Chapter 4 #2
Melody hastily stepped away from Bart’s body, smoothing down the front of her dress. Interesting. Whatever she was searching for, she didn’t want others knowing about it. “Melody,” said the tall vampire wearily. “Come away from your brother. It will do no good dwelling on what’s gone wrong.”
And what exactly has gone wrong? Matthew thought. If only they would come out and say it. Just his bad luck to be stuck on a ship with a bunch of vampires who were both murderous and annoyingly tight-lipped.
“Oh, Virgil.” Melody sighed. “I cannot help it. I still can’t believe Bart would do such a thing. How can a human be so—inhuman?”
The tall man—Virgil—laid a hand on her shoulder. “Not every creature with a soul makes good use of it,” he said. “Now come. You must rest. We need you strong— we can’t afford a repeat of last night.”
The performance, or the murder of Morrow?
Matthew wondered. Considering what he knew of actors, they were probably talking about the performance.
He watched the two vampires as they left the room, Melody casting a single glance back at Morrow’s body before the door closed behind them.
It was only then that Matthew realized that he was still, rather unnecessarily, holding Sylvain’s hand.
* * *
Having quietly disentangled himself from Sylvain without incident, Matthew led their way out of the chapel.
Sylvain seemed lost in thought, and Matthew did not know him well enough yet to read the expression on his face.
It was an interesting, clever, thoughtful face, the kind Matthew liked to look at, but he didn’t want to be caught staring.
They made their way to Matthew’s room, as Matthew wanted to check on Oscar. It was a relief when the door closed behind them; Matthew felt the weight of anxiety on his shoulders lighten as Oscar circled around his feet, wagging his tail wildly.
Having locked and double-checked the door, Sylvain turned to watch Oscar prancing happily. To Matthew’s surprise, Sylvain’s normally grim expression had softened.
“Do you like dogs?” Matthew, crouched down on his knees, scratched Oscar behind the ears. Oscar rolled over onto his back, looking beseeching.
Sylvain came forward a little, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “Can I…?”
“Pet him? Of course.” Matthew watched bemusedly as Sylvain sank down gracefully across from him and began rubbing Oscar’s belly. Oscar stuck all his feet into the air, signaling his approval.
“I have a dog at home,” said Sylvain. His voice had softened too. His long dark hair fell into his eyes as he made much of Oscar, his full lips curved into a smile. He looked adorable. “Flambeau. She was a gift from a friend.”
“So was Oscar.” Oscar was now letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, which struck Matthew as undignified. “From James.”
Sylvain’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his. “James Herondale. Your parabatai.”
Matthew nodded. There was something odd in Sylvain’s tone, or perhaps it was just odd to be known by reputation? To have someone know so much about you, though you’d never met before? To have clearly held opinions about you, even as a stranger?
“There’s plenty of daylight left,” Sylvain said, scratching Oscar under the chin. “We have time to strike.”
“Now?” Matthew supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. “What makes you think we won’t run across more insomniac vampires?”
“I’d rather take my chances during the day than at night,” said Sylvain. “You heard the same conversation I did. Bart Morrow was murdered. The Accords have been broken. It is our duty to do something about it.”
“Yes, but it seems to me this was no random attack. This was personal business between Miss Doyle and Mr. Morrow—”
“He was her brother, and he rejected her when she was turned. That is regrettable, but not a reason to kill him.”
“There’s more to it than that. The business where they pretended not to know each other, the legal document—”
“None of that justifies murder.” Sylvain was no longer smiling.
“I’m not saying it does, only that it makes it unlikely she’ll harm anyone else,” said Matthew. “She isn’t on some sort of blood-fueled spree. I suggest we send a fire-message to the Constantinople Institute asking them to have Shadowhunters there when we disembark. There can be an investigation—”
Sylvain said, in a voice cold enough that it brought Oscar up to a sitting position, “I have heard so much about the famous Matthew Fairchild. I never would have guessed I’d discover he was a coward.”
Oscar growled.
Matthew stiffened. He felt the cold flush of anger race up his spine; it was the sort of feeling that once would have sent him in search of a drink to calm himself.
Now, he merely said, “I have seen too many sacrifice themselves. Including those who rushed in without thinking, and died to no purpose.”
