A Game of Chess, Ch. 15 (PG-13)
Posted: Thu Jul 07, 2011 10:09 pm
I know it's been forever...I've been distracted. But I do like to post something on my birthday, so here's an update. As always, I don't own Josef, and wouldn't dream of infringing anything.
A Game of Chess
Chapter 15
Patrick Thornton eased back in his chair, ready to sink into the soft melody that Rose was humming, the cool touch of her hands rubbing his shoulders. It was an old tune, one he’d heard from earliest childhood. He’d learned young, that his mother was not as others, but the cool touch of her hands had always been a pleasure to him, and the sound of her voice, singing a soothing lullaby, was familiar.
For her part, the sound of his steadily beating heart gave her something of the quiet joy she’d known when he’d first been laid in her arms, these many years ago. She’d been human then, frail and exhausted with her labor, but even so, strong enough to hold her son and vow to protect him. That had been nigh thirty years past, she reflected, and in some respects, little had changed. She began to run her fingers through his hair, heedless of the oil that held it in place.
Patrick laughed shortly, as though he could sense the grimace on her face. “Now, why the full treatment, Mother? I know how little you love macassar oil on your rosy fingertips.”
“Must I have a nefarious motive, my love?” She kept her voice low and melodious, the way she always did when she was trying to be persuasive. At least, he reflected, they’d gotten past imperious orders.
In answer, Patrick twisted around to let Rose see the amused doubt in his eyes. “I may be only human, Mother,” he said, “but I’ve known you all my life.”
“You know, most men find me charming.”
Patrick sighed. “Most of the men you deal with want what you’re selling,” he said. “I don’t.”
Rose gave him a smoky, sultry look. “You have no idea what I’m selling, my love. But I could show you. It’s time. Past time, soon.” They’d been over this ground before. She was getting anxious to turn him before he aged further.
“Not yet, Mother. I have business to take care of. I have the boys to lead.”
Her eyes lost their flirtatious spark. “Patrick, that gang will be the death of you, sooner or later. You can’t blame me for worrying.”
“I’ve heard this before, Mother. And the Blood Hand is prospering.” He lounged back, regarding her steadily.
“Not from what I hear. You spend all your strength and energy fighting with the Eagle Boys, and Sullivan has more men than you.” Rose began to pace. Patrick had seen a lioness once at a circus performance she’d taken him to, years ago. The big cat had stalked her trainer with less feline grace than he saw now in his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been vampire; it was the natural state of affairs. He fully intended to let her turn him, eventually. Just, a nagging voice in his head kept saying, not yet. Not yet.
“Sullivan is a braggart and a blowhard, and this time he’s backing the wrong horse,” he said.
Rose paused in her pacing and turned to face him, her face shadowed in the dim light. “About Sullivan, I’ll grant you might be right. But that horse—that particular horse is one you don’t know.”
“Night Wind Trading?” Patrick’s posture didn’t change, but she’d finally caught his interest, and she could sense it in his pulse, even though he tried to hide it. “What have you heard about them?”
“I know the owner,” Rose said flatly.”You might say he’s a friend of the family.”
“Fitzgerald? I heard he was some wet-behind-the-ears pretty boy from Philadelphia. Him and his sideman, both.”
Rose blinked and cocked her head to one side. “Sideman?”
“Madigan. Somehow I thought you’d know him, too, if you know Fitzgerald.”
Rose thought she might understand now why Fitz was sometimes dressed so uncharacteristically, but she wasn’t one to share everything with anyone, not even her beloved boy. Maybe after he turned, but not yet. “I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure. But I do think you ought to meet with Fitz, see if you can work something out.”
“Night Wind has enemies with deep pockets.”
Rose tapped her foot, impatient with his stubbornness. “If you don’t know who you’re working against, at least tell me who you’re working for.”
“That’s my business,” Patrick said, shifting his eyes.
Rose frowned. “Meaning, you have no idea.”
Patrick shrugged. “The money keeps coming.”
Rose sank gracefully onto her chaise, striking a pose without thinking. “I’m not asking you to give up that, you daft boy,” she said with some asperity. “Have you not learned yet from me to play both ends against the middle? I’m only asking you to meet with Fitz, not to throw in with him.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes, plucking at the checked broadcloth of his suit jacket. “Tell me one thing, Mother. How long have you known this Fitzgerald?”
