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Upon their entrance, the man looks up from the desk.
Kyle stares at him, tears still in his eyes, numb.
“Have you already forgotten the rules?” asks George with a note of irritation. “A short memory, this one. I offer apologies, Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn. Eyes to the floor, Kyle, and head bowed. You are but a guest. Mind the rules.”
“This one can look,” says Markadian from his tall-backed leather desk chair. “In fact, I wish him to.”
George, unfazed, gives a curt nod.
Kyle, not in the mood for rules, pleasantries, or otherwise, marches forward, stops in the center of the room. “You killed my friend,” he snaps. “And for nothing. He didn’t deserve to die. Protected Blood? What kind of bullshit is that?”
Markadian maintains a blank, level stare as Kyle speaks.
He indicates nothing on his face.
No malice, irritation, nor judgment.
He simply listens.
“Doesn’t matter who did the actual killing,” says Kyle. “Whether George. Or those weird Miss May twins. Or some other subordinate puppet under you. You’re the one who gave the order. Why? Brock didn’t do anything. If it’s me you have the problem with, if it’s me you wanted to speak to in the first place, you could have just abducted me from the hotel alone, only me, no one else had to get involved.”
Markadian continues to listen. Continues to stare.
Continues to say nothing at all.
“Fucking say something,” barks Kyle, at his end. “Stop just sitting there saying nothing. I don’t care who you are.”
But Markadian maintains his silent stare.
He doesn’t even flinch.
A man made of wax—unmoving, unbreathing.
It is George who then speaks. “Should I deliver him later, Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn? Perhaps when he is less spirited?”
“No,” answers Markadian simply. “This will do.”
George gives another curt nod, falls silent.
Markadian’s eyes never once leave Kyle’s. “I’ve long since wondered who this … Kyle … is. I thought to myself, he must be one very exceptional, very remarkable human being, to have inspired my once trusted and devoted Tristan to go astray.”
Kyle’s breath is stolen away by the name.
“So many years he has been here. Standing right where you stand, right now, giving his reports, performing his duties. Very reliable. Or used to be. Nearly seventy years he spent here … other than the twenty-six he wasted playing house with the likes of you. Isn’t that right?” he asks George without even looking.
George softly replies, “Yes, Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn.”
Kyle’s lips part. “S-Seventy … seventy years?”
“But I am disappointed,” says Markadian, “for I find you neither exceptional nor remarkable. In fact, I find you tedious. Loud. And boring.” His eyes trail down Kyle’s body. “Qualities for which your looks, while I agree may inspire temporary other appetites, do not in any way compensate for. What a waste, all of my dear Tristan’s efforts were, in chasing after you like a sad, lovesick schoolboy.” Markadian’s face barely moves, indicating the slightest of grimaces. “Ah, and all over my Persian, too.”
Kyle frowns, confused, then glances down at his feet.
A trail of red footprints from the door, along the hardwood floor, across the Persian rug. He tracked it in from the other room, Brock’s blood in the shape of the soles of his own shoes.
“Oh,” is all Kyle mutters, out of breath suddenly. He feels a tickle on his forehead, wipes at it, realizes it’s a drop of Brock’s blood. He stares at his fingers, his bloodied fingers.
When Markadian speaks, it’s with an eerie calmness, a tired parent speaking down to a child. “Bullshit, you call our rule of Protected Blood. Yet it is thanks to said ‘bullshit’ that Elias, the man behind you, with whom you are apparently in love now, is still alive, and can never be harmed by our kind. Any attempts to harm him will be paid with in death.”
Kyle glances back at Elias, some distance away. Elias heard the words, all of them, and seems to be caught by surprise, his eyes blank and face stunned. What or who designated him as Protected Blood? How?
“In the end,” Markadian finishes, “it was your actions alone that brought you and your friends to my House at all.”
Kyle turns. “My … My actions?”
“Actions for which you will answer in court.”
Kyle takes a step back, realizes he just put another bloody footprint on the rug, freezes. “Court? What do you—?”
“George, take our Protected Blood back to his mother. No further need for him today. Send Rosemarie my regards—and a warning.”
Elias comes undone at once. “Wait, to where? Hell no, I’m staying right here with Kyle, I’m not—”
“She misses you,” sings George as he gently takes hold of Elias by the arm. Every effort Elias makes in pulling away is in vain, no match for the strength of one of their kind. “Shall we stop by the Midnight Garden on the way? We keep a species of flower that smells like Coca-Cola. Do you know it? The human drink that bubbles? Come, I will show you my favorites.”
