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)
“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 is not unreservedly 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.”
The musician’s lifeless eyes stare up at Tristan, his last look of terror still glimmering in them, captured like a photograph, blood pumping from the fountain of his opened neck.
He had pleasant eyes, says Tristan, as if in start of a eulogy.
“And not much else,” concludes Ashara, ending it.
The truth is, the musician shared many traits with Tristan. From his short blond tangles of hair to his misty blue eyes. His proud yet unassuming posture, how he both stood out and kept close to the shadows, his guard never fully down. Even the proud way he lifted his head as he played—well, when it was attached to his shoulders. The soft way he spoke, like his words were a melody of their own. How he dedicated himself to the music each time he lifted an instrument, though he was a tad robotic, like a pupil with the highest marks, everything done so properly, yet missing that special, unteachable thing.
Tristan was hoping this musician would last.
But, like the last one, in a long line of hopeful musicians that have met similar fates, the boy is now as dead as Bach.
Admittedly, it’s difficult to perform under such pressure for a musician of any measure of talent, especially when one’s sole audience is Ashara, the blood-bonded sister of Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn and ruler of the west region, which includes with a few insignificant exceptions everything west of Louisiana, from Houston, Texas to Seattle, Washington. Even directors in the east region regard Markadian with unwavering respect. Ashara is no exception, as even without a title or rank, a mere whisper from her lips to her brother’s ear can raze a city to ash.
“So much dear Markadian could improve upon here,” says Ashara to the hearth, “so much he could change if he had the drive. He’s too complacent. I’ve made great use of my time in India these past fifteen months, and oh, the ideas I’ve gathered, how they’d handle a rogue among their ranks … how they’d respond to such insolence I have seen here since my return …” She lets out a sigh that isn’t unlike the hiss of a snake. “You’d be loath to hear of it.”
The head still rests at Tristan’s feet, reminding him of a tipped over wineglass pouring its lifeblood. Tristan takes a step back, if anything but to keep his shoes from being soaked in blood, and asks, Should I summon someone to clean up the, um—?
“Is it true?” Ashara pulls her face from the fire. “Did you leave my brother’s side all those years ago … for a boy?”
Tristan considered the question. There were many decisions I made … that may have been ill-advised.
“Ill-advised, we’re calling it?” Her iron gaze locks on his. “Your nearly three-decade-long flirtation with this boy I have heard is called … Kyle, is it?”
The way she utters his name.
With such predetermined disgust and mockery.
It is obvious Markadian’s words have already poisoned the idea of Kyle to her.