Rose fluttered a hand unconsciously by her throat, a gesture Patrick had seen too often among the swallows of the house. In the human girls, it was a pretty thing, but it seemed unnatural, to see his mother move so. “He was,” she said, “last in New York before you were born.”
He narrowed his eyes, aware that the question he was about to ask was blunt, and not really caring if he angered her. “Is he your sire?”
“Fitzgerald? Lord, no. I only wish he had been. You’d have grown up in the lap of luxury, my boy, not running the streets, if he’d been the one who turned me. I’ll guarantee you that.” She’d often told Patrick of the shortcomings of the charming ne’er-do-well who’d turned her, and turned his back on her soon after. She’d overcome most of her bitterness, but he didn’t think she’d speak well of him, even now.
“But you say he’s a friend.”
Rose smiled a little more, and Patrick thought he could see something behind her usual mask. Something wistful, almost. “Yes. He’s a friend.”
Patrick considered, then gave a short nod. “On your say so, then,” he replied. “I’ll meet with him.”
Rose nodded, smiling. “Good. I’ll let him know.” She paused. “And Patrick, my love, you must be careful of him. He’s older—far older—than he looks.”
“So are you.”
“Not like Fitz.” Rose laughed. “I had no idea, when we first met, but trust me, he’s old. Two, three times as old as I am. Maybe more. And you just don’t live that long without—without cunning. Fitz is a survivor, and one thing I’ve learned about survivors, they don’t always care if the people around them survive as well.”
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?” Patrick sneered. “Mother dear, I’m dangerous, too.”
Rose shook her head, the blonde curls flying around her face. “You’re dangerous. He’s catastrophic, if he wants to be.” She paused. “Patrick, listen to me. He could tear this city down around our ears, if he took a mind to.”
“And what’s your gain in this?”
Rose looked into her son’s eyes, unblinking. “My gain? I get to keep walking this earth. And with luck, so do you.”
Patrick nodded, the depth of her seriousness finally making itself felt. He rose, feeling like he needed to get some air, to get back onto the streets that were his home, and away from this overheated den of vice and conspiracy. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there,” he said.
Rose nodded. “Done,” she said softly.
A Game of Chess
Chapter 15
Patrick Thornton eased back in his chair, ready to sink into the soft melody that Rose was humming, the cool touch of her hands rubbing his shoulders. It was an old tune, one he’d heard from earliest childhood. He’d learned young, that his mother was not as others, but the cool touch of her hands had always been a pleasure to him, and the sound of her voice, singing a soothing lullaby, was familiar.
For her part, the sound of his steadily beating heart gave her something of the quiet joy she’d known when he’d first been laid in her arms, these many years ago. She’d been human then, frail and exhausted with her labor, but even so, strong enough to hold her son and vow to protect him. That had been nigh thirty years past, she reflected, and in some respects, little had changed. She began to run her fingers through his hair, heedless of the oil that held it in place.
Patrick laughed shortly, as though he could sense the grimace on her face. “Now, why the full treatment, Mother? I know how little you love macassar oil on your rosy fingertips.”
“Must I have a nefarious motive, my love?” She kept her voice low and melodious, the way she always did when she was trying to be persuasive. At least, he reflected, they’d gotten past imperious orders.
In answer, Patrick twisted around to let Rose see the amused doubt in his eyes. “I may be only human, Mother,” he said, “but I’ve known you all my life.”
“You know, most men find me charming.”
Patrick sighed. “Most of the men you deal with want what you’re selling,” he said. “I don’t.”
Rose gave him a smoky, sultry look. “You have no idea what I’m selling, my love. But I could show you. It’s time. Past time, soon.” They’d been over this ground before. She was getting anxious to turn him before he aged further.
“Not yet, Mother. I have business to take care of. I have the boys to lead.”
Her eyes lost their flirtatious spark. “Patrick, that gang will be the death of you, sooner or later. You can’t blame me for worrying.”
“I’ve heard this before, Mother. And the Blood Hand is prospering.” He lounged back, regarding her steadily.
