Dark Baphomet: A Vampire Romance

19: Dueling With Words

We settled into a corner booth in the back of the java house, secluded from the regulars near the steps to the loft. Instrumental music drifted from the sound system, veiled behind vivid paintings, abstract sculptures, and bookshelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and dust balls amidst ancient leather-bound tomes. The sparse traces of technology kept away riffraff looking to score a hypno-hit. Just one of the reasons we shared a love for this place. The other was their pastry chef, Fran.

Jhez tapped the table. "Be right back. You wanna split a bear claw with me?"

I shrugged, throat too dry for words. She nodded and walked off, and I braced my knee against the edge of the table and tugged absently on the raw edge of my pants.

Jhez leaned on the counter, chatting up Fran for the latest gossip probably, while the barista made our drinks.

And just like that, Monsieur Garthelle appeared through the door, striding directly toward me. He locked his steely yellow gaze with mine, steady and inexorable in his approach as an incoming storm front.

I tore my gaze from his with great effort, skimming his full length as he drew closer. Same ivory shirt, black slacks, and tailor-cut trench coat. He wore it well, despite the number of unused buttons on the shirt.

Had he slept at all?

Did he even need to?

He slid into the booth opposite me and folded his forearms on the table. Exuding confidence— that vampire arrogance. Monsieur Garthelle held the winning hand and knew it. When wouldn't he though, being a vamp?

"May I assume," he began slowly, his voice a low rumble, "since you're very much alive and well, that you've shot yourself up"— the phrase dripped from his lips in a snarl— "with some street drug popular amongst Nightwalkers?"

My brows pulled together over the bridge of my nose, and I hated him for inciting such an uncontrolled reaction from me. "More than one, actually. What of it? It negates the unnatural aural connection. And in part, the necessity for your demonstration of restraint."

There. I said it. His own phrase hung in the air, almost corporeal. His move. Pawn or queen? With him sitting across from me, the table felt dangerously narrow. This slender piece of Formica made for a flimsy barrier between me and the vamp who'd put me on the floor without touching me. The memory inflicted a sharp edge of arousal as well as fear. Dangerous territory.

Any vamp could do the same, I reminded myself. It didn't make this one special. Perhaps the fact that it was all he did, all the further he took it, set him apart. Now that, that presented a workable hypothesis.

"Do you think so?" A hint of unreadable emotion tainted his whisper. A faint scent, a suggestion of something indistinguishable, tickled my olfactory memories. "Chi-thief. You think this makes our agreement in need of renegotiation? You think to return to the streets? Right now, you're a hole to me— a void without signature or resonance of any kind. You might be safe." His gaze flickered as he watched me. Too closely. "But can you ensure this state of invisibility in the future? Were I you, I'd be very certain. If you can't, I may just finish what I started. Less hassle that way. There won't be anything stopping me."

Knight, then. Circling. He's outmaneuvered me, aiming straight and true for my greatest weakness: freedom. How long before the aural sympathy expired fully? How long would it require masking? I stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to think, incapable of forming a single sound—let alone a witty and coherent rejoinder. He had me, check and mate. I knew he was correct and couldn't think of a single way around it.

Yet none of that would keep me from shooting up. No way would I hand him such control. Not without a fight. Perhaps the drugs would encourage the dissipation of whatever sustained the pull, through severance and alienation if nothing else, however artificial. Nothing stopped him from killing— but that was every day.

"Can I ask you one quick question? What stops you any other day, from killing anyone who looks at you cross-eyed or breathes too heavy, or stims in your presence? Obviously you don't just run about snapping necks and draining humans. That's what Alpha Circle does, and last I checked, their emblem looked nothing like Modere's."

Maybe I was fantastically demented to challenge his threat and call his bluff. But I did it, and it made me feel alive and vindicated. Good people weren't good because of some nebulous threat or other deterrent's constant pressure. And life honed me into a complete starrkopf, as my fellow 'walkers were so quick to remind me. Not always in the fondest tone, either. The coming weeks would be an enduring battle of wills, if this encounter was any indication. No black and white sides here. I studied the vampire. Just Black . . . and blacker.

I didn't believe Garthelle would throw me away so easily. The impression built and solidified as I watched him, the intensity of emotions in his body language. Sacrificing pawns without purpose was the mark of an amateur. The Monsieur of York was far from that. "What's really stopping you? From doing that right now? You're not pleased with this development. Or with me."

Garthelle leaned back a fraction. And then relaxed back into the booth, as though abruptly aware of my close proximity across the rather narrow width of the table. "What leads you to that conclusion?"

How long could I goad him into retreating? "You seem disturbed. Upset. Off balance."

"Disturbed by the sudden inability to sense your very existence?" He turned away, feigning an interest in the menu listing on the chalkboard behind the counter. "Indeed. I would not put it past my opposition to facilitate such."

"And the prospect of my death has you unbalanced? At hands other than yours, I presume. Since you're holding this over my head like an anvil."

He glanced at me, a quick furtive look, prey fleeing unflappable pursuit. "No."

"Because that, as I recall, was the alternative you initially offered me." I didn't succeed in keeping the rough edge of resentment out of my voice. "My death. By your hand."

And that marked the extent of his retreat. Garthelle turned back and faced me square, arms folded loosely and braced on the edge of the table. "Your point being?"