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)
We’re serious, answers Tristan—ignoring the look of shock Raya throws him.
“Good. And as for what you owe, money’s toilet paper to me, got plenty enough of it to get by, I’m bored of it. What I want in return for my services is … far more valuable to me than any amount of green.”
Tristan had feared that. So what do you want, then?
A look of great and terrible joy spreads across Mance’s face as he sticks the cigarette between his lips. The joy turns his eyes frighteningly dark as he reaches behind his back.
Then presents an item: a cute white box.
Fitting right upon his scarred, discolored palm. Bound by a shiny green ribbon, crisscrossed over the top, punctuated with a matching bow. Suspiciously plain.
“My price is simple,” says Mance. “Deliver my gift.”
To whom?
“Lord Markadian.”
Tristan’s eyes close as the name echoes down the hall. He should have known better than to trust that a sly individual like Mance would make this easy—and not agree to this meeting without a dark ulterior motive. You know I cannot do that.
“What’s the big deal? Call this a belated birthday present. Just put it on his desk, easy-peasy. Tell him it’s from a cousin, or an estranged aunt, or his third grade science teacher … I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you say. Just give it to him.”
Tristan takes a step forward, eyes opening. Mance …
“Ain’t it such a little price for my services? Just handin’ the man a stupid box? I could’ve asked for your happiest memory.” Mance crouches down, eyes still on Tristan, as he holds a hand over the candle and lets the flame lick at his palm like a puppy. “Or a blowjob. Or an actual newborn’s heart. Though … I bet the blowjob would be the worst by far,” he admits as he gazes up at Tristan and Raya, voice turning melodic with sympathy. “I love to make my pleasures last, like sweet little torments … a tiny crank of the stretch rack, mmm, the pain and the pleasure that creaks down the body, one notch at a time … You’d be on your knees for hours and hours, how I love to make it last.” Mance rises, cups his crotch. “And I’m more than a mouthful, too. Can you imagine it? What sweet-ass torture that would be for your kind, havin’ my throbbin’ blood-filled dick down your throat … without bein’ allowed the pleasure of a single bite. What? Am I gettin’ you hard, Tristan? Makin’ you wet, Raya? I bet y’all’s fangs are poppin’ out right about now, dreamin’ of it.”
Tristan sighs and gives his own face a careless gesture. We don’t have fangs, I’m afraid, as we are not Ferals.
“Ah, right … Ferals … you guys and your elitist shit, actin’ like you’re any different than the wild bloodsuckers just because you drink your blood out of wineglasses and wear suits. You’re just as animal as the others are. Only difference is, you’re in a constant state of self-denial, like a suppressed goody Mormon boy tryin’ not to fuck the brains outta his mission buddy. What a terrible fuckin’ way to live, lyin’ to yourself all day. Your whole society is barely keepin’ itself together and you don’t even see it, all of you fuckers just an inch away from mayhem, just one tiny shove away from latchin’ on to the first throat you see.”
Are you quite done, Mance?
“All of this to say …” His face tightens, losing all humor at once. “Just give Mark the goddamned box.”
Tristan wonders which is worse, to be in Death’s debt, or in Mance’s. Perhaps every soul is in Death’s debt to begin with, accruing since the day their mortal form is born.
If only Tristan had Kyle’s gift, to read whatever Mance is feeling right now, to have that useful information, to be able to sense his misgivings, his excitements, his fears … and to know which threats and statements to trust. He might even be able to get an understanding of what, exactly, is contained in the box.
What an odd time to be envying Kyle.
But if he’s going to take a leap of faith with Mance, he will need to secure himself something of an insurance policy.
And so: Very well, states Tristan. I shall do what you wish and give Lord Markadian the box.
Raya turns to him at once. “Tristan …”
However, he goes on, since I’m paying such a price and taking such a risk, I wonder if I might ask you for … one additional favor.
Mance lifts his eyebrows, appearing genuinely surprised. “I gotta commend the balls on this one. You really think you’re in a position to ask for more outta me? What? Stealin’ someone from Death’s Divine Domain ain’t enough? Talk about wantin’ your resurrection cake and eatin’ it, too.”