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)
A new life that perhaps never had a chance.
He comes to a stop in an utterly blank foyer of four white walls, with a white ceiling and white floor, featureless and with not a seeming way in or out, that exists only outside the private office of Lord Markadian. Perhaps arriving here was entirely by design, too, as if the House itself had directed him to this spot without his realizing it. Does the House have a will of its own? Is it another dark companion loyally serving Lord Markadian? Perhaps seeking someone to clean up the headless corpse of a musician was not, after all, his priority.
Tristan hears a shout beyond the doors, startling him.
“Tristan,” say a set of twins in unison who guard the door, both slender, pale, their white hair running down their faces to their waists. It has never been made clear whether they are the same person or two individuals, but they speak in unison always and both answer to the name Miss May. There is another shout from within the office. Something breaks. Porcelain or glass, perhaps. “Lord Markadian will receive you now,” say the twins.
Tristan peers curiously at one of them. Are you quite sure it’s not a bad time?
The smooth white doors spread open before he’s ready.
A vase takes flight, rushes toward Tristan’s face. He catches it midair, stares calmly ahead.
Lord Markadian’s office is the center of the kaleidoscope that is the living House of Vegasyn, its hexagonal room warmly lit from a chandelier hanging above with amber shades, pouring its honeyed light over a hardwood desk with two armchairs set before it, the walls dressed in dark oak paneling.
From behind the desk stands the proud, regal shape of the Lord of Vegasyn himself. On most nights, Markadian can be described as classically handsome, perhaps thirty or so years in appearance, yet unknowably ageless in his wise, vibrant eyes, which burn with centuries of pain. He has a model’s jawline, a dusky brown complexion, and short buzzed hair faded up the sides. He is always thoughtfully attired in a slim-fitting, stylish shirt-and-tie combination with a tiny hoop earring in each ear.
Though he seems entirely poised, it was from his hand that the vase came flying, which Tristan still holds.
“Explain to me again,” demands Markadian, “what exactly you plan to do regarding the alleged accidental demise of a Protected Blood outside the doors of this very office?”
The person to whom the question is addressed is the one who inherited Tristan’s former rank as the Lord’s right hand twenty-seven years ago. At first glance, one might simply see a six-and-a-half-foot-tall librarian, until one notices the artificial pink coloring in his otherwise pale as paper cheeks, his thin lips and pencil mustache, his joyless, sunken eyes and brownish hair parted only somewhat crookedly down the middle, making him appear just odd enough to notice. Tristan has never heard the man raise his voice, nor shed a tear, nor seem even the slightest bit excited or happy about anything in the whole wide world. A walking skeleton in a dull sweater vest or suit. Coldhearted. Depressingly devoid of personality.
“I regret to say that we have exhausted all options,” recites the man, George, as if from a script, his voice as thin and wisplike as his body. “The mortal called Brock is, as they say, as dead as dead can be.”
Another vase goes flying so fast, Markadian’s arm does not even appear to move. Tristan catches it with his other hand.
“And what exactly are these ‘options’ you have exhausted?” asks Markadian. “Speak quickly. I have so many more important tasks on my list, from a contested territory in California to a pain in my ass in the New Orleanea domain, about ten dozen requests in my inbox, and I haven’t yet had dinner. This entire situation needs to be dealt with and done before it becomes any more of a fucking embarrassment.”
George stiffens up. “The nurses attempted to restore him in the mortal way. All attempts failed. We tried performing the blood rite to make him one of us, but alas, he proved—”
“—too dead for even that,” finishes Markadian with waning patience. “And what about staging his death? Do we not have access to the vehicle he arrived to the Scarlet Sands in? Tell me why this is, as well, an impossible option. The human was an insufferable drunk and upheld such a repute in half the casinos across Vegas. Would it not be easy?”
“Well …” George gives it a moment’s consideration.
Too long a moment’s consideration for Tristan’s liking. He steps forth, still holding the vases. Not so easy, I’m afraid. Brock was seen entering the Scarlet Sands, then never departing. Multiple humans at the front desk paid witness. As well, two chatty workers in the casino had a direct interaction with both Brock and Kyle—