20

Casimir

"Seriously, Cas, what the hell?" Serra's disgruntled question cuts through the haze of my thoughts. "Did I piss you off somehow, or is someone else responsible for this delightful little mood of yours?"

"It's not you," I tell her, trying and failing to curb the agitated edge to my voice.

We're back at the warehouse, me behind my desk and Serra behind hers on the opposite side of the room. Work has been unfortunately light this week, nothing much to distract from the troubling tangle of my brooding and regret.

Serra's hard emerald stare holds mine, unflinching, so I sigh and try again.

"Really, Serra, it's not you."

"So what is it, then, and whose ass do we need to kick to make it better?"

Despite myself, I chuckle. I lean back in my chair and intertwine my fingers behind my head, letting out a long breath.

"No asses to kick, unless you've somehow magickally got a lead on the Haverstad investigation."

I brought Serra up to speed on the case the moment I got back from visiting Seattle, though I'd originally intended to do so in a limited capacity. It's far beyond the scope of our usual business concerns, and I wouldn't have blamed her for not wanting anything to do with it.

Serra, however, jumped in as she usually does. With both feet and boundless enthusiasm.

Even if between the two of us, we still got next to nowhere.

Before teaming up with Ophelia and following Audra's lead, Serra and I had started with the campaign, and with Haverstad himself. But surveilling the mayor and doing our damnedest to weed through any information we could dig up on him didn't reveal anything particularly helpful. At least not about the attacks. The old bastard is crooked seven ways from Sunday in his abuses of power while in office, and though the idea of using some of those other unsavory bits of information to knock the prick's reelection chances is appealing, the Bureau case comes first.

Serra lets out a disgruntled snort. "No, nothing helpful there. Unless you're ready to nail him for the inside deals he's been orchestrating on those public works projects?"

Another lovely little detail we've uncovered, one of the many ways he's enriched himself and his cronies over the years.

"Tempting," I murmur. "But not yet."

"Does it have something to do with Ophelia, then? Your mood?"

I don't answer, but that silence seems to be enough of an answer for her.

"You two will figure it out, I'm sure."

Serra turns back to her computer, her powers of perception only matched by her tact and her innate understanding of when to push a topic and when to leave well enough alone.

Even if that tactful silence leaves me right where I was before she spoke up.

Brooding. Stewing. A dark cloud hanging just above my head.

Ophelia and I have been awkwardly hovering around each other for the past few days. She repaired whatever it is she needed to in her van and has gone back to staying in it, and I'm not fool enough to press her on it or invite her back inside.

At least beyond my clumsy attempt to do so that night in my kitchen.

Gods, I couldn't have handled things worse if I'd tried.

I'd regretted leaving that morning from the moment I stepped outside the house. The shame of walking out like that had gnawed on me all day. Despite whatever her reaction to waking up naked and sprawled across me might have been, I should have stayed to face it.

And when I came home and found her in my kitchen—dark shadows under her beautiful brown eyes, sneaking back out to her van like a thief in the night—it hit me like a physical blow.

I should have been there for her.

Though I can't imagine she would have appreciated me trying to educate her about how to best take care of herself after being fed from by a vampire, I should have done it anyway.

There's no excuse for it, no reason it should have slipped my mind that she might never have had any reason to ask or need to know.

The first time I bit her, I hardly took more than a few swallows, not enough to cause any lingering effects beyond the initial rush of pleasure.

But the second time…

I'm no stranger to feeding from a human, and even with as intoxicating as Ophelia's blood is, I was by no means in danger of over-indulging. Still, I took enough from her for the loss to leave her feeling less than her best until her body replenished itself. Rest and fluids and iron-rich food should have been the order of the day, perhaps a long, hot bath to ease away any lingering tension in her muscles. Not her going for a run, certainly, or traipsing across Boston to get her van fixed.

