Come Feed the Rain

From: Lara Raith <lara@houseraith.com>
To: Thomas Raith <godofcologne@livejournal.com>

Subject: Our Mutual Problem

Brother-mine,

I know how much you adore our dear father’s presence, but several matters of business have arisen here that require his personal attention. I’m sure your presence as a companion will soothe his nerves. Papa does hate to travel alone.

I’ll see you soon,
Lara

*****

Thomas stared at the computer screen for a long, long moment, sorting through his thoughts. The idea that his father was leaving (for good, if he hadn’t misread between Lara’s oblique words) was a relief, but why he had to be the one to escort the old man back was a troubling thought. Was her message a means of simply reasserting her influence over both him and his father, or an attempt to pull Thomas into some unknown game? He tried not to think of the possibility that it was an attempt to remove him from a game in motion, because that meant betrayal, and from a source he had wholly considered safe.

He sighed again and hit print on the screen, taking the moment to stand up as the printer spat out a single page, the contents of his sister’s email. Gesturing to one of the crewmen for a pen, Thomas added a few lines to the page:

The Bitch Queen calls. I’ll be back whenever she lets me off the hook.

He left the message pinned to the kitchen counter and headed out.

When Thomas woke up, the sun was streaming in through the window, and he could see brilliant blue sky through a space in the thin curtains. His mouth felt bone dry, but his head didn't throb, a pleasant surprise. Some part of him had expected the vampire safe tequila to have given him every effect of real alcohol. As it was, Thomas couldn't remember coming back to the house and falling asleep; the last thing he remembered was getting back on Lestat's plane and deciding he was going to take a nap.

Maybe someone had dragged him back to the house and tossed him on his bed.

With the shambling, bleary gait of a sobering college student, Thomas shuffled into the bathroom and set himself to the not-inconsiderable task of sluicing off the remnants of debauchery and alcohol.

*****

Half an hour and a thoroughly steamed up bathroom later, he stood in the middle of the bedroom he shared with Alice, a towel around his hips, as he checked his voicemail. The blearily blank expression on his face faded into worry and perplexity as he listened, and, by the time Thomas clicked 'save', a deep frown was growing. He sank into a seat on his bed, staring at the phone in his hand, while the other ran absentmindedly through damp dark hair.

((Tag Alice!))

Sunlight was already painting the sky orange when Thomas made his way back to his room. The night had been full, extremely so, but it had ended well enough. A hundred different thoughts, each with its own implication, ran through his mind, each of them shoved away for a later time, when he was ready for doubt and caution and self loathing. The only thing he allowed himself to keep in mind was the game, a thread of conscious thought simmering in the back of his mind, always looking, waiting, finding weakness, opportunity.

Still, the sun was rising and even Thomas had to admit he was exhausted. He shrugged out of his jacket, with the rare intention of hanging it back up in the closet, and stopped as his eyes landed on the boutonnière, the single blossom Dru had made. The shadow of a smile playing at his lips, Thomas reached for the flower and unpinned it from his lapel with deft fingers. He held it for a minute, the bloom and its accompaniments a warm, fragile weight in his hand, contemplated what to do with it. It couldn’t sit on his jacket forever, nor did it seem right to toss it into the trash, withered and dead.

He looked around his side of the room, considering options, until he saw Lacci’s iron box, Justine’s letters tucked inside. Except for one, a new but familiar envelope. Thomas set the boutonnière on top of the box and reached for the gloves he kept in the dresser’s top drawer. As he pulled on the right, he glanced down at his palm, where the faintest imprint of a crystal bead lingered on his hand, the skin around it pink, as if sunburned.

Thomas froze, the gloves falling to the floor. He glanced from his palm to the flower on his dresser, crystal beads adorning the stem. He swallowed, breathed slowly, then reached down to pick up his gloves, returning them to the drawer, suddenly in no mood to read the new letter. His words to Lacci on the range reverberated through his mind.

It was only a matter of time.

After the conversation with Edward, Thomas stayed in his room and let his mind wander, let the Hunger guide his thoughts through a maze of possibilities. He tried to ignore how the exercise, even the planning, was a rush, how it made the blood rush through his veins. Between his fingers, he toyed with a business card, once in a while rereading the short message, conjuring up in his mind the slender, redhead with emerald eyes. She was a lot of things, but she was human, and had a human's vulnerabilities. But it was too soon. Too soon to attack that particular pawn.

It was going to take some thinking on. But fortunately for him, his night was wide open.

