32. Lydia

32

Lydia

T he body was tired. It needed rest.

There had been so much activity since the arrival of her guests Lydia had barely had time to sleep. She was starting to lose her edge, which they could not afford.

Gladys had played the piano for her, and the haunting melody the young woman had selected made her body sway a bit in remembered rhythm.

Wishing not for the first time she had the constitution offered a Fae hybrid child after they came into their power, she settled instead with another cigarette. Fishing it out of the humidor, she lit it before walking out onto the wide balcony, startled to find Troy out there, crouched on the corner ledge of the stone railing. "My apologies."

They looked at her with orb-like brown eyes reflecting in the low light like a cat. Their voice was low, soft, and melodic, as though they were singing to her. "Hello, Lydia."

She gestured at her lit cigarette. "I'm sorry. I know you're sensitive."

They tilted their head, hair falling like a sheet to one side. Theirs was only so long as to brush the top of their shoulder blades, and it was the richness of forest soil, dark and streaked with bits of autumn orange and brown. She could see how an elf like them could disappear into forests so well. "Have you met me before, in one of your other lives?"

Coming up to the railing, leaning over it so she could see the wide dark swath of the park, and all the glittering, moving lights of the city at night, Lydia pondered the question.

Music came from everywhere, soft as the wind which barely stirred the stale air. There were other penthouses, other balconies and terraces where people were throwing weekend soirees. Lydia would have been joining them, had been invited to many, but this situation of theirs took precedent.

And there, just there, out of reach. Something seemed so correct about what was occurring now. As though this were the culmination.

Hope, damnable thing, sparked in her chest.

"Lydia?"

She inhaled from her cigarette once more before stubbing it out and tossing the butt into one of the potted shrubs. There were ordinances about throwing things off rooftops in Manhattan. The ember of a cigarette could survive the fall, for instance, and catch something on fire far below. Garbage. Human hair.

"Yes, I've met you before," she said at last, not looking at them. "And I've seen you die."

Troy was very still. They had changed back into the clothes they had worn from the Realms. Mottled leathers, they looked like they contained many secret pockets. At least, she would not be surprised. After a moment, they tapped out a rhythm on the side of the stone wall with their long fingers. "How?"

She finally looked at them. "You don't want to know, Troy. Trust me. Knowing how you die is?—"

"Have I died every time you met me?"

She swallowed, then said softly, "Yes."

"The same way?" They slid off the banister, coming to stand at her side. They were so tall she had to crane to look at them. Like Johnathan. "Does it happen the same way?"

"Not exactly, but… yes. Essentially." She swallowed, and knew they would continue to press, so she came out with it. "You're always protecting mama."

"Ah," they sighed, and ran a hand through their hair. "That would be something I'd do, yes."

"What's something you'd do?" another voice called out, and Lydia moved back as Jen approached. She was still in her summer dress, and looked a pretty picture with Troy's arm around her waist. She stood on tiptoes to press a kiss to their cheek, but they were all eyes for Lydia. "What's going on?"

Pursing her lips for a moment, she explained. "When I have met Troy in the past, they have always died."

Jen jerked, her hand rising protectively over Troy's chest. "No. They're far too young."

They chuffed a laugh. "Now you call me young?"

"They don't die of natural causes," Lydia said gently. "I was just telling Troy—they fall protecting my mother, every time."

Jen stared at her for a long, long moment, and then demanded, "Were they mated to me?"

Lydia blinked, glancing between the two of them. She could not see the threads of magic the way her mother had described so many times but, sometimes, she could sense a sort of fluttering softness. And there was definitely something here, now she was focused in on it. "You're mated? To each other?" She tried to keep the confusion out of her voice, but failed.

"Why do you act so surprised?" Troy asked slowly. "I love this woman."

"Oh, yes," Lydia breathed, and hope was rising again. She tried to push it down but, before she could, it gushed out of her. "You've always loved Jen. From afar. Unrequited. Every time. I cannot even—I don't know why I didn't notice you two were—you share a room. She just kissed your cheek." The last was said flatly. "My gods I fell into the roommate thought trap. What is wrong with me?" she muttered the last, turning away and putting her hand to her head.

"You lost me," Jen said.

"Forgive me," Lydia said, holding up a hand for a moments respite. "Only… this is different. Very different." She turned back to them with a wide smile, and white-hot dreams rising within her. "This could mean a real change in outcome." She licked her lips and continued breathlessly. "Every time I have lived my life, there are certain events that are… fully beyond my control to alter, in any way shape or form, even with full foreknowledge.

"But sometimes, inexplicably, the circumstances dramatically change. And when they do, those events go into flux." She clapped her hands together, bouncing on her heels. "Oh, this is wonderful news! I'm so, so grateful to hear it. This could truly change your fate, Troy."

They grinned. "Like me that much?"

Pain sliced through her for a moment, remembering how often those had been their last words, as she held them while they passed. Once, Troy had said it to Jen, and she had brokenly sobbed, "Of course I do!" a moment too late for them to hear.

She shook herself of the thought, still smiling despite it. "This is the best thing I've heard in?—"

Jen pulled in a breath, and Troy straightened, stepping forward.

Then Lydia felt the chill behind her.

"Daughter of the interlopers," hissed a voice she did not recognize. Cold fingers clamped like iron around the back of her exposed neck, her hair pulled up in a bun to avoid the heat. "Call for your parents or I will snap your neck. Don't—" they said sharply when Troy moved. "Go for a weapon, creature. She'd be dead before you could throw and you'll be next."

Lydia had a feeling she was about to meet one of the vampires she had heard rumors and whispers about for lifetime upon lifetime. Whenever she got close to the darker underbelly of the world, there they were. Pulling the strings that moved the mechanics of this society.

She had thought, stupidly she realized, that the protection her home offered her would extend to the balcony. She had not been thinking clearly at all, too tired and sluggish in the mind.

Still, she could attempt to stall. "You can't come in?" she challenged to the one who held her.

Another hissing breath, more like a laugh. "You very well know I cannot without invitation. Do you care to?"

"I do not."

The grip tightened a little and she gasped, feeling a strength like steel. "Call them out." It hissed.

Lydia closed her eyes, fear flooding through her body and making it a shaky mess. She hated that. Licking her lips, she said to Jen and Troy, "Go. Run."

"Do not move," the vampire rasped. "And enough with your delays, little human. Call your parents. Now."

Lydia's eyes watered at the pained pressure in her throat, and the sensation threw her back to all those hundreds of times she had been in a similar position. Her entire body was beginning to shake. She stared at Jen and Troy. "I'm sorry."

Then she called her parents' names.