With a vampire stepfather and a half-vampire sister, I had thought she might know enough about our world to be aware that…

I mentally scold myself, stopping that thought in its tracks. It doesn't matter what she might have known. It was my responsibility to see to her needs, to at least stay long enough to talk to her and make sure she was alright.

In different circumstances, I could have been the one to tend to her. I could have drawn her that bath and stepped out to get whatever coffee or tea she preferred from some local shop. I could have made sure she had something fresh and homemade to eat rather than leftover pizza.

Well. Chef -made.

But the sentiment still would have counted.

Instead, I left her. Then I had the gall to let my temper show when I realized how badly I fucked up.

And now, for the life of me, I don't know how to fix it.

Ophelia made it all too clear she wants to go back to the way things were. Working together, keeping things professional, forgetting all about that night in my bedroom and our ruse in the alley and the strange, godsdamn unnerving way our bodies seem divinely made to suit each other perfectly.

"On a different note," Serra says, again startling me out of my thoughts. "The Valentis."

"What about them?"

"Did you get anywhere with that cousin of Alexandrina's?"

Gods, I'd forgotten all about Alexandrina. And the cousin. And the painting. And anything else in my life that doesn't concern Ophelia and this Bureau case.

"I haven't. But I did get a tip earlier this week…" I search distractedly through the scattered papers on my desk, unusually untidy for me. "Something about a dealer who might have had it at one point. A Loveless? Lovelace? Yes, Lovelace, Jack Lovelace."

"Say that name again," she says, sitting bolt upright in her chair like she's been struck by lightning.

Startled, I glance over at her, only to find her grinning back at me with a look on her face that's just this side of maniacal.

"Jack Lovelace."

"Excellent," she says, still with that Cheshire-cat smile.

"Care to elaborate?"

Serra shakes her head, bounding out of her chair and heading for the door. "Nah. Not yet. I'll call you if it pans out."

"Serra—"

"Take care of whatever other shit has you so grumpy, and I'll take this one," she calls over her shoulder. "Hanging out with you when you're like this is a bummer, anyway."

With that, the warehouse door swings shut behind her.

Perhaps I should take her suggestion, just like I should heed Ophelia's request for the two of us to be nothing more than partners in this case.

At any rate, it would certainly be better than continuing to sulk and sully the air around me with my brooding.

Resolving to do just that, I look to the papers in front of me—the pointless leads and all the information we've dug up on Haverstad. I go over and over the details, like I might find something there I've missed the dozens of times I've gone through it, something to inform our next move.

While I do, I pointedly ignore the dry ache in the back of my throat and the unfamiliar pressure in my chest, every instinct that would have me reach for my phone and call Ophelia, or better yet, go after her. Track her down and bicker with her some more, rile her up just to see the daggers in her eyes, hold her close and—

"Enough," I mutter, turning my attention back to the case.

Despite my best efforts to distract myself with work, it turns out the next move in the case isn't one of my own making.

I receive a text message at three on the dot.

It's from an unknown number, with nothing more than a photo of a bench in Boston Common and a succinct message of 4pm , but it's enough for me to understand immediately that I've been summoned, and by who.

This isn't the first time Philippe's pulled some sort of cloak and dagger stunt when he wants to get my attention. Always with a flair for the dramatic, perhaps it would be easier not to indulge him.

But Ophelia and I haven't made much more progress on the case in the few days since we tailed Devin across campus, and with a gut instinct that tells me the coven knows more than Marcus was willing to admit, I begrudgingly make my way to the Common and the meeting spot.

It's a brilliant fall day, the cold snap from earlier this week long since receded. Bright sun spills over the paved paths criss-crossing wide green lawns as I make my way to the bench. It's easy enough to recognize with the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the background of the photo Philippe sent, and I settle in to wait.

As the minutes tick by—passing four, then five after, then ten—irritation rises like damp wool against my skin. Prickling, uncomfortable, it's all I can do to keep myself in my seat and not say the hell with all of this.

It's just like Philippe, too, to pull these sorts of little power moves. Petty and small, grabbing whatever upper hand he can whenever he can.

