Chapter 36
CHAPTER 36
The world did not collapse in the nights following the robbery. In fact, as far as Roger could determine, the world did not even notice that they had done anything at all. He hadn’t expected the mortal news to make a comment, but Vincent found no remarks on the supernaturals’ social media platforms. Nathaniel heard nothing in his bar. Had anyone other than Dmitri been in charge of breaking into the finances, Roger might have doubted their success.
The new year came without fanfare or celebration. Roger spent that evening and the ones following by writing every down everything he knew about the Great Lakes Coven. With Vincent’s and Dmitri’s help, he added better details about the security and importance of various targets. Soon, he would strike again.
Ideas were plenty, but his resources were less. Six fighters weren’t enough to launch an attack on most of their targets, especially if they aimed to make a splash rather than discreet strikes. The formerly abandoned dance studio that had been their staging ground for their heist was now their loose command center and training ground. Nathaniel had sent a few trusted vampires their way. Every vampire was woefully underexperienced because Seamus had never encouraged expertise, always relying on overwhelming numbers for a fight. Thomas had grumbled about “training the enemy.” His complaints ended when Roger suggested he bring in trusted hunters. Their numbers were growing.
But he still wasn’t sure where to strike.
After two weeks without the slightest tremor in the GLC, Roger needed more information from someone in leadership. He contemplated kidnapping Xenofon, but that vamp had never paid attention to much outside himself. And though torturing Xenofon would have been justice for his many victims, Roger couldn’t use that as justification. He wasn’t innocent either.
Instead, Roger texted Candide. When three more nights passed without an answer, he decided that a visit was in order.
Chateau de Vampire was Candide’s jewel, a donor house with a private section for herself. But it wasn’t her only lair. Dmitri assured Roger that she hadn’t abandoned her penthouse in the Gold Coast neighborhood.
Roger made the journey on foot, crossing the miles of Chicago after dark. Once he was within a block, he used his supernatural speed to close the distance. Modern cameras weren’t quite capable of capturing him moving that fast.
He entered the building behind a tenant, encouraging their desire to have someone near so they didn’t mind having him close. Two security guards were in the lobby. One man began to scrutinize him, so Roger reached out with his power and heightened a desire to check for messages on his phone. He deepened the shadows of his face so that any cameras in the lobby wouldn’t have a clear image of him. That little trick had been a suggestion of Vincent’s in order to fool facial recognition software.
The top two floors of the buildings belonged to Candide. Once upon a time, the second to the top had been Roger’s, but he’d moved out in the 1970s and sold it to Candide. The place had become tainted for him after Seamus visited one night. He has soured too much of my life .
A short hallway connected the elevator door to the penthouse door. Roger could have sworn he felt spider silk strands breaking as he walked forward, but he found no hint of webs. The hallway was bright and clean. Pushing the weirdness from his mind, he knocked on the penthouse door.
After a moment, he heard two voices just on the other side.
“I think it’s Roger.” The first voice belonged to Kit.
“Think?” a second voice asked.
“He looks different.”
“Doesn’t matter who it is,” a third voice said. “Mistress didn’t tell us to expect anyone, so we don’t open the door. He has one minute before we call security.”
“Mistress didn’t tell us to do that. Are you sure we can?” Kit replied a little too sweetly. They weren’t a fan of whoever the third voice was.
“Look, you’re the new toy of the month, okay? Don’t think you know Mistress better than we do just because you’re getting all the attention.”
“It isn’t my fault you’re a boring brat. Maybe if you behaved more, you’d get ignored less.”
“Darlings,” Roger called out, “let me in.”
“No!” the second voice said.
“Then I’ll wait out here until your mistress comes home. But I will see her.”
“Not if security hauls you from the building!” the third voice said.
“Security didn’t even look at me on my way through the door. They don’t have a hope of stopping me, and your mistress wouldn’t want to sacrifice their lives if violence erupted in an effort to remove me,” Roger replied. “Now, let me in.”
There was muttering, and then the second voice whispered, “I’m calling, okay?”
Kit opened the door. They were wearing plush sweatpants and a T-shirt along with their light red collar. The girl beside them had a collar the same shade of red and was equally dressed in comfortable clothing. She reached forward to shut the door, but she was on the phone. Kit won the tug-of-war.
The third was Candide’s fey boy, Dryden. He wore sleeker leisure clothes, accentuating his lithe frame. His long auburn hair was loosely braided, and there was a sharpness in his indigo eyes. The last time Roger had seen him, he was wearing a light pink collar. Now, he had one almost the same shade of red as Kit’s. He folded his arms over his chest.
“Come in, master,” Kit said politely as they opened the door a little farther.
