I have you and even if we never meet or ever see each other, we have left our thumbprints in the thick, moist clay of each other's lives. -Hugh Elliott

He had them meet him there before he would tell anyone anything as to what it was about. Poor Claudia had been planning a feast; there would be no one with stomach left to feast, now. Solace, a small part of him recognized, knew. Most likely could tell simply by the tone in his voice.

The words came out clipped, detached. No one questioned why. No one questioned the loss or that the ice was his shield, his support against breaking down right then and there. Burdening all of them with this, although he wouldn't realize he had thought that until later. The guilt over what he had done (what, Max's voice in his mind said, he believed he had done, there was nothing... and then his mind clamped down on the words before they could become any more painful) and what he had allowed to happen was binding his throat. He couldn't speak.

Solace finished it, the arrangements, at least for now. Who and where and calling in the children. Stephen called Aidan, and they had a few moments of strangled words and stoic silence such that men understood. Everyone would be gathered in the morning.

That night, the wall broke. It felt almost like any ordinary night until Stephen began the customary list of things to be done tomorrow and included among the items were sorting out the details of Max's pension, death benefits, and funeral arrangements. Notifying the company. They would want to know what had happened.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to stop the tears for no reason he could explain, simply because the deluge was upon him and he was crouched in front of it like a man in the path of a tsunami wave. Trying in vain, by reflex, to avoid being swamped under. Frozen, hand curled and clenched, throat choked tight. Clawlike hand, twisted face.

Solace's hand curled over his shoulder, strong and steady.

"I can't..." It burst out of him in a choked wad of tears and coughing. "I can't do this, I can't, I" Rapid fire bursts of words, of denial. He could't do this. He could't do this so it wouldn't be done, it wasn't true, it wasn't real, it couldn't be real. It was a hideous mistake.

"Love..." But there weren't words for this, there simply wasn't anything that could be said that would make it any better, and so she tugged him gently backwards into her arms and held him as he crumpled against her. As he clung, fingers tight, it had to be painfully tight on her arm, curled into her shirt, and she made no sound. Her hand smoothed over and through his hair.

(as he had done, remembered doing, for Max, that night Claudia was in the hospital and the vampires and their allies had struck and there was nothing to be done but wait it out and even though he had been more than concerned for his friend he had done nothing, said nothing but given him a safe place to be)

He wanted Max. Whimpered it without half knowing what he was saying, like a child wanting a favorite toy. He didn't let go of Solace but he wanted Max to walk in, now, right now, and be there soothing and strong and proof that it was a horrible nightmare. That it wasn't real. That he hadn't just lost his oldest friend in all the world and now the world felt so empty, so cold. He was so afraid of that cold.

He was babbling. In French. Mind reverting to childhood, or to some place far off and far in the past, some time when things were safe, when everything was safe. An imaginary time, for there had never been such a circumstance in his childhood. C'est pas possible. It can't be true. It's not true. And Solace was saying something, too, murmuring something and her touches were soft and gentle and did nothing to staunch the bleeding wound where half his heart had been ripped from his chest.

(and the image alone made him choke and cry out and reminded him of when the twins and Sammy had been sixteen and they had been determined to get him and Max to find them one of those stupid best-friends-forever necklaces that divided into three parts one for each of them and Max had made comment that maybe they should get a pair for themselves)

Half his heart, ripped and thrown to the ground and buried with his friend. Could he even watch as they lowered a coffin into the earth? That thing he had seen lying on the cold slab, devoid of life, of movement, of warmth that had always been his, that wasn't his friend. That wasn't Max, wasn't his love, his friend. That was something else. And Max, the man he knew, was gone. Beyond his reach, forever.

Which brought a fresh bout of sobs and whimpering. Regrets. Denials. And now, between these sobs and the gasping shallow breaths he was sucking down, now came the guilt. Everything he had done, every decision he had made, questioned, because it had cost Max his life. And that was not worth it. Nothing was worth that price. He would have traded anything to have him back, his own life, only please...

It wasn't true, of course. There were some things. He would not trade Solace's life for Max, his children, Max's children who were like enough to his own. He would not trade one heartache for another. But he wasn't thinking right now.

