The Beast
Page 43
As he sat there, filling his hollow stomach yet unable to do anything about the emptiness that really counted, he thought it would have been so much easier if he had even a clue as to what his problem was—
Off in the distance, in the dining room, a sound echoed around.
And came closer.
It was a flurry of footsteps, like someone was running.
What the hell? he thought as he rose from his chair.
SEVENTEEN
There was a great deal of math to be contemplated when one had an addiction.
As Assail took a seat behind the desk at his glass mansion, he pulled open the long thin drawer that was directly over his thighs and took out three vials that were identical to the one the Brother Vishous had emptied upon his own forearm back at the Brotherhood’s subterranean facility.
Math, math, math . . . mostly multiplication. As in, given the amount of cocaine he had, how long would he be able to keep the cravings at bay? Fourteen hours? Fifteen?
He opened up one of the little brown containers and poured its white powder out on the leather blotter. Using a Centurion American Express card, he made a pair of lines, leaned over them, and took care of his business. Then he sat back in his chair and snuffed everything into place.
Truly, he hated the dripping down the back of his throat. The burn in his sinuses. The bitter taste that bloomed in his mouth. And he most especially despised the fact that he didn’t really get high anymore. He merely experienced a temporary upswing on this horrible roller coaster he had set himself upon, said respite to inevitably be followed by a rushing crash—and then, if he did not attend to himself, the clawing, relentless grab of the cravings.
Glancing at the remaining two vials, he found it difficult to believe that he’d fallen into this pattern. The slip and fall had been both the work of a moment and a slow-motion tragedy. He had initially started using to keep himself alert, but what had begun as a habit of practicality now owned him sure as a master had dominion over a servant in the Old Country.
Fates, he had not intended this.
Had not intended rather a lot, of late.
Extending his arm, he woke up his laptop with a stroke on its touch pad, signed in using one hand even though there were capitals involved in his password, and accessed, via encrypted channels, his overseas account. The big one that was in Geneva.
He had several others.
So many digits and commas before the decimal point on the balance. And staring at the line up, he contemplated exactly how much money one needed—even assuming that as a vampire, he would live out ten human lifespans or more.
Assuming his little habit didn’t usher him off unto the Fade.
Or in his case, Dhund in all likelihood.
Surely he had enough by any practical standard, even in light of recent international finance crises . . . so did he truly have to deal in the drugs anymore? Then again, at the rate he was snorting powder up his nose, he was in danger of becoming his own best customer.
I need your help with the glymera.
As he considered Wrath’s proposal, he had to wonder how what the King wanted him to do was any better or worse than making money off the backs of humans and their need for chemical reinforcement. The royal endeavor was something to pass the time, surely. And if he wasn’t going to traffic in drugs, he needed to surmount the night hours somehow.
Otherwise he would go insane.
Mostly from missing that female of his. Who had not, in fact, ever been his own.
“Marisol,” he whispered into the air.
Why in the hell had he never taken a picture of her? When she had stayed here, in this very house, when he had protected her, with his very life, why hadn’t he picked up his phone, pointed it in her direction and snapped a shot? A mere moment of time, a split second, that was all that it required. But no, he had not done such a thing, and now, here he was, on the far side of the divide, with nothing left of her save that which was in his mind.
It was as if she had died. Except she was still on the planet.
In fact, she was down in Florida, where the ocean lapped at the sweet sand and the nights were a balmy mystery even in fucking October.
He knew exactly where she was, precisely where she stayed—because he had tracked her down there. Made sure that she had gotten to her destination with her grandmother safely. Pined for her from the shadows in the most pathetic manner possible.
But he had honored her request. He had let her go. Let her be free of him and this illegal lifestyle they had both participated in.
Cat burglars and drug dealers could co-exist.
A human woman who wanted to be on the correct side of the law and a vampire pusher addict could not.
With a groan, he put his face in his hands and called her to mind. Yes, oh, yes, he could remember her dark hair and her lithe body, her skin and her dark eyes with a certain clarity. But the passage of time . . . he worried he would forget some nuance at first and then ever larger and more significant details.
And the loss of that was a death by inches even as he continued to breathe.
“Enough,” he muttered as he dropped his arms and leaned back.
Refocusing on himself, he thought about what the King had laid out for him. It would be a change of endeavor, for certain. But he had enough money. He had enough time. And finding another network of middlemen dealers to farm out his product on the streets of Caldwell and Manhattan abruptly seemed too much like work.
Besides . . . having fought side by side with the Brotherhood? He found himself respecting those males. Respecting their leader, too.
