BTB Excerpt, Chapter Five: "Meeting Monsieur"
Chapter Five: Meeting Monsieur
Jhez is waiting up for me when I get back to our flat. She’s sitting in the same position she was in when Muscle showed up to drag me off.
I close the door gently and lean against it, meeting her gaze across the small living space.
“You’re alive.”
I nod, laughing softly. “Yes, I am. For now.”
“What happened?”
“We can talk about that after I sleep.” Actually, I’m just avoiding the inevitable. And I’m also looking forward to keeping it as fresh in her mind as possible so she can give Le Gross Shite a massive tongue-lashing when we meet him.
The verbal sort of tongue-lashing.
Dusk is only a few hours distant when I finally wake up. I roll over to stare at the ceiling and prod the soreness surging through my body from the still-honed residue of Garthelle.
I think it’s safe to say I fucked up massively. How did I not recognize him? That, more than anything, frightens me a good bit. Jhez and I, we learned the hard way to be careful. To watch our own backs and each other’s. But this . . . last night has totally rocked my confidence, my trust in my own judgment.
The pull is still strong. It’s a band of discomfort encircling my chest, like a panic attack hovering on the edge of a massive meltdown. Feeling poised on the edge of a cliff, I head for the shower.
From the looks of it, Jhez has been up for quite some time. She seems . . . way too perky for my tastes when I almost stumble over her housecleaning efforts upon walking out of my room.
We are, as twins, the embodiment of yin and yang.
When I grimace, she points to the kitchen. “Coffee is fresh.” And she turns back to polishing the coffee table or something. I don’t look too closely.
The confines of the kitchen might be cramped, but every surface is pristine.
“So tell me what happened last night before the anticipation kills me.” She keys her voice so her demand carries clearly from the living space.
Safely ensconced in the kitchen, I lean against the entryway. “Before or after Muscles came to retrieve me like a dog fetching a squeaky toy?” She lifts her head over the edge of the coffee table and glares. I can feel my name hovering on her lips and hurry to continue. “Garthelle offered to refrain from killing me.”
Jhez abandons cleaning and leaps across the table to flop onto the couch, which complains loudly at the mistreatment. I cringe and venture into the room to sit next to her. Her gaze plays over my face in an attempt to read ahead, impatient.
“I didn’t do it any differently than I have to any other john.” His face is clear in my mind, hovering inches from mine as he twisted my neck almost to the breaking point. More than just rage and vengeance had driven him. “I don’t understand why I didn’t recognize him.”
I sip at the hot, steamy coffee. It’s stronger than I like, but Jhez brews it that way. It gives me a reason to pause and consider my next words carefully. How do I tell her we’ve been breaking the law? A law we didn’t know existed.
But then, we’re not regular members of the vampire circles in society.
“He had me writhing on the floor in pain without even touching me. I don’t know how long it’ll take for his energy to burn out of my system. Garthelle called it chi-theft. Said I’d be dead at the hands of my next john if I hit the streets again.”
Jhez props her elbows on her knees and buries her mouth in her hands, staring at me over her fingertips. She studies me in silence, watching me sip at the coffee. Then her hands fall, arms folded across her knees. “There’s more to it than that.”
I nod and swallow. “His price for restraint is that we both work for him.”
Her lips immediately purse into a thin line. “You know all too well how I feel about that.”
“I told him you’d have questions I couldn’t answer, that you’d want some clarification. He wants to meet us this evening at the java house.”
She hangs her head and laces her fingers together at the back of her neck. “What have you done?” Her hands clench, pushing at tension in her muscles. “What have we done?”
I stare into the depths of my coffee and say nothing. I know she won’t refuse the meeting. The odds of her refusing his demand for employment are slimming down to nothing with each passing moment. Jhez isn’t dense; she can see all too well that our wellbeing hangs in the balance. And precariously.
* * *
The java house is all but empty when we settle into a corner booth in the back, well secluded from the few regulars pontificating on the meaning of life and liberty from their couch soapboxes near the steps to the loft. Instrumental music drifts from the sound system veiled strategically behind vivid paintings, abstract sculptures, and bookshelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and dust balls amidst leather-bound tomes.
