Dust

XXI

It has to be at least seven in the morning, maybe even somewhere in the hour of six, but the sun is already high in the sky. Gael, still not untangled from sleep, is complaining about being up so early, his head on the café's table and his eyes only half-open. Damien is idly stirring the mug of warm cow's blood he ordered, looking apathetic but not tired. Earlier, he requested the curtains be drawn closed ("I'm sure you don't want anyone burning alive in your restaurant; I don't imagine that would be good for marketing"), and the shadows slip ominously around us.

    While I'm trying to be cheery, since it was my idea that we go out to breakfast to celebrate Gael's first official mission yesterday, it's hard to when everyone around you seems to have somewhere else they'd rather be. I lean across the table towards Dame, the silky black strands of my hair falling to shade my face; annoyed, I push them back behind my ears. "Please say something. The silence is killing me."

    "What do you want me to say?" Damien replies, ceasing his stirring and folding his fingers across the table instead. His eyes flick to Gael, who, after realizing he has fallen asleep, I have to shake to wake up. Gael grumbles more complaints, his gaze meeting Damien's. "I would like to make a toast to my dear friend, Gael, for doing a great job at...his job, while I was stuck outside trying not to be incinerated."

    Gael's eyes roll. "Thank you, dear friend."

    Both of them look at me, and Damien goes back to stirring. "Good enough for you, my love?"

     No, it was pathetic, so I stray from the subject, taking a bite of the omelette on my plate and setting my fork down again, done for now. A quick survey of my surroundings tells me I have to keep my voice down. "When are we going to talk about what else happened yesterday?"

    "Hm," Gael says. "How about never?"

    This earns him a hit in the shoulder from me, and he groans. "No, seriously. This is a big deal...bigger than just a poorly organized hitman business. This is"—I drop my voice as low as it will bear to go— "the Commission. The Commission involved with an illegal witch, which makes almost no sense."

    "You're not wrong, Gemma," Damien tells me, sitting back in his seat with a sigh. The darkness streaking across our booth makes his eyes stand out like precious rubies. "You're right that it's a big deal, but it's a big deal we should leave alone. I don't want to be in trouble with the Commission—"

    "But you're a vampire," Gael interjects. "Why would they want to hurt you? You're one of them—"

    "Daylights, Gael, they don't care. They are old and powerful, all kinds of old and powerful, and all they want to make sure Maris is flourishing at their hands. If that means taking out people that question them..." Damien shakes his head, downs his whole mug, then wipes at his mouth and starts again. "They don't care if I'm the same species as them. They'll drive a stake through me if they want to."

    "That's ridiculous," I say. "They only give death penalties to those who deserve it. Murderers and sex offenders, etcetera."   

    "Maybe so," Damien says, rubbing his temples, "but it's obvious the Commission has something to hide, is it not? Who knows what they'll do to protect that dirty little secret."

    "So we know too much," Gael says, tapping the table with nervous hands. "But no one knows we know too much."

    "See? The human gets it," Damien says then, his eyes intense on me. He offers Gael a high-five, and he takes it, looking childishly pleased. "We don't tell anyone, we don't get punished. Life is good! Let's embrace it, not threaten it, Gemma."