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)
Tsuki peers down at her fingernails, pursing her lips.
Peter’s eyebrows pull together in thought. He stays silent.
“Well, there’s one dang opinion I think we’re overlooking in this room,” announces Cindy, sitting forward, “and it’s one I think worth listening to. How about it, Tristan?”
Tristan blinks. Sorry? My opinion? On what? The shot glasses? I would much rather have served in martini glasses, were I host …
“Oh, that’s so cute,” sings Cindy, “the way you talk, movin’ your lips for our benefit, and yet you’re sendin’ all your words out telepathically. Why do you speak that way?”
It is how I’ve always communicated.
“Have you ever sent the words out, but just made your lips move all random-like? Y’know, as a joke? Never mind.” Cindy leans on the table. “I think the person who’s been Markadian’s right hand the longest ought to know a thing or two about his needs. And ain’t none of us gonna ask that freaky George his opinion. Tell us.” She lifts her eyebrows halfway up her head. “Do you think Markadian could use another Lord by his side or director takin’ over managing the Vegasyn domain?”
Everyone turns his way. Peter and Tsuki. Ernest, tightly crossing his legs in his pink suit pants. Dull-eyed Zara. Curious Cindy. Even Markadian, who’s in such a good mood, not even Tristan’s presence seems to have soiled it.
It’s Ashara who cuts in. “Don’t harass poor Tristan for an answer,” she says. Then her eyes turn cold. “Besides, we already know his opinion. Lord Markadian is all the Lord this region needs. Tristan would never entertain the idea of another.”
Tristan glances at each face in the room.
Even Kaleb’s.
Then he smiles. Actually, yes, I would entertain such an idea.
Ashara’s eyes flash, surprised.
Markadian seems intrigued, head tilting, for a moment not even paying mind to where his hand rests behind Kaleb.
Tristan turns his smile onto the others. I think the very first point that was made—by our lovely Director Tsuki—is the most wise of all. Our Lord Markadian is happier and more content with others by his side. See how he’s smiling? He hasn’t smiled in so long. Tristan hooks his hands behind his back, studying Markadian across the table, reading him. His sister’s return has indeed changed him. See how inspired he looks? I think he can benefit greatly from having someone at his side … someone with ideas. Someone he can … trust.
Ashara appears completely caught off-guard by Tristan’s declaration and makes no effort to hide it. She was expecting him to shoot her down. Instead, he seems to be supporting her.
That fact confuses her most of all.
Just as quickly, she appears to shrug away the confusion and face her brother. “You need someone to share the burden. Then you can continue smiling for all your days. Invite as many human violinists to entertain you as you want.”
“The music is quite good,” mutters Ernest quietly, “if not a bit rushed in places.”
Cindy leans forward, taps on one of the shot glasses. “Can I trouble someone for a few more of these?”
Zara squints up at Ashara. “Where is George? Shouldn’t he be the one fetching the blood?”
“Wine,” says Ashara with a delighted chuckle, “and I think George is otherwise occupied.”
Markadian’s face shows the first sign of stress as he peers at Kaleb next to him, annoyed, eyes on the side of his hip. “Always occupied,” he mutters half to himself.
“Never seemed right, that man,” says Cindy. “Too tall, for one. I don’t trust men who can’t walk into my kitchen without crouching. Two: somethin’ never seemed right in his eyes …”
“He’s a recovered Feral,” mutters Zara next to her. “Didn’t you know?”
Cindy’s eyes nearly fall out of her face. “Say what? No. He can’t be.” Her head spins to Markadian. “You employed a Feral in this House?”
“Former Feral,” corrects Markadian.
“How does one quantify how much Feral one is in order to be or not be Feral?” wonders Peter out loud, arms crossed as he peers up in thought at one of the chandeliers. “We don’t have a system in place to determine such a thing, come to think of it. Would it be calculated by the frequency of ingested blood over a period of time? Should we develop a system? Seems flimsy.”
“I believe it’s simply determined by whether you abide by our laws or you don’t,” suggests Ernest.
Zara eyes him. “So if a group of forty bloodthirsty human-murdering Ferals show up in your domain and declare that they now wish to honor your laws, they’re no longer called Feral? All their past crimes washed away, hands clean, welcome?”
Ernest pauses, stutters. “Well, I—I suppose I’d rather—”
“Once you’ve gone far enough with the blood,” says Zara, a hint of dark resolve in her eyes, “you cannot come back. I won’t speak to the character of this George, but Markadian, I do trust you know what you’re doing with that one. He’s unpredictable at best, impulsive at worst, and apparently can’t be trusted to serve blood at an official gathering of directors in your House. Is he sworn to never drink it? Does he even like our kind?”