It was exhausting centuries ago, and it's exhausting now.

It's almost enough to drown out any curiosity over what he might have to say, but just as I'm about to head back to my car, I catch sight of Philippe.

He cuts a striking figure in all his brooding finery as he ambles down one of the paths cutting through the center of the Common. Black hair and an even blacker suit. Skin as pale as mine and crimson eyes the same deep blood red as all our vampire kin.

"Forgive me," he says in his smooth French accent, not sounding contrite in the slightest as he slides onto the bench next to me. "I was held up on business."

"Of course," I respond, just as smoothly. "I confess, I was surprised to receive your message."

"Were you? After all the trouble you and that human of yours caused the other night for poor Marcus, I can't imagine why this would come as a surprise."

"The trouble we caused? I don't believe Marcus was entirely forthcoming with you about the nature of our chat. I know he was never one for manners, but most would consider dumping guests unceremoniously into an alley to be poor form."

Philippe chuckles. "Perhaps it was not most elegantly handled, but then you and I both know that Marcus is not the most elegant of creatures."

"And how would you have handled it?"

I steal a glance over at him and find his brow lowered in a momentary furrow before he catches me looking and smooths it back into pleasant neutrality.

"I would have suggested you never bother wasting your time in the first place."

"From what Cassandra suggested, it seemed that—"

"She was mistaken in inviting you to the Raven. She should not have done so without speaking to me first."

The ice in Philippe's tone could freeze a lesser creature's heart in their chest. For me, it's merely a curiosity. I don't believe I've heard him speak with such emotion in over a century. And certainly not about Cassandra, who's been working as one of his lackeys for the better part of a decade.

"She was being polite," I say in her quiet defense. I'd hate for Ophelia and me to be the reason she wound up the recipient of Philippe's ire. "I believe she thought it might be good for the four of us to catch up, considering all that's been happening in the city as of late."

A group of humans walks by as I speak, led by a man dressed as some founding father or other, spouting off fact after patriotic fact. They have the look of out-of-towners to them, wide-eyed as they listen to their guide.

A couple of them notice Philippe and I sitting just off the path, though they quickly avert their eyes. Whether it's because they don't want to be perceived as rude for staring, or if some part of their deeply ingrained, instinctual psyches mark us as other, as danger, I'm not sure.

"I'm certain I don't know what you mean."

Philippe's affect is flat, bored, and I glance over to find him peering at one of the humans in the group. A woman in her middle years, with short, gray-dusted brown hair and a round, kind face, she flushes deep scarlet and drops her gaze when she finds herself under his scrutiny.

A pulse of unease moves through me at the look in his eyes. It's something akin to a cat with a mouse. A bored, distracted sort of torment, idle and amused and sharp as a knife, like all of this is some passing amusement.

I suppose to him it would be, as entrenched in our shared past as he still seems to be.

"You know more than you'd like to let on," I say, and he turns his attention away from the woman, eyes cutting to meet mine. "And if you'd deign to work with us, perhaps some good could come of it."

From the moment reports of rogue vampires in the city cropped up, Philippe wouldn't have rested until he knew the truth of it. Whether to rein in his own coven for insubordination or use the information as some kind of weapon against a rival coven, I know enough of his ruthless, obsessive nature to know he wouldn't have let it go.

That is, if he isn't involved with it somehow.

I'm more than inclined to believe this might all be something Haverstad's campaign cooked up to win cheap political points and fire the next shot in the tit-for-tat rivalry they've had going for years, but with Philippe, who knows?

And, with that in mind, I watch for any minute expression or tell to hint and where his mind's gone.

I find none.

Instead, he turns his gaze to the group of tourists, moving on now to their next destination, and lets out a derisive little sigh.

"Why should we concern ourselves at all with the affairs of humans?"

"If you hadn't heard, we live amongst them now. As we are. Seems enough of an excuse to concern ourselves at least a little."