Few traces of technology here. It’s one of the reasons why Jhez and I are so fond of it. It doesn’t attract the riffraff out to score a hypno-hit.
She wanders off to the counter to snag us drinks and a pastry to split, and I prop a knee against the edge of the table to tug on a loose thread dangling from my pants.
I hate waiting. It makes me fidgety. Out on the boulevard, I can pace up and down the concrete. I do that more than I realize, apparently; Jhez is always berating me that the ceaseless exercise leaves me resembling some emaciated, underfed orphan.
I don’t have the heart most times to remind her that “emaciated, underfed orphan” is precisely what we are.
I lift my gaze from my flawed clothing and glance across the room at the other regulars. One corner of my mouth tugs up in humor that suddenly dies when I catch sight of Garthelle striding toward me. I should have known. Not until I see him, though, am I aware of the slackening tension in my body. His gaze is locked on me as if a homing beacon is perched on my head. My attention flicks over his attire as he draws closer, and I wonder if he even bothered to change his clothing today. Same ivory shirt, black slacks, and tailor-cut trench coat. He certainly wears it well, especially given the number of unused buttons on the front of his shirt.
Hey, I can admire. Even as the strain of fear increases, tension humming through my muscles. Garthelle holds all the cards in this game. I wonder, for a moment, if Jhez and I would’ve done things differently if we’d known of the statutes that made our actions a crime.
He slides into the booth opposite me and folds his forearms on the table, drawing my wandering gaze. Exuding confidence—that vampire arrogance. I don’t feel any inclination to speak. The fact that Garthelle appears content to resume devouring me with his eyes only solidifies my resolve. I find it fascinating, leaning a bit toward hilarious. As a Nightwalker, I’m used to people appraising me like that, yet he has an edge. Not just violence, tightly leashed. Something else, a subtle nuance I can’t identify. The mystery of it intrigues me. He can devour to his heart’s content so long as he restricts it to an ocular activity.
[Go to Chapter Six.]
Jhez is waiting up for me when I get back to our flat. She’s sitting in the same position she was in when Muscle showed up to drag me off.
I close the door gently and lean against it, meeting her gaze across the small living space.
“You’re alive.”
I nod, laughing softly. “Yes, I am. For now.”
“What happened?”
“We can talk about that after I sleep.” Actually, I’m just avoiding the inevitable. And I’m also looking forward to keeping it as fresh in her mind as possible so she can give Le Gross Shite a massive tongue-lashing when we meet him.
The verbal sort of tongue-lashing.
Dusk is only a few hours distant when I finally wake up. I roll over to stare at the ceiling and prod the soreness surging through my body from the still-honed residue of Garthelle.
I think it’s safe to say I fucked up massively. How did I not recognize him? That, more than anything, frightens me a good bit. Jhez and I, we learned the hard way to be careful. To watch our own backs and each other’s. But this . . . last night has totally rocked my confidence, my trust in my own judgment.
The pull is still strong. It’s a band of discomfort encircling my chest, like a panic attack hovering on the edge of a massive meltdown. Feeling poised on the edge of a cliff, I head for the shower.
From the looks of it, Jhez has been up for quite some time. She seems . . . way too perky for my tastes when I almost stumble over her housecleaning efforts upon walking out of my room.
We are, as twins, the embodiment of yin and yang.
When I grimace, she points to the kitchen. “Coffee is fresh.” And she turns back to polishing the coffee table or something. I don’t look too closely.
The confines of the kitchen might be cramped, but every surface is pristine.
“So tell me what happened last night before the anticipation kills me.” She keys her voice so her demand carries clearly from the living space.
Safely ensconced in the kitchen, I lean against the entryway. “Before or after Muscles came to retrieve me like a dog fetching a squeaky toy?” She lifts her head over the edge of the coffee table and glares. I can feel my name hovering on her lips and hurry to continue. “Garthelle offered to refrain from killing me.”
