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)
Kyle stares back at that grinning face, the words becoming ice in his chest.
That ice lingers long after the trio make their way out of the abandoned quarry, out of the basin, into the open desert. As much as Kyle wants to believe that every footstep brings them closer to freedom, he can’t help the mounting sense of dread in La-La’s last words to him—words that sound less and less like a threat.
More like a promise.
22.
Everything Will Be Fine.
—∙—
The bad feelings start when Tristan returns to the clinic to find Raya’s room cleared out. Then he can’t seem to find her anywhere at all, not in her usual hangouts, not in the Midnight Garden, not in the Velvet Row where Kaleb is staying.
Then he checks the top of his tower.
And finds it beautifully furnished with expensive furniture: a vanity with a round gold-trimmed mirror, several tall white vases spilling with bright yellow flowers, a chandelier glittering with diamond jewels, a curly-armed sofa and ottoman that both look pulled from a Victorian mansion, a circular glass table with a decorative marble centerpiece upon it.
And in place of his beautiful window is a tapestry.
Of Lord Markadian’s face.
Smirking triumphantly.
All of this: illusion. All of this, replacing Tristan’s very real room that was once his favorite place to come, to get away from the falsehoods of the House, to sit upon the ledge and peer at the moon on such a night as tonight.
That’s when Tristan’s eyes fall upon the floor, seeing the most offensive sight of all in this freshly-decorated room.
A bloodied Persian rug.
The only item here that is certainly not an illusion.
Soaked in Brock’s blood. The rug Kyle was pressed down upon during his trial, when his immortal life was nearly sucked from his veins by Lord Markadian himself before an audience of directors all across the west region. Discarded here like trash.
Tristan knows this isn’t a simple renovation of the tower. This isn’t Lord Markadian stretching his powers for sport.
This is a threat.
Tristan sweeps his way back down the stairs, through the Midnight Garden, and down the stone corridor, the view of distant mountains at his side fittingly obscured by threatening fog that has gathered like a storm. He enters the white foyer, still sorting the words he wishes to say to Markadian.
It’s there that he stops.
He listens.
Music.
But it doesn’t come from Markadian’s office.
Tristan trusts his ears, heading down a different hallway that is long and narrow, then up a wide set of carpeted stairs to a large landing, across which he continues, the music growing louder, growing closer. He passes through a tall archway, and underneath the music comes the sound of familiar laughter and banter.
Tristan enters the grand banquet hall from the back. Though there are nearly fifty tables spread across the enormous room, all seven of its occupants are gathered around a single table in the center. They are familiar directors from other domains in the west region. The rosy-cheeked, Texas-twanged, curvy Director Cindy from the Dallasade domain. Her pale, deadpan, and dark-haired frenemy Zara next to her, who looks uncharacteristically drunk-happy tonight. The eternally even-tempered Director Tsuki with her teal-dipped short brown hair and teal glasses. Director Peter, with the appearance of a twelve-year-old boy in Sunday school attire, next to the odd gentleman with straw-like, white-blond hair and an ochre complexion in a pink three-piece suit, Ernest.
The five directors are joined by the unusually happy Lord Markadian, who is laughing at a story Cindy is sharing with the others, her Texas twang ringing out. And standing right by Lord Markadian’s side, like a prized possession handpicked out of the world’s finest orchestra, stands Kaleb in an egregiously crisp and fancy tuxedo complete with coattails, playing violin and creating a rich, elegant atmosphere for the gathering.
Markadian’s arm is casually wrapped around the lower back of Kaleb’s waist, the way one caresses a lover, subtly resting on the top of Kaleb’s ass.
And if Tristan’s instant presumption is correct, Kaleb is in fact wearing nothing at all, the tuxedo is an illusion, and it is his bare ass that Markadian is lustfully caressing while he plays.
It twists Tristan’s stomach at first sight.
As if it couldn’t be twisted worse, Lord Markadian’s eyes flick onto Tristan. But it isn’t coldness Tristan sees in them; it’s a peculiarly proud look, boastful, like a champion of a game, Kaleb is his trophy, and his guests are here to celebrate the victory.
A victory over what? Tristan can only wonder as of yet.
And to think his afternoon felt so much more promising than the morning. He paid Brock a visit at the clinic again, who spoke fuller sentences: “I can’t wait to go to college.” Tristan smiled, relieved Brock was in a peaceful, non-cannibalizing mood. “My best buddy. Together. Kyle and I. We’re gonna be roomies.” He kept smiling, encouraging the pleasant memories, even if there was something a tad off in Brock’s eyes. “I like to play football. I like football. Football is good.” Even if all his words came out slow and clumsy, like they were someone else’s.