Page 4 of Envious Of Fire
“And thus, six human lives paid the price for their curiosity, six I could not spare, and thus, cleanup was necessary to do, and thus, the attention of a Dallasade scout was caught, and thus—”
I’ve heard enough, Tristan decided, dropping to his knees at the edge of the rail.Where is he now?
“In the hands of Director Cindy of the Dallasade domain. I made my recommendation to her already. It was, as I calculated, the greatest chance of survival the boy would have.”
Tristan lifted his eyes.You made a recommendation?
“For him to be sent to the House of Vegasyn, to be kept inthe humans cells for the remainder of his days alive. It is done.”
Tristan closed his eyes. He could imagine it all. The fear that sent the boy’s heart galloping each time he woke, his mind racing with nightmares of his family dying again, nightmares he would not easily be able to distinguish from reality. Wendy advised it would’ve been a more merciful option to let him die in the house with his parents, to let the boy join them in their eternal rest, to let him go. Tristan defied that mercy. He also refused to include him in his future with Kyle, his new creation, his new love …
Tristan was to blame for everything.
“There is no chance he can be freed again,” said Wendy. “I have considered each option available to me. It is not possible.”
Of course it isn’t, agreed Tristan wearily, slowly collapsing.
“Have we reached an end of this rebellion?” asked Wendy, as lightly as if they were returning from a trip to the store, from a tedious Tuesday afternoon errand. “Will you give up your life with Kyle and finally return to your post at Lord Markadian’s side? He thinks of you each day, demanding your whereabouts, his sanity crumbling. There are others who wish to replace you, eagerly plotting, many who hope you will never return. Do you not desire to disappoint them? Would it not be … ‘fun’ …?”
Tristan collapsed dramatically upon the tracks, face painted in moonlight, splintered wood and metal digging into his back.
Nothing will be fun anymore, he worried.Nothing at all.
“Put the boy out of your mind, it is done. What will you do now, Tristan? Decide.”
Tristan prayed a train would come. He prayed it would be so kind as to crush him, each and every car. It would surely hurt less than the guilt weighing so generously upon his chest.
“The dawn approaches. The night has run out. Decide.”
Yes, the sun was another option. It would hurt more than the train or the guilt, but perhaps it was what he deserved.
Nevertheless, he knew it was time. He had to make the bestof the hand he had drawn, even if his only present desire was to burn every last card he held.
So he made his choice:You have a new mission, Wendy, if not your final one, perhaps, before I disappear into my new life.
“Wendy is listening.”
You will oversee the boy’s placement in the cells.Assign him the highest one you can find—above a thousand, if you can manage.One of the highest numbers, from whom we never draw blood, from whom we never drink, entirely out of sight, tucked away like a secret…
“You wish him to rot?” she asked. “This is how you mean to save him? To rob him of his only purpose left?”
No…He still has a purpose, yet. Tristan gave up on waiting for the train or the sun. He rose to his feet, faced Wendy.And I suspect that someday, I will learn what it is.
“I fear I am running out of ways to serve you. It is only a matter of time before your every effort is undone. Your act of sparing the boy may have cut your immortal life short.”
If only I could be so lucky, returned Tristan thoughtfully, then strolled into the night.
1.
As Dead as Dead Can Be.
—·—
The musician’s severed blond head skitters across the floor, tumbles onto Tristan’s feet, comes to an abrupt stop.
Tristan sighs.Was that entirely necessary?
From the other side of the cluttered study, across stacks of weathered books perilously balanced upon ornate dark wood tables and plush crimson and gold chaise lounges, the tall and commanding shape of Ashara silhouettes the flames dancing in the hearth, a sleeveless dark green dress with a plunging back cascading down her statuesque frame. Her coppery skin glows in the flickering fire as she calmly licks blood from her ring finger. “If we’re strictly discussing 12-tone equal temperament, perhaps the boy had a point. But C-sharp isnotunreservedly the same as D-flat. Dusk is not the same as dawn, even if both share the same twilight. If he cannot understand or care to grasp that simple concept, he does not deserve his head.”