It was quite the about-face for an otherwise avowed Libertarian—rather like an atheist considering the existence of God following a near-death experience.
Off in the distance, in the dining room, a sound echoed around.
And came closer.
It was a flurry of footsteps, like someone was running.
What the hell? he thought as he rose from his chair.
SEVENTEEN
There was a great deal of math to be contemplated when one had an addiction.
As Assail took a seat behind the desk at his glass mansion, he pulled open the long thin drawer that was directly over his thighs and took out three vials that were identical to the one the Brother Vishous had emptied upon his own forearm back at the Brotherhood’s subterranean facility.
Math, math, math . . . mostly multiplication. As in, given the amount of cocaine he had, how long would he be able to keep the cravings at bay? Fourteen hours? Fifteen?
He opened up one of the little brown containers and poured its white powder out on the leather blotter. Using a Centurion American Express card, he made a pair of lines, leaned over them, and took care of his business. Then he sat back in his chair and snuffed everything into place.
Truly, he hated the dripping down the back of his throat. The burn in his sinuses. The bitter taste that bloomed in his mouth. And he most especially despised the fact that he didn’t really get high anymore. He merely experienced a temporary upswing on this horrible roller coaster he had set himself upon, said respite to inevitably be followed by a rushing crash—and then, if he did not attend to himself, the clawing, relentless grab of the cravings.
Glancing at the remaining two vials, he found it difficult to believe that he’d fallen into this pattern. The slip and fall had been both the work of a moment and a slow-motion tragedy. He had initially started using to keep himself alert, but what had begun as a habit of practicality now owned him sure as a master had dominion over a servant in the Old Country.
Fates, he had not intended this.
Had not intended rather a lot, of late.
Extending his arm, he woke up his laptop with a stroke on its touch pad, signed in using one hand even though there were capitals involved in his password, and accessed, via encrypted channels, his overseas account. The big one that was in Geneva.
He had several others.
So many digits and commas before the decimal point on the balance. And staring at the line up, he contemplated exactly how much money one needed—even assuming that as a vampire, he would live out ten human lifespans or more.
Assuming his little habit didn’t usher him off unto the Fade.
Or in his case, Dhund in all likelihood.
Surely he had enough by any practical standard, even in light of recent international finance crises . . . so did he truly have to deal in the drugs anymore? Then again, at the rate he was snorting powder up his nose, he was in danger of becoming his own best customer.
I need your help with the glymera.
As he considered Wrath’s proposal, he had to wonder how what the King wanted him to do was any better or worse than making money off the backs of humans and their need for chemical reinforcement. The royal endeavor was something to pass the time, surely. And if he wasn’t going to traffic in drugs, he needed to surmount the night hours somehow.
Otherwise he would go insane.
Mostly from missing that female of his. Who had not, in fact, ever been his own.
“Marisol,” he whispered into the air.
Why in the hell had he never taken a picture of her? When she had stayed here, in this very house, when he had protected her, with his very life, why hadn’t he picked up his phone, pointed it in her direction and snapped a shot? A mere moment of time, a split second, that was all that it required. But no, he had not done such a thing, and now, here he was, on the far side of the divide, with nothing left of her save that which was in his mind.
It was as if she had died. Except she was still on the planet.
In fact, she was down in Florida, where the ocean lapped at the sweet sand and the nights were a balmy mystery even in fucking October.
He knew exactly where she was, precisely where she stayed—because he had tracked her down there. Made sure that she had gotten to her destination with her grandmother safely. Pined for her from the shadows in the most pathetic manner possible.
But he had honored her request. He had let her go. Let her be free of him and this illegal lifestyle they had both participated in.
Cat burglars and drug dealers could co-exist.
A human woman who wanted to be on the correct side of the law and a vampire pusher addict could not.
With a groan, he put his face in his hands and called her to mind. Yes, oh, yes, he could remember her dark hair and her lithe body, her skin and her dark eyes with a certain clarity. But the passage of time . . . he worried he would forget some nuance at first and then ever larger and more significant details.
And the loss of that was a death by inches even as he continued to breathe.
“Enough,” he muttered as he dropped his arms and leaned back.
Refocusing on himself, he thought about what the King had laid out for him. It would be a change of endeavor, for certain. But he had enough money. He had enough time. And finding another network of middlemen dealers to farm out his product on the streets of Caldwell and Manhattan abruptly seemed too much like work.
Besides . . . having fought side by side with the Brotherhood? He found himself respecting those males. Respecting their leader, too.
It was quite the about-face for an otherwise avowed Libertarian—rather like an atheist considering the existence of God following a near-death experience.
