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 knows most of the servile attitudes of the humans is disingenuous. They simply don’t want to be killed. They all hate their existences. They resent Tristan and the so-called gods and goddesses who feed them, only to in turn feed off of them.
“Blood 1025.”
Tristan looks up. It came from one of the Bloods donating, a young man. His eyes are on Tristan, his teeth clenched, brow furrowed, nostrils flared.
Tristan tilts his head. Sorry?
“Where is he?” asks the Blood. The three others are quite attentive as well, listening, eyes on Tristan. “1025?”
“He plays violin,” says another, a woman. The third speaks up, too: “Every night, we’d hear his music.”
“Someone thought he was sent for his first blood donation,” says the first man, “and had complications. But he’s not here. Last Wednesday, vanished overnight for no reason. Where is he?”
Tristan’s eyes flick from one Blood to the next.
There are many ways he can handle this situation. Many things he can tell them, half-truths and total lies. Or full truths. He could threaten them into submission. He could avoid their questioning gazes and refuse to answer them at all.
The nurse returns a second later with a discreet container. “Is this enough for your needs, my good sir?”
Tristan smiles, thanks the nurse, then takes a step toward the Bloods. Your friend Blood 1025 … he starts to say.
All four Bloods lean back in their chairs, alarmed.
Just that single step in their direction was enough to scare them. Their heartbeats, galloping.
Even the nurse appears uneasy.
Tristan takes a step back, clutching the container, smiles. Your friend Blood 1025 has been specially chosen … for an important task elsewhere in the House. To utilize his … talent.
They appear surprised. “You mean he’s playing violin for you guys now?” They second-guess their wording. “For … for the … the gods …?”
Tristan’s smile tightens. Blood 1025’s music is rather godly in and of itself. Don’t you agree?
One Blood turns to another. “Maybe I should show my art. I have art,” he says suddenly, turning back to Tristan with his eyes alight. “All I need is better paint, a more solid canvas, I … I could paint the gods a portrait. I excel at portraits. You have really great lines, you do, I could paint your portrait, your nose is—”
“I’m a computer engineer,” says the woman, sitting up. “IT has been my bread and butter for eleven and a half years since before … this. Surely you utilize computers. I could be useful.”
The Bloods start eagerly spilling their talents, back and forth, as Tristan takes another step back, then another. Thanks, he says over their elevator pitches, glassy-eyed, grimacing for a smile. I shall take this all into consideration, yes … me and my, um, colleagues. Thank you for the, um, the … for your donation.
He flees the hall to the sound of their continued pleas.
In a study three floors up that has a side bar, Tristan calmly pours the contents of the container into eight martini glasses. It is blissfully silent and peaceful in this study, as likely no one has stepped foot in it for months. But in his head circle the words of the Bloods downstairs, demanding to know where Blood 1025 has gone. For nearly a week, they’ve probably been gossiping nonstop, worrying, building nightmares in their heads, whispering words of wrongdoing. It isn’t the first time something like this happened, with a Blood disappearing. But it feels so much more significant this time, worse, like something is on the verge of breaking apart.
Other than Tristan’s calm right now.
Which is a step upon thin ice, but no cracks are visible.
Tristan forces his focus into filling each of the martini glasses with absolute precision and care, ensuring they are perfectly filled with a fingertip of room at the top, eight pretty glasses, eight pretty drinks for their five guests plus Markadian and Ashara, one to spare if Cindy is still unsatisfied.
He finishes, smiles at his work, eight pretty martini glasses.
Then he thinks of only two glasses—two actual martinis, filled with actual alcohol. He thinks of a small round table by a window in a cabin he shared with someone, years ago.
With Kyle Bentley Amos.
Kyle peering at him over the two glasses, his sweet face, his boy-next-door charm, bright eyes and soft lips. “Happy tenth, my love.” Tristan lifted his glass. Tink! They took a sip from their glasses without breaking eye contact. Kyle kept touching Tristan’s leg under the table with his own, a sly smile creeping over his face, revealing dimples. Tristan bit his lip as he wondered what was on Kyle’s mind. It wasn’t long before he found out, moments later, as the men crashed into each other’s faces, spilling what remained of their drinks. To a nearby couch they went, hands on one another, clothes coming off, as they made love in the dead of night.