Jhez abandons cleaning and leaps across the table to flop onto the couch, which complains loudly at the mistreatment. I cringe and venture into the room to sit next to her. Her gaze plays over my face in an attempt to read ahead, impatient.
“I didn’t do it any differently than I have to any other john.” His face is clear in my mind, hovering inches from mine as he twisted my neck almost to the breaking point. More than just rage and vengeance had driven him. “I don’t understand why I didn’t recognize him.”
I sip at the hot, steamy coffee. It’s stronger than I like, but Jhez brews it that way. It gives me a reason to pause and consider my next words carefully. How do I tell her we’ve been breaking the law? A law we didn’t know existed.
But then, we’re not regular members of the vampire circles in society.
“He had me writhing on the floor in pain without even touching me. I don’t know how long it’ll take for his energy to burn out of my system. Garthelle called it chi-theft. Said I’d be dead at the hands of my next john if I hit the streets again.”
Jhez props her elbows on her knees and buries her mouth in her hands, staring at me over her fingertips. She studies me in silence, watching me sip at the coffee. Then her hands fall, arms folded across her knees. “There’s more to it than that.”
I nod and swallow. “His price for restraint is that we both work for him.”
Her lips immediately purse into a thin line. “You know all too well how I feel about that.”
“I told him you’d have questions I couldn’t answer, that you’d want some clarification. He wants to meet us this evening at the java house.”
She hangs her head and laces her fingers together at the back of her neck. “What have you done?” Her hands clench, pushing at tension in her muscles. “What have we done?”
I stare into the depths of my coffee and say nothing. I know she won’t refuse the meeting. The odds of her refusing his demand for employment are slimming down to nothing with each passing moment. Jhez isn’t dense; she can see all too well that our wellbeing hangs in the balance. And precariously.
* * *
The java house is all but empty when we settle into a corner booth in the back, well secluded from the few regulars pontificating on the meaning of life and liberty from their couch soapboxes near the steps to the loft. Instrumental music drifts from the sound system veiled strategically behind vivid paintings, abstract sculptures, and bookshelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and dust balls amidst leather-bound tomes.
Few traces of technology here. It’s one of the reasons why Jhez and I are so fond of it. It doesn’t attract the riffraff out to score a hypno-hit.
She wanders off to the counter to snag us drinks and a pastry to split, and I prop a knee against the edge of the table to tug on a loose thread dangling from my pants.
I hate waiting. It makes me fidgety. Out on the boulevard, I can pace up and down the concrete. I do that more than I realize, apparently; Jhez is always berating me that the ceaseless exercise leaves me resembling some emaciated, underfed orphan.
I don’t have the heart most times to remind her that “emaciated, underfed orphan” is precisely what we are.
I lift my gaze from my flawed clothing and glance across the room at the other regulars. One corner of my mouth tugs up in humor that suddenly dies when I catch sight of Garthelle striding toward me. I should have known. Not until I see him, though, am I aware of the slackening tension in my body. His gaze is locked on me as if a homing beacon is perched on my head. My attention flicks over his attire as he draws closer, and I wonder if he even bothered to change his clothing today. Same ivory shirt, black slacks, and tailor-cut trench coat. He certainly wears it well, especially given the number of unused buttons on the front of his shirt.
Hey, I can admire. Even as the strain of fear increases, tension humming through my muscles. Garthelle holds all the cards in this game. I wonder, for a moment, if Jhez and I would’ve done things differently if we’d known of the statutes that made our actions a crime.
He slides into the booth opposite me and folds his forearms on the table, drawing my wandering gaze. Exuding confidence—that vampire arrogance. I don’t feel any inclination to speak. The fact that Garthelle appears content to resume devouring me with his eyes only solidifies my resolve. I find it fascinating, leaning a bit toward hilarious. As a Nightwalker, I’m used to people appraising me like that, yet he has an edge. Not just violence, tightly leashed. Something else, a subtle nuance I can’t identify. The mystery of it intrigues me. He can devour to his heart’s content so long as he restricts it to an ocular activity.
[Go to Chapter Six.]
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