Sylvain, already quite pale, went a shade paler. Without another word he rose to his feet and walked out the door. As it swung shut behind him, Matthew called out, “Don’t do anything stupid! Sylvain—”
But Sylvain was gone, out of earshot. Oscar cocked his head to the side and gave a mournful, inquiring bark.
“Just because people are attractive doesn’t mean they can’t be idiots,” Matthew told him, and rose to his feet, making his way to the rosewood writing desk.
He yanked a piece of paper toward him with more force than necessary, glaring down at the blank page for a moment before picking up his stele and beginning, somewhat ostentatiously, to write.
After all, he didn’t need Sylvain Verlac’s approval to send a fire-message, now, did he?
* * *
Matthew passed a restless day, catching up on sleep from the night before in between dreams in which he saw a pale Melody Doyle leaning over the body of a recumbent man, blood dripping down her chin and between her fingers.
He told himself repeatedly that Sylvain wasn’t going to do anything stupid like challenging a clan of vampires to a fight, but he was almost relieved when it was time to put on formal eveningwear and make his way to the dining room.
This time he sat far from the captain’s table, surrounded by a group of Persian tourists.
His friendship with Cordelia meant that he’d learned a bit of Persian—not as much as James, who was now fluent—and he idly eavesdropped a bit, but it was all very ordinary stuff about fashions and the weather.
At least none of the passengers seemed to have noticed anything wrong.
Halfway through dinner, Matthew caught slight of Sylvain, who slipped into the room and quietly took his place at a half-empty table.
He looked deliciously elegant in his evening dress, the stark black-and-white of it setting off his dark hair and pale skin.
The bandage was back around his left hand, but that was for show—there was certainly no evidence he had spent the day beheading vampires.
Which was more of a relief to Matthew than he had expected.
Well, the vampires don’t deserve that, he told himself, and spent the rest of the meal studiously ignoring the French boy.
After dinner, Matthew walked Oscar—uneventfully this time; there were no sudden alarms or dead bodies on deck—before returning to his room, where he found sleep difficult to come by. He lay awake in his pajamas, watching the moonlight from the porthole window track across the bedcovers.
He heard Sylvain’s voice in his head, calling him a coward.
The accusation didn’t bother him unduly.
Matthew had no illusions that he was a coward; of all the bad qualities he had, that wasn’t one.
If anything, like most of his friends, he was too apt to rush into danger.
His caution now surprised him, perhaps more than it had even surprised Sylvain. Why did he feel reluctant to act?
Slowly, he drifted off into a half sleep, where Christopher walked ahead of him down a long street in London, always just out of reach.
He began to run, determined to catch up with his friend, but when Christopher turned, his face was fleshless, a bony skull.
His hand whipped up, fingers wrapping around Matthew’s throat, choking him—
Matthew came awake, flailing and kicking—and still choking.
A dark figure hunched over him; strong hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing.
Matthew could hear Oscar barking, loud and sharp.
The room was full of a strange scent, pungent, like a burning candle.
As his vision began to white out around the edges, Matthew scrabbled at his nightstand, reaching for the unsheathed dagger he kept there—
Suddenly, the weight of the attacker was lifted off him. Matthew sucked in a wheezing breath, desperate for air; when he was finally able to roll onto his side, he saw two dark figures, struggling—heard a long stream of cursing in French—and saw a dark shadow bolt from the room.
He forced himself to sit up, but the world swayed around him.
His throat still felt as if it were being compressed.
He choked, fingers tearing at his throat as if he could seize hold of what was strangling him; a moment later, Sylvain was beside him on the bed, catching gently at his hands.
“Let me,” he said, gently, and Matthew relaxed slightly.
There had been something in Sylvain’s tone that reminded him of James…
There was a flash of silver in the dimness, and the tip of a stele touched Matthew’s throat. He held still as Sylvain traced an iratze, a healing rune, on his skin, feeling the pain and sense of choking fade away like the last chord of a song.
“There,” Sylvain said, his voice soft. He was very close to Matthew. He was barefoot, Matthew realized, wearing a loose shirt over trousers. His hair was dishevelled, eyes still heavy-lidded; he must have been roused suddenly from sleep, but how had he known—
“If you are wondering how I knew you needed rescuing,” Sylvain said, putting away his stele, “I heard your dog barking.”