((Tag Alice))

Given all that had happened already, it took comparatively little for Alice to convince Thomas they needed to find out what Dru's package meant. A GPS purchase and a flurry of phone calls later, Thomas found himself signing paperwork for his motorcycle to be shipped to Los Angeles while Alice printed out their boarding passes for a non-stop flight from Chicago to LA.

They chased the sunset to Los Angeles, and true to the shipping company's word, the motorcyle was waiting outside the baggage claim when they picked up their bags from the carousel. "We should find that taco truck you like so much again," Thomas said, strapping their bags onto the back of the motorcycle. The GPS sat in his back pocket, but he made no move to take it out or turn it on now that they were in the city. "Maybe you can bribe the owners to let you ride along for a night."

Just because Thomas had agreed to come didn't mean he wasn't hesitant about the whole thing.

((Tag Alice))

( Will someone please call a surgeon )

It was late in the afternoon, which meant the daytime business had been wrapped up and nighttime business hadn’t started. Justine had excused herself once Lara seemed to no longer need her, and sat in her room, going through the day’s Real World Bites feed again, the kernel of worry that she’d been ignoring while in Lara’s presence returning. Where was he? She thought about calling again, but hesitated. There was no guarantee he’d answer this time either, and every unanswered phone call hurt. There wouldn’t be time to calm down before she needed to get back to Lara, so she kept her hands off the phone.

But then her phone rang and Justine nearly jumped out of her skin in her scramble to answer. Her voice was calm as she picked up the phone and began the elaborate dance of oblique words that ensured they could speak safely.

“Hello, Justine’s Flowers.” If she hadn’t been alone, she would have answered with a simple ‘hello’ and he would have known to hang up or speak carefully.

( Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart )

( to sleep, perchance to dream )

*****

( an unexpected wake-up call )

((Tag Alice!))

The others trickled back to the house long before first light, but Thomas ignored the sounds dying gaiety from his position some ways down the beach. He’d taken a walk as soon as he’d hung up with Alice, not being in much of a mood to be good company and without the patience to fake it. He’d walked past a mural of sea life and kept going until he found a tumbled pile of boulders jutting out into the sea, a sad excuse for a jetty. He picked his way over the rocks and sat down on a mostly flat, mostly sturdy one, letting the taste of sea air and the occasional bit of spray wash over him.

Justine had always loved the ocean. Before he’d found Harry, Thomas and Justine had jetted around the world, staying in the most extravagant hotels, eating at the best restaurants and partying at the most exclusive clubs, but always within sight of the crashing waves. It was yet another little sacrifice she had made for him, to stay in Chicago with Lara. She claimed Lake Michigan was enough, that it was just being able to see water on the shore that she wanted, but only a part of him believed it. For the moment alone, Thomas allowed himself to unearth the memories he’d buried, to remember the smell of Justine’s perfume mingled with salt air, the way she’d laugh in delight when the sun gilded the water gold. They rarely made it down to the beach, preferring to stay indoors with the touch of silk sheets and an ocean view rather than trysting in the sand.

Given the amount of sand he’d shaken out, maybe that was something he should look back into.

With nothing but the sound of waves in his ears, Thomas’ thoughts settled, falling into two distinct arguments that advanced and retreated in his mind like some sort of neverending fencing demonstration. He’d promised Justine he would stay, because she thought this place was good for him. She knew he would do anything she asked and had never asked for anything, so how could he deny her that one simple request? Even now, his promise to Alice ringing in his ears, Thomas couldn’t help but hope that it wouldn’t be necessary, that he wouldn’t have to break his promise to Justine to fulfill one to Alice.

But if he was losing control of the Hunger, he couldn’t stay. It was simple as that.

The thoughts chased themselves through his head some more, falling into the same rhythm as the lapping waves, until the sharp cry of a pelican jolted Thomas out of his half-slumber. The last thing he needed was to fall asleep out here. Feeling no less conflicted than when he’d first begun, Thomas stood and squared his shoulders. It was a bridge he’d cross when he came to it. Until then, no amount of internal turmoil was going to do him any good. The mask of easy laughter and teasing, tempting sensuality fell back into place as Thomas picked his way back up the beach. Justine’s motorcycle was the only vehicle left, and Thomas started it with practiced ease, raising a faint cloud of sand behind him.

From: Thomas Raith <godofcologne@livejournal.com>
To: Alice Cullen < projectrunwayrules445@sparklecullen.com>

Subject: Should’ve written earlier.

Alice –

You sound better. At least, you’re throwing enough information at me again to make my head spin. So let me take these things one at a time, you know, like us puny non-oracles do.

( Books? What books? )