It was his fault. It should have been him, they had wanted him, it should have been him dead. He was the one taking the risks, he was the one taking the chances, he should have died in Max's place. Never mind that this was Max's job. The one he had hired on for, the one he had performed every day for over a century without complaint. Without question, at least, that question. But it was still his fault, Claudia was a widow because of him, Sammy had lost her father and her idol because of him, the world was a darker, colder place. Because of him.

(don't be ridiculous, Max said in his mind, it's not the end of the world and you know i'll always be right there with you because you'd get into way too much trouble without me)

But he wasn't there. He wasn't saying that, because he wasn't there. And Stephen couldn't pick up the phone and hear his voice on the other end of a crackling line, could never hear that voice again. And he would never look up to see those broad shoulders leaning in his doorway. And he would never see that flash of a bright smile. Nor feel the warmth of his touch. Nor hear the words whispered against his lips. Never again. No more.

It hurt. He had never experienced pain like this before, pain without ending, without respite. And the only thing that kept him there, the only thing that kept him from hurtling bodily towards the nearest source of oblivion, the only thing that held him to this earth was Solace, patient, strong, holding him as tight as she could while the tears flowed unnoticed down her own cheeks.

"I'll buy him from you." He said it so calmly, and Stephen's expression didn't flicker when he did. "Two thousand pound."

One dark eyebrow arched. Still he said nothing.

"All right. Three thousand."

"No."

( Read more... )

The businessman sat on the grass with little regard for his very expensive suit, one leg half-cocked up and one arm around that knee, a beer bottle in the other hand over his other leg crossed and tucked in front of him. Not all that uncommon a sight, as far as cemeteries went. Perhaps the fact that he was lounging on the grass instead of standing solemnly staring down at a sad little plot in a grand old cemetery. The advantages to owning your own company was that there was no one to give you the stink-eye when you came rumpled with grass stains on your trousers.

Stephen shivered. There was a chill to the air today, despite it being late April. Well, because it was late April, most likely, up north as it was. Not because he was sitting here staring at a headstone which read a far too familiar name and dates too close together. He dropped his eyes again; if he was good and didn't look he could pretend that his friend was standing behind him glaring at him and taking him to task for brooding. Long coat down to mid-shin, blue jeans and Doc Martens. Rumpled cream-colored rib-knit sweater. That smell of cordite and aftershave and human. Knife grease. Sex. The rough stubble on his cheek. The texture of his hair. The callouses on his hands.

Nothing is trivial.

( Read more... )

The wedding of the sole son and heir to a strong wizard family, especially one with the lineage he had traced back in the record books to ancient kings, would have been at least an occasion full of solemnity and boredom. That he was marrying a woman of one of the most powerful acknowledged families in the wizard world today, not only because of the esteem in which her father was held but also simply because nearly the entire family was strong in their magic... that only made it the more scrutinized. Stephen De La Marck was less than thrilled by the prospect of all the damned formalities.

Still. He was what he was, and he had always known that this would not be easy or quiet. There were the politics of who was invited to the so-called social event of the season to consider, there was the ceremony itself. There was the venue, the foods chosen so as not to offend visiting wizards of other cultures.

Stephen rubbed at his forehead, trying to at least wish away the headache that had abruptly started, or at least wish some pain pills into his pocket. Too much stress. Too much worry.

"Too much going on?"

( Read more... )

Stephen didn't go much further than the next room while his wife slept, exhausted from the events of the past thirty-six hours. As exhausted as he was as well, his mind was racing. There were so many things yet to do, or at least so many things that he wanted to do. Things he wanted to know.

For starters, how bad this was. Even if nothing they had left could lead the mortal authorities to Pollux and Solace, the magical community was smaller, more insular, and had other resources available to them. More extensive ones, usually. And for this sort of murder, with the evidence of seven children suddenly having been relocated for no apparent reason, they would be investigating. And Stephen wanted to be sure that they were at least reasonable about what they found.

Letters. There were letters to be written to various people, to the wizards who had taken on these children as their apprentices, all of which had to be phrased very, very delicately. He had known nothing of what his wife was going to do, and yet he supported her actions. He knew that she had a problem with the summoning of Outsiders, and yet shouldn't every right-thinking wizard? He did not condone vigilantism and yet, there was nothing to be done about that now, and he was not the sort of man to reign absolute over his household. No, leave that part out.

He did not condone vigilantism and yet it was too late to do anything about that now. The important thing was the care and education of the children. He would establish a trust for the education of these children until they received their stoles, or until it was determined that they were not of wizard potential. Which he did not expect, but he left that part out too. And he would be paying each of them a visit to consult with the wizards now in charge of the children, see how he could mitigate what damage might have been done by the sudden and swift changes.