And you knew it was my dog? Matthew thought, but he didn’t say it. Oscar did have a distinctive bark; it was true. He peered around Sylvain’s shoulder and saw that Oscar had gone to sleep on his blue velvet cushion, clearly feeling he was no longer needed. Dogs.
Gingerly, Matthew touched his throat. It no longer hurt. “Who was it? One of the vampires?”
Sylvain shook his head, dishevelling his curls even further. “I didn’t see his face. And he is long gone by now. He was certainly unnaturally strong.”
Matthew let his head fall back against the headboard. His blood thrummed in his veins; it had been a long time since he’d been in a fight. Too long for a Shadowhunter. “Go ahead. Say it.”
Sylvain seemed puzzled. “What do you want me to say?”
“That we should have attacked them earlier. The vampires. They were never going to leave us alone, not once they realized Shadowhunters were onboard.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sylvain glanced down, as if looking at his own hand. It lay on the coverlet, very close to Matthew’s, their fingers nearly touching. “I wanted to apologize, in fact.”
Matthew raised his eyebrows. “If you wanted to apologize for calling me a coward, there’s no need. I know I’m not a coward. If anything, I’ve seen too much death and pain. I’m tired of it, that’s all.”
Sylvain looked at him. His eyes were very dark, the fringe of lashes around them like black silk.
In fact he wasn’t just looking, Matthew thought, he was staring, as if he could see through Matthew somehow, through his bones and skin down to his soul.
A little raggedly, he said, “Could I—can I kiss you?”
“I—” Matthew’s composure seemed to have deserted him.
Thoughts flooded his mind—annoying, intrusive thoughts: Is this a good idea?
Is he really serious? Will this be a disaster like all my other disasters?
But Sylvain seemed to be barely breathing, and his eyes were wide and dark and Matthew had a terrible weakness for beautiful things.
He bit his lip and said, “I suppose so. Yes.”
He’d half-expected Sylvain to lunge at him, but the other boy didn’t.
He leaned toward Matthew, making a curve of his body, his hand rising to cup Matthew’s cheek.
He brushed his lips across Matthew’s gently, with a soft pressure that made Matthew catch at the front of Sylvain’s shirt, pulling him closer. “More,” Matthew whispered.
Sylvain obliged. The next kiss was less gentle, prizing a gasp out of Matthew; the kiss after that was not gentle at all.
Suddenly they were sprawling across the bed, Sylvain atop Matthew, his hand braced on the mattress above Matthew’s head.
Matthew let his hands run free over Sylvain’s body as they kissed, marvelling at the lean strength of him, the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the strong column of his throat.
He sank his hands into Sylvain’s hair as he’d wanted to since the first time he’d seen him (he could admit that to himself now) and it was gorgeously soft and silky and fine and Matthew leaned in and licked the base of the other boy’s throat, which made him say something incomprehensible in guttural French.
The blood had already been thrumming in Matthew’s veins; now it was roaring like the ocean.
Matthew pushed upward, flipping them both over; they rolled together, kissing, tearing at each other’s clothes.
Matthew’s shirt came off and Sylvain’s hands were hot as fever on his bare skin, and Matthew had half-forgotten what this was like, what he had always loved about the act of love itself: how it swept you up, made you part of something that felt as big as all the world and as small as just the two of you.
How you could lose yourself, your troubles, doubts, and fears, in the experience of someone else, in the brush of lips on lips, the glide of skin against skin.
Sylvain’s shirt seemed to melt away under his hands.
In the moonlight, the other boy’s skin was cream and linen, the light thatch of hair on his chest very dark against his pallor.
Matthew bent to kiss Sylvain’s flat belly, feeling the fluttering pulse under the skin; Sylvain gasped, sliding his hand into Matthew’s hair as Matthew kissed his way up to the hard rise of Sylvain’s chest, his lips grazing over old scars and Marks, as all Shadowhunters had.
Matthew felt Sylvain stiffen suddenly under him.
A shaft of moonlight, unusually bright, pierced through the window, illuminating a faded rune on the right side of Sylvain’s chest.
It was the ghost of a rune, pale white, and not just any rune. Matthew had the twin of it himself.
Sylvain had gone still. Matthew sat up, his hand lingering on Sylvain’s bare chest, his fingertips just touching the edge of what he could only think of as a wound, the scar of a loss so terrible his mind could barely comprehend it.
“You had a parabatai,” Matthew whispered. “What happened?”