Page 8 of Envious Of Fire
That was the golden age of Tristan’s precious time here in the House of Vegasyn.
The age before he met Kyle Bentley Amos.
“Leave us,” orders Markadian, to the apparent delight of a smirking Ashara. “But not you, Tristan.”
George stiffens up, gives the slightest of bows, then heads for the door, disappearing into the white beyond.
Tristan steps forward.Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn?
“I am curious,” he says, his eyes upon Ashara, “if you have a report on the status of … your former companion?”
Ashara runs a hand through her long hair, drawing it over a shoulder, as she glances at Tristan with impatience.
Yes, Tristan answers.Kyle and Elias are happily enjoying their peace and quiet in Nowhere, Arizona, their secret still tightly kept.Kyle knows the condition of his freedom.
“Of course he does.” Markadian’s eyes glint with dark delight. “But do you remember yours?”
Tristan tightens his grip on the vases.
“You laid your immortal life down for that boy,” he carries on, “an act I am sure every occupant of this House as well as every single director who attended the trial that day would have strongly advised against. Do not forget, if his secret ever spills from the confines of that sad desert town … a month, or a year, even five decades from now … it is not only his life I plan to devour with immeasurable delight. His end is your end, too.”
Ashara fixes Markadian’s hair now, an older sister feeling important as she fusses over her brother, but his eyes bore intoTristan’s from over the desk, like the mere thought of draining Kyle and Tristan has made him demented with thirst.
Tristan offers a wry smile.You have nothing to worry about, Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn.
But his words are ignored as Markadian lets his sister preen him with care, establishing herself as the true partner above all others, whom he rewards with his attention.
And so Tristan sees himself out.
In the blank white room, Miss May still stands faithfully. After a moment of indecision, Tristan sets a vase on either side of the door.Really, this foyer is much improved with the slightest of furnishings, he announces to the silent twins. They do not reply.
Tristan’s eyes become lost to a spot seven paces from the door—the exact spot where mere days ago, Brock experienced the last moment of his life when George opened his throat for allegedly not being on a list.
It is a marvel how the room keeps itself so spotless. All the blood that was spilled here, efficiently and utterly gone.
Assuming it is not just another of Markadian’s illusions.
Tristan departs the white room, too.
Despite sauntering almost playfully through the far more familiar corridors of the House, Lord Markadian’s words weigh heavily upon Tristan. It would seem the Lord of Vegasyn sure knows how to nurse a grudge. Tristan can feel the threat of his own final death with every single step he takes, like a persistent, taunting voice over his shoulder. Punishment for the choices he’s made, showcasing Markadian’s unforgiving nature and why Tristan should always keep his head low. And Kyle, who lives obliviously out in the tiny desert town of Nowhere, is a walking promise that Tristan’s days are likely numbered.
Tristan should exercise caution. Behave. Keep in line.
Sadly, that is not in his nature:Raya, my beautiful mistressof mayhem, would you like to accompany me on an errand?
It is in the abandoned tower that he finds his dear friend, at the farthest corner of the House of Vegasyn where Markadian’s illusions do not reach, giving way to true reality. At the very top of a spiral staircase, there’s a wide circular loft where it is charmingly drab. A broken crate covered in webs. Dusty tarp flung over the floor near it, torn. An overturned mousetrap by an old painting leaning against the wall. Perhaps at one point in history, this room might have been a princess’s tower, complete with a large canopy bed and silks draped everywhere, but time utterly chewed it up, as it does all things living and not, leaving it in a state of magnificent shambles. It is Tristan’s favorite place, if only because of its key feature: a window through which actual moonlight shines.
It’s upon the sill of that window that Raya is perched. In her hand, a can of beer—a mortal beverage she enjoys between meals of human blood, something about the bitterness. Raya is no director or Lordess and has no political sway or power, but she carries herself like she does—a queen in her own mind. Her hair, half white, half black, is interwoven into a thick braid that runs over her left shoulder to rest upon her pale-as-milk skin. She wears a short leather skirt and black lace bustier accentuating her curvy shape and legs, her outfit of which she once insisted to Tristan “compensates for my unforgivable lack of self-esteem when I was mortal”. Her ensemble is completed with a pair of stockings and spike heels, always black.
And to Tristan’s question, Raya purses her black-as-night lips and sighs out the words, “Ugh, another one of your errands?”
What?Tristan asks innocently, stepping over a crushed-up beer can and a broomstick on his way to join her at the window.Did you not adore our last errand together?
Raya takes a slurp of beer, twists her lips. “Does this newerrand have to do with that dreadfully dead corpse you showed me in the human infirmary?”
Regrettably.
“And what, so help me, is the errand?”