“Thank you,” Roger said with sincerity. He stepped into the home, the shiver of a threshold letting him through. Where mortals called a place home, a threshold could bar him from entry. Candide’s pets had been known to cause a threshold barrier within a night of moving in. She made them feel safe. Loved.
The fact that Kit had the power to invite Roger over the doorframe was a testament to her care as well. Three weeks with their new mistress, and Kit already called the penthouse home. Roger might have been heartsick if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed with relief that they looked healthy and happy. He’d been wrong for them; Candide was a good fit.
“If you’ll come this way, master,” Kit said and gestured to a parlor to their left.
Roger followed them, not giving a damn that the other two pets were watching him closely.
Candide’s home was as extravagant as the Chateau de Vampire, though her style here was a slight touch more comfortable. When Roger had “disappeared” from the coven, his condo on Lake Shore Drive and its contents had been sold. Candide must have been part of the process—or at least keenly aware it was happening. Several of Roger’s art pieces were on display at the Chateau, and more were here in her parlor. The most prominently placed was one he’d commissioned around the turn of the twentieth century by an artist who’d never gained fame, but Roger had loved his skill with lighting and emotions.
For the painting, Roger had modeled for the role of Lord Wotton, and he was whispering into the ear of James, a handsome, gorgeous man who Roger had been hopelessly in love with. James was playing the part of Dorian Gray in it and had still been mortal at the time. He had been a warlock worthy of earning the title mage, but the mage society circles of Chicago wouldn’t accept him because of the color of his skin. The fictional version of themselves were talking in a nighttime garden, Roger leaning in with a smile promising devious behavior. James was examining the flowers, but the artist had perfectly captured the way he tilted his head when he was listening.
Wherever you are, James, I hope you’ll be happy to learn that you were right about me. I was a coward . With a dry tone, Roger said, “Candide should have no problem with me in her home.” He pointed at the painting. The damn thing had been a treasured possession, even after James left him, and Candide, of all people, knew that. She hadn’t mentioned that she had it. “I am here all the time, technically.”
The girl’s jaw dropped open, but she recovered as someone finally answered her call. She turned away, and Roger politely ignored her conversation as if he couldn’t hear every syllable on both sides.
An easy task, considering he had a parlor to explore for more of his former belongings. Like the Tiffany lamp he’d bought in 1899 and his favorite end table. He wasn’t sure if the collection of books on a delicate bookcase was truly his, but many of the titles came from the secret artistic society he and Candide had nourished until the early 1970s.
And then there was his favorite chair that used to sit in one of his playrooms. He’d sat in it and watched his pets have all sorts of fun with each other before joining them. He’d administered punishments and given rewards from that chair. It was the closest thing to a seat of power he’d ever had.
Gently, he traced a long line up the wooden arm. The wood was still sturdy, and there was no mistaking it as a similar piece. He found the scratch in the exact place he’d left one on accident. The stain of the polish made it nearly invisible, but it was there.
Candide had said that she had aided in obscuring his location because she wanted to protect him. Had she collected so many of his things in order to remember him? Or had she been jealous for centuries? Had their friendship been a lie? Their closeness a ruse? What if she had lied to him? What if she was the one to work with an Unseelie to lock him in a coma?
He didn’t want to believe that of her. They’d understood each other for centuries. She was his dearest friend.
The chair was for a dominant master. He considered sitting in it, trying to reclaim that piece of himself. But that felt like giving whiskey to a ghost. Whoever he was becoming, he wasn’t the vampire he’d been.
Roger drew in a deep breath and roused from his long thoughts. He took a seat on the leather sofa and discovered it was far more comfortable than it appeared to be at first glance.
“Would you like any refreshments, master?” Kit asked.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Roger crossed one leg over the other and rested his arm along the back of the couch. Holding himself still helped calm the storm of emotions building in him. He wasn’t sure if he was scared, angry, sad, or all of it at once.
Knowing how Candide trained her pets, he gave a dismissive wave to the three hovering near the parlor door. “You likely have chores or something to do, yes? Don’t worry. I’ll inform her of how I forced my way in here. She won’t mind if you leave me alone. I promise not to ruin anything while I wait.”
Kit, the girl, and Dryden bowed their heads and then went farther into the penthouse. Roger could track their movements if he wanted, but he closed down his senses rather than rely on them. The painting on the wall in front of him dragged him into memories of James and those nights posing for the artist. They had been a wonderful time in an era surrounded by the constant stress of Seamus gaining new ground in his territory.
“I have done it!” Ezra’s English-accented voice rang down the hallway, and his quick footfalls echoed out as he hurried down a flight of steps. “Candide, are you home? I thought I heard—blast it all, fox, you can do more than shake your head and point.”
“Master Roger is here, sir,” Kit said quietly. They were some distance away.
