Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“No one likes us,” states Cindy with a smack of her lips.
Tristan takes this for an opportunity. I shall fetch more blood for our guests, to ensure no one is troubled.
“Top quality, please,” says Cindy, “and bring a lot more. It just hits differently than Texan blood, I gotta say.”
Tristan gives a short bow, notices Ashara peering at him in a strange, curious way, offers her a smile, then departs the room on his way to the infirmary where they keep the blood.
He’s stopped halfway out of the banquet hall. “Tristan.”
He turns. Ashara. Oh, is there something else? You do think I should try the martini glass thing? Or is it a bit over the top?
“Cut the crap,” she says. “Why are you suddenly acting as if you are on my side? I know you better than my brother does. You are playing at something. I want to know what it is.”
The only thing I’ve played at lately is my wardrobe. Tristan lifts an arm and poses, giving a gesture at his blouse and pants. See? My colors actually match today. I’ve been told my style has been too—
“This has to do with George, doesn’t it.”
—out of control, finishes Tristan awkwardly.
“You want your position back. You want George gone. It’s why he’s been missing or busy lately. You’ve busied him. Yes,” she then says, bringing a finger to her lips, nodding. “And I am the perfect leverage to send George back to the store rooms, nose buried in bullshit and books where it used to be. You want to align with me. You sense my rising.”
Tristan smiles. You caught me.
Ashara crosses her arms. “It won’t be easy. There will have to be big changes, Tristan, if you really want your position and status back, sitting next to my brother, and even then, it won’t be the same as it was before. You still wish to support me?”
Tristan’s smile persists. Until the bitter end.
Her eyes narrow critically. She steps back. “Martini glasses. They’ll hold more blood, easier to sip. Everyone is a sipper these days. No one knows how to drink anymore.”
I will return soon. Tristan bows again, then at last departs.
Upon leaving the ballroom and the laughter and the blood-drunk faces of directors and self-important individuals licking each other’s asses and drowning in their luxuries, Tristan feels at once as light as a birthday balloon. He skips down the halls, makes a wrong turn, doesn’t care, takes some lesser known path down a long corridor that is reminiscent of a dimly-lit casino. He pulls the lever of a machine, laughs when it scores a jackpot (they all do) and pours fake golden tokens out of its mouth onto the floor, forming a pile. When he’s made it to a more familiar area—a big circular room lined with doors along its perimeter and buttoned in its center by a round fountain with glowing green water—Tristan comes to a stop, staring at the glistening green water, spraying like tiny emeralds.
It’s then he stops feeling happy and light.
He thinks about Kaleb playing that violin. Thinks about a soft, explorative hand constantly on Kaleb’s ass. Squeezing and caressing and enjoying as it pleases. He thinks of Markadian’s curly smile. He thinks of Kaleb’s racing heart, how he can tell the difference between the racing of passion and the racing of fear—and that Markadian tells no difference between the two.
Kaleb is being smart. He’s playing to Markadian’s desire. It is easy to fool Markadian once one learns how simple his needs are. It’s his life’s work that is complicated, not his private life, which is rather singular. He’s lonely. He craves companionship. That kind of closeness is something he’s lacked over the past two and a half decades spent with cold-and-heartless George. It’s no wonder he’s grown so bitter toward Tristan for leaving the way he did.
It’s also no wonder Markadian attached to the first sweet and innocent thing that came his way in the form of a violinist.
And their relationship will remain sweet and innocent.
Provided Markadian never learns who Kaleb truly is.
No matter how deeply Markadian feels for Kaleb now, once he learns the truth, he will feel no pity as his adoration converts to hatred. He will devour every drop from Kaleb’s veins and toss him aside like an empty juice box. He may even delight in the cruelty.
Tristan cannot let that happen.
When Tristan reaches the blood donation center, four Bloods are present, sitting in chairs having their blood drawn, the nurses in attendance walking about ensuring all is going comfortably. All of them notice Tristan, stop what they’re doing, and bow their heads. As you were, says Tristan tiredly, I am here to fetch some blood, that is all. One of the non-illusionary nurses hurries to him. “Oh, I would be honored to do it for you, please, allow me.” As Tristan stands by, waiting, the eyes of the four donating Bloods are upon him, staring, wary, as if waiting for something as well.