Page 7 of Envious Of Fire
Thinking of Brock’s head resting in his lap in a high school hallway, freshly put to sleep, snoring softly away.
Thinking of Brock in the locker room, after another cute showing off of his football player strength, trying to overpower immortal Tristan, before succumbing to him in so many ways.
Thinking of Brock and what he has endured in his short mortal life, his failing marriage, his son he’s so proud of …
Brock and his brief reunion with Kyle … which only took him down a road to his unintended yet certain death …
So Tristan voices his mind.I believe the only answer is to make Brock alive again.We must consider more…drastic measures. Tristan delivers the words to the floor at first. Then he dares to lift his eyes to Lord Markadian.Darker measures.
Tristan wonders if he will be understood.
He is understood perfectly. “No,” snaps Markadian. “You will not entertain any such measures of darkness.”
Respectfully, it may be our only option.
“Respectfully, fuck you. Wewillfind other options. You will not entertain even athoughtof such dark means again, or so help me, I’ll chain you to the floor and cast an illusion so all my guests think you’re nothing but a rug to walk upon.”
Surprisingly, that makes Tristan smile.I do miss your threats.I can’t help but admit, they used to make meincorrigibly hard.
For a moment, Markadian’s ire is gone. A flicker of his old self returns, lips curling, as if fighting back a laugh. “Used to?”
George’s eyes snap back and forth between them, annoyed.
Tristan seizes the opportunity, coming up to the desk and putting himself in front of George, keeping eye contact with Markadian.I only suggested such…dark means…because leaving Brock’s fate a mystery is becoming more dangerous by the hour.There are ever so many humans who watch our every action, who know of our nature…and certain blood contracts upon which our peace relies.
“Our dutiful and wise Lord of Vegasyn needs no reminding about the list of Protected Blood,” announces George.
Mmm…you may be quite right. Tristan addresses George while continuing to stare at Markadian.But do remind me, whose responsibility was it to maintain the list? My memory fails me…
“I very much doubt your memory ever fails you,” George returns, “for we all know it is I. I am responsible for that list.”
Oh, please accept my apologies, George, of course it is you.
“I do not accept your apologies,” George sighs out. “Brock Hastings’ name was simply overlooked that night.”
Overlooked? So it is Miss May’s fault, whose duty is to look—?
“I take full responsibility. At least I am not suggesting to fix my errors with the outrageous use of forbidden dark arts.”
It is now that Tristan daintily spins about to face George.Did your eyes fail you the last time you updated the list? You should perhaps collect eyeglasses rather than hourglasses.Was it not, in fact, your quest for an hourglass that put us in this whole predicament?
“Enough, Tristan,” growls Markadian, drops into his chair, digs fingers into his temples. “I tire of your juvenile sarcasm. Itis a quality about you I do not miss in the least.” His eyes narrow upon Tristan. “Really? Dark arts? Ridiculous. And just when I thought I could trust you again.”
George enjoys the tiniest of smirks, appearing triumphant.
Tristan sucks his lips inward.
A silhouette falls over the room as someone else sweeps in through the opened doors. “Ah, have the boys irritated you to tears, brother?” Ashara’s dress brushes along the hardwood. “I would have come much sooner, if it weren’t for the atrocious musician whose head I just removed. Do forgive me.”
“A dull, dead musician on a growing pile of other dull, dead musicians is my least concern,” sighs Markadian.
“He had flown much too high. His wings neededmelting. If none of us in this room can enjoy the sun, why should he?” She pulls Markadian up from his chair, straightens his shirt and tie, then grins. “I am ever so delighted to be home again.”
Lord Markadian smiles, likely for the first time this night. “Sister, I share your delight.”
As Tristan watches the pair exchange pleasantries, he can’t help but think of how many people in Markadian’s vicinity have but one goal in mind: to win his love. George and his pandering and butler-like behavior. Miss May dutifully standing guard at the office door all the days and nights long. Ashara returning from India armed with innovation. Even Tristan finds himself locking horns with others who would prove themselves more useful or interesting to Lord Markadian. Is it not exhausting? Like an orgy happening beneath the surface of what otherwise appears to be a normal conversation, everyone vying for Markadian’s attention with increasing desperation? Is it not the most exhausting thing, to receive so much love, and not know which of it to trust?
There was a time Tristan was the only interesting thing to Markadian. Nothing held a contest, not even the collapse ofan entire domain fifty-eight years ago after a treacherous coup d’état unseated the reigning director and killed four immortals. Despite that, Markadian would simply summon Tristan to this office, with a phone ringing, knocking at the door, stack of letters left unread and unanswered, and the two could not be found for hours.