( Shelly Asherton )

The standing rule in the house of De La Marck was that any of the DuMorne clan were to be let in immediately and without question, no matter the hour. Stephen had put this rule in place after Solace had moved in and after he had seen how close her own family was, genuinely warm and affectionate to each other in ways he had not thought genuinely possible in a family born.

So when Pollux DuMorne turned up in the middle of the night, dripping wet from the melting snow and clearly agitated, he was shown into the study and given the warmth of the fire while the butler went to fetch Solace.

Not that she was asleep. Since baby Aidan had joined them sleep had become a rare commodity, and they took it in turns to stay up and listen for his cries rather than get only one or two hours' sleep at a time. Tonight it was her turn, as Stephen had a negotiation to actually pay attention to the next morning. She was dozing on the trundle bed in the next room when the butler came in. Stephen opened his eyes long enough to see her tuck Aidan into her arms and slip out before he went back to sleep.

( Read more... )

It wasn't the end. It wasn't even the beginning of the end; they had decided to part ways already. The time in between was just... filler.

Liquid sloshed. Crystal decanter clicked against crystal glass, then clicked again when he set it down. Surrounded by the typical excesses of those born to wealth and privilege, to an old name. Hardwood imported from countries who were paid a pittance for the rape of their natural resources, whiskey older than the man who drank it, crystal that had been in the family for three generations. There were times when he wanted to throw the crystal against the wall, shatter every last piece of it. Pointless, youthful rebellion. He would grow out of it and regret it later, and that was the only reason he didn't.

Not marrying her for real was probably also the youthful rebellion, but in this case there was less reason... it wasn't as though his father knew about the ill-advised little tryst on Maui. Rollin' down to old Maui, me boys. It wasn't as though his father knew about the child. There was no child to know about, now.

He did not drain the glass. Whiskey should be enjoyed, not guzzled like a destitute drunk looking for peace at the bottom of a medicine bottle if it got him plastered. And he was not a drunk. Not even a lush, which was the polite word for drunk in his society. A libertine. Whatever the fuck his father wanted to call it.

With the second sip came the brief curiosity if she had planned the whole thing. A miscarriage to seal their fate. If she terminated the pregnancy early enough on (and he knew this only because his father had given him two lectures on the ugly but often used and hidden methods of maintaining the semblance of honor) there would be much less risk to her person. Could she do that? Could she murder their child, however accidentally gotten? And if so, was she the same woman he had known all these years?

With the third sip he shook his head and banished the thoughts. Not because they weren't true but because he had no way of knowing for sure. She was hardly likely to tell him a thing like that, and if he pressed she would simply tell him what she thought would get him out of her life the fastest. They had agreed to go their separate ways. He could leave it at that.

Stephen pushed himself out of his chair and finished the glass, walking to the fireplace and leaning on the mantle. The glass dangled from precarious fingertips, index finger tracing around the rim where he could reach. It was too bad, really. His father had approved of the match, if not the manner in which they went about it, and women that his father didn't object to were few and far between. Not that Stephen cared to match his bedmates to his father's wishes but lovers, someone he actually spent time with, those he was more selective about. And he cared to make his life as pleasant to his father's hearing as possible. Less trouble that way. Stephen liked less trouble.

Which was probably another reason why he was better off this way. A lover in his life made things complicated, though at least she was used to him by that time. A child would have made things even more so, especially out of wedlock. If he was to be married there would have to be some sort of grand and formal ceremony; if he was to have a child acknowledged as his he had damn well better be married beforehand, or hear about it from his father, his godforsaken lush (drunk, she was a drunk) of a step-mother, and possibly even his mother as well.

No, this was... not precisely the better course of action but certainly the easiest, simplest outcome for everyone involved. It was only a day's worth of pain and a change of sheets, after all. This was not a child he had ever held or looked at or listened to. Or smelled. There was smell and mess involved with a child, and he was not in a position to have that in his house at this time. No, if anything, this was a relief.

Whiskey be damned; he finished the glass, poured himself a second and tossed it back, and replaced the decanter on the table. Turned off the lights, replaced the firescreen, and went to bed. Morning would come quicker if he slept, and nigh-interminably slowly if he did not.