“Roger? Excellent! He’ll do,” Ezra replied. “Fetch me a pair of pants, please? Nothing jean. Anything else will do.”
A moment later, Ezra strode into the parlor. His red hair was standing as if he’d been raking his hands through it constantly. His steel-gray eyes burned with joy. Despite wearing nothing more than a pair of tight bicycle shorts, he walked with a commanding presence. That might have been his two hundred and seventy years of immortality or the fact that he’d been an English nobleman before Roger turned him into a vampire.
Though he was paler, with a few more delicate features, he looked more like Zack’s brother than Cal did, which was a painful reminder that Ezra’s twin sister had spawned a line of hunters, and thus, Zack was one of her descendants.
He had in his hands a thick stack of papers, and he proudly set the pile on the end table beside Roger’s old chair. “I am finally done with the fucker. Which means I’m done with that fucking room! What glorious timing you have, Roger. Why do you look like I’ve punched you in the heart with silver?”
Watching Ezra light up with passion was like watching a mirror of Zack, and Roger was glad he didn’t need to breathe. “It’s been a hard few weeks.”
“I imagine.” Ezra took a seat on the other end of the couch. “How have you been holding up? Do you need blood? Rum? Tea? Is something wrong? You’re brooding more than I would have expected.”
Roger kept his gaze on the manuscript Ezra had placed on the end table. He couldn’t pretend to be angry that Ezra had found a new way to lash out. Ever since Seamus and Anton had butchered Ezra’s family in 1755, Ezra had clung to a shield of rage. Usually, when his anger became too great to ignore, Roger would arrange for him to return to England and to take up his role as a nobleman and continue to reap the benefits of position.
But in the last thirty years, Ezra had finally abandoned aristocracy and used his time away from the coven to launch a career writing erotica based on his fellow vampires.
“I take it HT Moss strikes again?” Roger asked. “Do I get a happily ever after?”
“This is a brand-new series,” Ezra said. “I need to write another From the Grave , and I will! But this was a mystery I’d been brewing for a while, and I decided to go for it. Seriously, Roger, I would have thought you would be over the moon.”
Roger frowned at him. “Why on earth would I be happy?”
“Because of the debut party next week,” Ezra replied. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To talk over the details with her? Where are Zack and Takashi? I would’ve assumed they would want to be part of the preparations.”
Roger slid to the edge of his seat and held on to the rage in his heart with white knuckles. Ezra’s tone was completely blithe like his words weren’t laced with holy water. “What the fuck are you on about?”
Confusion clouded Ezra, and he frowned. “I know I saw the invitation. ‘An intimate debut for two wonderful new fledglings of the Great Lakes Coven. Zackery and Kathleen.’”
Roger stood. Somehow, in doing so, he knocked Ezra’s manuscript over, and the pages fluttered. Swearing, he knelt and started to collect them, but his hands were shaking. No, the pages were shaking. What the hell?
Ezra gasped and hurried over to gather his book. They worked together, though Roger could hardly see his hands from the red starting to swarm his vision. Fledgling . Zackery. Intimate debut . That meant … that meant he’d been a vampire for a little while. That meant … I’ll tell you where Zack and Takashi are , Anton had offered smugly. Roger had sensed the trap in those words, had assumed that it meant Zack and Takashi were someplace hard to reach. Nowhere is farther than the grave . Was Takashi in a grave? Had he been killed? And Zack. Zack. Zack had sworn he’d never want to become a vampire. But he was a sireling. He had to be Seamus’s sireling.
It had to be a move of desperation, hadn’t it? A last moment’s choice. What sick game was Seamus playing to have some sort of debut party like Zack was any other vampire? Who the fuck was Kathleen?
Why the hell was Ezra acting like he should be glad?
Ezra stopped picking up his pages. He set them aside and started to reach for Roger but hesitated. Softly, he said, “I … I feel as though I may have missed some events of the past few weeks.”
“Weeks?”
“It’s been part of the process. Candide locks me up in a room with a typewriter—don’t worry about these pages, I’ve had a laptop without internet to work on this draft—and I focus. I don’t spend all my time in there, but she leaves the outside world very outside while I work. I only know about the invitation because I saw it on her desk when I went looking for her just now.” Ezra retreated a bit. “The last bit of news I have was the closing of the Winter’s Grand Ball.”
“She’s told you nothing ?” Roger demanded. He slammed his fist against the floor. Once wasn’t enough, but twice would only break his bones, and he didn’t need that pain. It wasn’t conducive. He needed to rip and shove and tear something apart.
No. No, he wouldn’t be like Seamus. He would release this rage some other way. When the time was right. Not at Ezra, who was proud of himself for good reason and only trying to be a good friend.
“Kit hasn’t mentioned anything?” Roger continued.
“What would they have to mention?” Ezra asked.