“Not from what I hear. You spend all your strength and energy fighting with the Eagle Boys, and Sullivan has more men than you.” Rose began to pace. Patrick had seen a lioness once at a circus performance she’d taken him to, years ago. The big cat had stalked her trainer with less feline grace than he saw now in his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been vampire; it was the natural state of affairs. He fully intended to let her turn him, eventually. Just, a nagging voice in his head kept saying, not yet. Not yet.
“Sullivan is a braggart and a blowhard, and this time he’s backing the wrong horse,” he said.
Rose paused in her pacing and turned to face him, her face shadowed in the dim light. “About Sullivan, I’ll grant you might be right. But that horse—that particular horse is one you don’t know.”
“Night Wind Trading?” Patrick’s posture didn’t change, but she’d finally caught his interest, and she could sense it in his pulse, even though he tried to hide it. “What have you heard about them?”
“I know the owner,” Rose said flatly.”You might say he’s a friend of the family.”
“Fitzgerald? I heard he was some wet-behind-the-ears pretty boy from Philadelphia. Him and his sideman, both.”
Rose blinked and cocked her head to one side. “Sideman?”
“Madigan. Somehow I thought you’d know him, too, if you know Fitzgerald.”
Rose thought she might understand now why Fitz was sometimes dressed so uncharacteristically, but she wasn’t one to share everything with anyone, not even her beloved boy. Maybe after he turned, but not yet. “I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure. But I do think you ought to meet with Fitz, see if you can work something out.”
“Night Wind has enemies with deep pockets.”
Rose tapped her foot, impatient with his stubbornness. “If you don’t know who you’re working against, at least tell me who you’re working for.”
“That’s my business,” Patrick said, shifting his eyes.
Rose frowned. “Meaning, you have no idea.”
Patrick shrugged. “The money keeps coming.”
Rose sank gracefully onto her chaise, striking a pose without thinking. “I’m not asking you to give up that, you daft boy,” she said with some asperity. “Have you not learned yet from me to play both ends against the middle? I’m only asking you to meet with Fitz, not to throw in with him.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes, plucking at the checked broadcloth of his suit jacket. “Tell me one thing, Mother. How long have you known this Fitzgerald?”
Rose fluttered a hand unconsciously by her throat, a gesture Patrick had seen too often among the swallows of the house. In the human girls, it was a pretty thing, but it seemed unnatural, to see his mother move so. “He was,” she said, “last in New York before you were born.”
He narrowed his eyes, aware that the question he was about to ask was blunt, and not really caring if he angered her. “Is he your sire?”
“Fitzgerald? Lord, no. I only wish he had been. You’d have grown up in the lap of luxury, my boy, not running the streets, if he’d been the one who turned me. I’ll guarantee you that.” She’d often told Patrick of the shortcomings of the charming ne’er-do-well who’d turned her, and turned his back on her soon after. She’d overcome most of her bitterness, but he didn’t think she’d speak well of him, even now.
“But you say he’s a friend.”
Rose smiled a little more, and Patrick thought he could see something behind her usual mask. Something wistful, almost. “Yes. He’s a friend.”
Patrick considered, then gave a short nod. “On your say so, then,” he replied. “I’ll meet with him.”
Rose nodded, smiling. “Good. I’ll let him know.” She paused. “And Patrick, my love, you must be careful of him. He’s older—far older—than he looks.”
“So are you.”
“Not like Fitz.” Rose laughed. “I had no idea, when we first met, but trust me, he’s old. Two, three times as old as I am. Maybe more. And you just don’t live that long without—without cunning. Fitz is a survivor, and one thing I’ve learned about survivors, they don’t always care if the people around them survive as well.”
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?” Patrick sneered. “Mother dear, I’m dangerous, too.”
Rose shook her head, the blonde curls flying around her face. “You’re dangerous. He’s catastrophic, if he wants to be.” She paused. “Patrick, listen to me. He could tear this city down around our ears, if he took a mind to.”
“And what’s your gain in this?”
Rose looked into her son’s eyes, unblinking. “My gain? I get to keep walking this earth. And with luck, so do you.”
Patrick nodded, the depth of her seriousness finally making itself felt. He rose, feeling like he needed to get some air, to get back onto the streets that were his home, and away from this overheated den of vice and conspiracy. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there,” he said.
Rose nodded. “Done,” she said softly.