Page 97 of Envious Of Fire
The only item here that is certainlynotan illusion.
Soaked in Brock’s blood. The rug Kyle was pressed down upon during his trial, when his immortal life was nearly sucked from his veins by Lord Markadian himself before an audience ofdirectors all across the west region. Discarded here like trash.
Tristan knows this isn’t a simple renovation of the tower. This isn’t Lord Markadian stretching his powers for sport.
This is a threat.
Tristan sweeps his way back down the stairs, through the Midnight Garden, and down the stone corridor, the view of distant mountains at his side fittingly obscured by threatening fog that has gathered like a storm. He enters the white foyer, still sorting the words he wishes to say to Markadian.
It’s there that he stops.
He listens.
Music.
But it doesn’t come from Markadian’s office.
Tristan trusts his ears, heading down a different hallway that is long and narrow, then up a wide set of carpeted stairs to a large landing, across which he continues, the music growing louder, growing closer. He passes through a tall archway, and underneath the music comes the sound of familiar laughter and banter.
Tristan enters the grand banquet hall from the back. Though there are nearly fifty tables spread across the enormous room, all seven of its occupants are gathered around a single table in the center. They are familiar directors from other domains in the west region. The rosy-cheeked, Texas-twanged, curvy Director Cindy from the Dallasade domain. Her pale, deadpan, and dark-haired frenemy Zara next to her, who looks uncharacteristically drunk-happy tonight. The eternally even-tempered Director Tsuki with her teal-dipped short brown hair and teal glasses. Director Peter, with the appearance of a twelve-year-old boy in Sunday school attire, next to the odd gentleman with straw-like, white-blond hair and an ochre complexion in a pink three-piece suit, Ernest.
The five directors are joined by the unusually happy LordMarkadian, who is laughing at a story Cindy is sharing with the others, her Texas twang ringing out. And standing right by Lord Markadian’s side, like a prized possession handpicked out of the world’s finest orchestra, stands Kaleb in an egregiously crisp and fancy tuxedo complete with coattails, playing violin and creating a rich, elegant atmosphere for the gathering.
Markadian’s arm is casually wrapped around the lower back of Kaleb’s waist, the way one caresses a lover, subtly resting on the top of Kaleb’s ass.
And if Tristan’s instant presumption is correct, Kaleb is in fact wearing nothing at all, the tuxedo is an illusion, and it is his bare ass that Markadian is lustfully caressing while he plays.
It twists Tristan’s stomach at first sight.
As if it couldn’t be twisted worse, Lord Markadian’s eyes flick onto Tristan. But it isn’t coldness Tristan sees in them; it’s a peculiarly proud look, boastful, like a champion of a game, Kaleb is his trophy, and his guests are here to celebrate the victory.
A victory over what? Tristan can only wonder as of yet.
And to think his afternoon felt so much more promising than the morning. He paid Brock a visit at the clinic again, who spoke fuller sentences: “I can’t wait to go to college.” Tristan smiled, relieved Brock was in a peaceful, non-cannibalizing mood. “My best buddy. Together. Kyle and I. We’re gonna be roomies.” He kept smiling, encouraging the pleasant memories, even if there was something a tad off in Brock’s eyes. “I like to play football. I like football. Football is good.” Even if all his words came out slow and clumsy, like they were someone else’s.
Perhaps four or so days was, in fact, too optimistic a hope for when Brock might be ready to return to his life again. He might need another week.
But do they have that much time?
“Well, lookie who the dead cat dragged in!” sings Cindy as her eyes find Tristan.
Lord Markadian chuckles merrily. “Your ears must be red, Tristan. Director Zara was just wondering what you’ve been up to since your dramatic entrance at a certain mortal’s trial.”
Director Zara turns her deadpan eyes upon Tristan. “Yes, I was … mildly curious. Whatwasthat mortal’s name again?”
After a nervous flick of his eyes at Kaleb, Tristan blurts,It doesn’t matter.What’s most important is that I still have my head and the blood in my veins, and I happen to like the two being precisely where they are.Does our lovely gathering have a purpose, by the way? Why are we so happy? Did someone die?
“Not yet, doll face,” answers Cindy, reaching for her glass of chardonnay off the table, slurping on it, then adding, “but the nightisstill young. Hey, little Peter, didn’t you say not long ago you’d cut Ms. Tsuki here in half next time you saw her?”
Director Peter, not thrilled by the “little” moniker, says, “We have since made up. She treated me to teppanyaki. We drank fermented rice wine and bitched about our parents.”
“It was just sake,” mutters Director Tsuki. “No need to say it all fancy like that.”
Tristan, in a moment of curiosity, or weakness, peers across the table at Kaleb.
He’s surprised to find Kaleb peering back.
The look on Kaleb’s face is somewhat neutral, if not calm. He is otherwise unreadable. Tristan continues to watch him, a bit peeved he can’t seem to figure out Kaleb’s mood. Is he well? Is he happy? Is he feeling like a piece of exploited meat next to Lord Markadian at all times?