Roger clenched his fists tighter, but he held them to the floor. The invitation that Ezra saw must have been opened by Candide’s hand, mustn’t it? She knew Zack was a vampire, that he belonged to Seamus , and she had said nothing .
The sound of a heartbeat, a breath, and light footsteps drew Roger’s attention. Kit had arrived with a pair of Ezra’s pants, and they remained at the doorway. Their shoulders were tight, their lips a thin line, and they clutched Ezra’s pants tightly between their hands.
“You haven’t told him?” Roger rasped. A rustling noise began.
“Do not become cross at Kit!” Ezra dashed in front of Roger, blocking off view of Kit. “You know that Candide turns her homes into sanctuaries.”
“Heaven forbid reality set in,” Roger growled.
“Kit, leave the pants, and take the others to the bedroom,” Ezra said. A slight thump of fabric and then the running of feet marked Kit’s departure. He locked his gaze with Roger. “I can’t believe I, of all people, need to say this to you. You have to calm down.”
“Calm. Down.” Roger stood, and Ezra mirrored him. But Ezra was short like Zack. And Zack is a vampire like him. Only I didn’t make him . Roger towered over Ezra and kept their staring contest going. “You have no right to say that to me. Anton murdered your lover, and you nearly staked me for my cowardice. Seamus has changed my beautiful Zack into one of us. He has bound Zack to him, and our ‘beloved’ Candide has known without saying a damn word to me.”
There was a whip of movement in the corners of Roger’s eyes. A breeze was moving through him. The waves of his mind were rolling, but he was sailing those waves. The wind, the water, it was his , and it was angry with him.
Ezra grabbed Roger’s wrists tightly. Roger had ignored his vampiric abilities since sitting on the couch. With bare skin contact, Ezra’s compassion was clear. That desire to help was painful to behold.
Roger didn’t want help. He wanted to hurt the world as he was hurting. Wanted to scream. Wanted to let it out.
“Roger!” Ezra shouted. Fear for himself, for Roger, and for the penthouse tarnished his compassionate desire. “Please! You have to stop!”
“Stop? Stop caring? Is that what you’ve done?” Roger yelled back. He’d needed to yell. Why … why was he having a hard time hearing? What was the clattering going on?
“Look around!” Ezra broke their locked gaze and stared out at the room beyond them.
An acidic response on his tongue, Roger followed Ezra’s gaze.
Ezra’s manuscript, the furniture, the books—all of it was rotating around them as if they were the center of a tornado. A brief flare of wonder broke the anger in Roger’s heart. Everything fell to the floor in an unceremonious mess.
The sensation of a breeze in his soul, of the waves and ship, stilled. The building rage was no longer a pressured heat needing release, but his heart ached with the pain of his anger and life’s betrayals. Silver would have been easier to bear.
“I … How was I doing that?” Roger murmured.
“Clearly, you have magic,” Ezra replied.
“That’s not—I have never had magic beyond our abilities as vampire. I have never seen a vampire with telekinesis.” Roger waved at the overturned sofa that was beside the now cracked Tiffany lamp.
“I have. This is what manifesting arcane powers looks like.” Carefully, Ezra pulled his pants out of the mess and slipped into them.
“How do you know that?” Roger asked, shock making him numb. No sense of clarity came to him, but at least the rage was far, far below the surface where it belonged.
Ezra began to clean up the mess as he spoke. “Look, I know you loved James. I know that’s why he became your sireling. I also know that he grew resentful when he lost his magic after his transformation. Yes, I was jealous of your relationship with him and convinced him to run away to Alaska, but he hardly needed a nudge.”
“Why does that matter?” Roger said.
“Because once he was gone and you turned your attention to Dmitri and then whatever pretty boy you found next, I thought maybe you somehow knew I was responsible for James leaving. You were happiest with him, and I encouraged that to end. So, my logic went, perhaps if James could regain his arcane abilities, he might return. Then you wouldn’t have cause to be upset with me.” Ezra lifted the couch, rolled it right side up, and gently put it back down in its rightful place. “I had money. Time. Why not spend both with mages and warlocks like you and Candide did with artists? After all, isn’t magic another kind of art?
“In doing so, I learned a lot about the onset of powers, often called manifestations. You see it in children the most. Telekinetic quakes. Seeing the world differently than others.” Ezra gave up on collecting his manuscript and returned Roger’s chair to its place.
That did sound like some of the strange occurrences that had been happening around Roger. “I’m no child.”
“True. But this is a manifestation.”
“Could it be some aftereffect of the coma?” Roger said.
“Coma?” Ezra asked.
“She really has told you nothing,” Roger replied. “Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? The last time we saw each other, prior to our run-in at the Chateau, was in 1989. A few nights after our last chat, I was cursed …”