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)
Tristan’s eyes become lost to a spot seven paces from the door—the exact spot where mere days ago, Brock experienced the last moment of his life when George opened his throat for allegedly not being on a list.
It is a marvel how the room keeps itself so spotless. All the blood that was spilled here, efficiently and utterly gone.
Assuming it is not just another of Markadian’s illusions.
Tristan departs the white room, too.
Despite sauntering almost playfully through the far more familiar corridors of the House, Lord Markadian’s words weigh heavily upon Tristan. It would seem the Lord of Vegasyn sure knows how to nurse a grudge. Tristan can feel the threat of his own final death with every single step he takes, like a persistent, taunting voice over his shoulder. Punishment for the choices he’s made, showcasing Markadian’s unforgiving nature and why Tristan should always keep his head low. And Kyle, who lives obliviously out in the tiny desert town of Nowhere, is a walking promise that Tristan’s days are likely numbered.
Tristan should exercise caution. Behave. Keep in line.
Sadly, that is not in his nature: Raya, my beautiful mistress of mayhem, would you like to accompany me on an errand?
It is in the abandoned tower that he finds his dear friend, at the farthest corner of the House of Vegasyn where Markadian’s illusions do not reach, giving way to true reality. At the very top of a spiral staircase, there’s a wide circular loft where it is charmingly drab. A broken crate covered in webs. Dusty tarp flung over the floor near it, torn. An overturned mousetrap by an old painting leaning against the wall. Perhaps at one point in history, this room might have been a princess’s tower, complete with a large canopy bed and silks draped everywhere, but time utterly chewed it up, as it does all things living and not, leaving it in a state of magnificent shambles. It is Tristan’s favorite place, if only because of its key feature: a window through which actual moonlight shines.
It’s upon the sill of that window that Raya is perched. In her hand, a can of beer—a mortal beverage she enjoys between meals of human blood, something about the bitterness. Raya is no director or Lordess and has no political sway or power, but she carries herself like she does—a queen in her own mind. Her hair, half white, half black, is interwoven into a thick braid that runs over her left shoulder to rest upon her pale-as-milk skin. She wears a short leather skirt and black lace bustier accentuating her curvy shape and legs, her outfit of which she once insisted to Tristan “compensates for my unforgivable lack of self-esteem when I was mortal”. Her ensemble is completed with a pair of stockings and spike heels, always black.
And to Tristan’s question, Raya purses her black-as-night lips and sighs out the words, “Ugh, another one of your errands?”
What? Tristan asks innocently, stepping over a crushed-up beer can and a broomstick on his way to join her at the window. Did you not adore our last errand together?
Raya takes a slurp of beer, twists her lips. “Does this new errand have to do with that dreadfully dead corpse you showed me in the human infirmary?”
Regrettably.
“And what, so help me, is the errand?”
Tristan leans into her, his misty blue eyes gleaming with mischief. I shall be breaking one of our most sacred decrees and going behind Lord Markadian’s back to speak with a deadly outlaw versed in the most forbidden of dark arts.
To that, Raya rolls her eyes.
In other words, yes, please, and thank you.
2.
Peace & Quiet.
—∙—
There is a large painting of a lion on the wall—a king of his pride, regal and pulsing with undeniable command, blazing in bold oranges and fiery golds, his eyes stinging with greens and sensitive blues and highlighted with amber tints of wisdom.
It is Kyle’s best work to date, if he does say so himself.
“It’s obviously me, right?” asks a rather cocky Elias tonight, coming up from behind to lock his arms around his lover.
Kyle breaks a smile, enjoying the kisses Elias places up the back of his neck. “The lion’s my favorite animal.”
“Other than me?” He reaches Kyle’s ear, takes a nip.
“The way you keep nibbling me like a sirloin, you’d think you were the one who drinks blood around here.”
“Can I help that the mere sight of you makes me crazy?” A growl rattles up his throat. “I want you so bad tonight.”
“You know I’m heading to the bar soon, babe.”
“That still leaves us ten or fifteen to mess around. Will you even have any customers? Who the fuck drinks on a Tuesday?”
“In this town? Everyone.”
“Only you.” Elias turns Kyle around and presses him to the wall. “And I’m the only one you drink.”
“Elias …”
“Just one bite before you go?”