Philippe shakes his head. "Since when has that ever served us in the past?"

A flicker of memories momentarily steals across my vision.

From the darkness of waking in this life with no recollection of what came before it, to bloody wars fought on shadowed, secret battlefields for power and territory and influence, to the day I ripped my freedom from the midst of all that violence.

Philippe was there for all of it, as was Marcus, as was the vampire who made us and countless others. And it's in the flat apathy on Philippe's face that I find it, that same shadow of death and destruction and age-old cruelty.

Even long dead, Antonius's spectre still has the power to haunt across oceans and centuries.

"We do not live in the past," I say quietly, and Philippe's scowl reappears.

"And that means it should be up to us to change? Let the rest of the world do as they will. We need not concern ourselves with any of it. We got along well enough before, and we will continue on just the same."

"With that attitude, you're more likely to be left behind. A relic to fade into obscurity."

Philippe gives me a long, hard, inscrutable stare, expression utterly unreadable for a few heartbeats before it melts back into a cruel, indulgent smirk.

"I do not answer to you, Casimir." He stands, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his jacket. "I do not owe any answers or assistance to you and that human of yours. I might have, had you been bold enough to seize the power that was yours by right instead of leaving it for me. But as it stands, you do not command me."

I'm on my feet in a flash, and the momentary satisfaction of seeing Philippe flinch is nearly lost in the haze of anger that steals over me.

"You speak of power as if you know what it means. As if you'd spent these centuries cultivating true power, instead of the fear and control you claim. Power built on influence and trust, rather than the intimidation and violence you and Marcus so aptly learned from Antonius."

"And yet," Philippe says, nothing but venom in his tone. "You come to me for help."

"And you're too much of a fool to offer it, to live in your past instead of the future that might be."

Philippe takes a step back with a haughty jut of his chin and a quick tug on his lapel. Little tells I know all too well, masking the deeply insecure creature beneath the veneer he likes to wear.

"Have a good afternoon, brother. It was a pleasure speaking with you."

Without waiting for a reply, he turns and strides away.

I stay where I am, watching him go. A tall, dark figure against the bright fall day, a relic of eras past living in this modern world. I keep my eyes trained on him until he disappears on the other side of the Common, body tense and waiting for an attack I know won't come.

As always, meeting with Philippe unnerves me like nothing else can.

Marcus is an annoyance, but Philippe? Philippe is a mirror.

Not in the sense that the two of us much resemble each other apart from the eyes, but I look at Philippe and see the creature I might have become had my path taken a different route these last few centuries.

I see the creature I once was.

Antonius may have used the two of us for different purposes and different ends, but we were alike in more ways than I care to admit or recall, even after all this time.

Shaking my head to clear those thoughts, I'm about to start making my way back to my car when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and answer without looking to see who it is.

"Cas," Serra says, breathless. "I've got it."

"Got what?"

"The painting, idiot. It's yours, if you're willing to fork over an absolutely obscene amount of money for it."

"How much?"

She names a price that makes my head spin, but after a few quick calculations and sketching a brief mental plan of how I might move some assets quickly around to free up the funds, I've decided.

"When?"

"Tonight. They're looking to offload it as soon as possible." She fires off a few more details—a location, how they want to receive payment, and a time.

"I'll meet you there at nine," I tell her, and after she agrees to that, I hang up.

Striding down the sidewalk and out of the Common with purpose is a welcome departure from the darkness cast by Philippe's visit. The prospect of finally having this piece in hand is a beacon, a light shining through some of that darkness, the smallest thread to cling to.

I am not the creature I once was, and I will never be again.

The stains of my past may never fully be washed away, and my hands may never be clean, but that doesn't mean I can't salvage some small piece of good from it all.

Even if I've forgotten these last few weeks. Even if, for the first time in as long as I can remember, the weight of all that darkness has felt lighter, somehow. Brightened by the sweet, sharp, unexpected woman who's somehow found her way back to me.

Enough, it's enough.

For now.