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)
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. It is 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 needed melting. 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 of an 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.
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 into Tristan’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.