly are these ‘options’ you have exhausted?” asks Markadian. “Speak quickly. I havesomany more important tasks on my list, from a contested territory in California to a pain in my ass in the New Orleanea domain, about ten dozen requests in my inbox, and I haven’t yet had dinner. This entire situation needs to be dealt with and done before it becomes any more of a fucking embarrassment.”
George stiffens up. “The nurses attempted to restore him in the mortal way. All attempts failed. We tried performing the blood rite to make him one of us, but alas, he proved—”
“—too dead for even that,” finishes Markadian with waning patience. “And what about staging his death? Do we not have access to the vehicle he arrived to the Scarlet Sands in? Tell me why this is, as well, an impossible option. The human was an insufferable drunk and upheld such a repute in half the casinos across Vegas. Would it not be easy?”
“Well …” George gives it a moment’s consideration.
Too long a moment’s consideration for Tristan’s liking. Hesteps forth, still holding the vases.Not so easy, I’m afraid.Brock was seen entering the Scarlet Sands, then never departing.Multiple humans at the front desk paid witness.As well, two chatty workers in the casino had a direct interaction with both Brock and Kyle—
“You dare utter that boy’s name here?” clips George.
“Continue,” says Markadian, ignoring George.
So Tristan does.The state of his corpse does not bode well for any easy explanations.Humans will be on the hunt for an assassin, not a murderer.Does he have enemies? Should we dig deeper? This is what they will ask, as Brock’s family is rich and powerful.Detectives, they will hire.Skilled humans with observant eyes and college degrees.There are countless others who paid witness to his whereabouts within the hotel, too, as well as the town of Nowhere, two gas stations on his way from Phoenix, every witness able to be identified and questioned by all matter of authorities, and considering his reputation, I’m sure many authorities will be utilized.Not to mention if Kyle and Elias are questioned, or worse, suspected of Brock’s murder, which twists the spotlight right back onto the very ones we’re trying to hide.
“Why do we place such importance on this mortal Brock?” asks George, cutting in once more. “He was merely a childhood friend of the disgraceful Mr. Amos and a drunken—”
He was also my friend, adds Tristan calmly, now hugging the cold vases to his chest. He closes his eyes, fondly recalling their memories together decades ago, back when he, Kyle, and Brock attended the same high school in Texas.He was also a husband.And father.And son to a powerful man who will not for much longer overlook his absence. He opens his eyes.Yes, George has fucked us.
George turns his cold, irritated dead stare upon Tristan.
“Then tell me,dear.” There is a note of bitter resentmentin Markadian’s tone, as if uttering the term of endearment is poison. “What would you propose we do about Brock, the pain in our ass we’re calling a husband, father, friend, and son?”
Tristan has given this a lot of thought. In the short time he has had between weighing nightmares of his own. Or the recent return of Kyle in his life. That last kiss they shared before Kyle was dismissed to live out his days in Nowhere with his mortal boyfriend Elias. Tristan has had little else to think about. He has, indeed, allowed the dead Brock Hastings a ghastly amount of space to occupy in his mind.
