Page 57

Story: Black to Light

THE STAFF

Rucker’s house staff were waiting for us when we pulled past the iron gates that separated his San Francisco estate from the street. Black took us up the Pacific Heights driveway to the six-story dwelling Rucker listed as his main residence in the United States, and the staff stood there in a line, like something out of an Eighteenth Century novel.

Black parked the SUV just to the left of the massive front door.

One of Rucker’s employees tried to take the keys from Black when we climbed out of the SUV, but Black waved him off with a glare. Another offered to take Nick’s umbrella, and Nick growled at him. The servant paled and backed away in alarm.

Nick only closed the umbrella once he stood under the stone and glass outcrop that sheltered the massive front doors from the midday sun. He hung the round handle on his forearm, and looked out over the Japanese-style garden while Black and I joined him.

No one offered to take anything else from us.

Stone urns with manicured cypress that reminded me of bonsai trees stood on either side of the front door, and a stoneand glass, life-sized statue of what looked like a man on fire stood at the end of the black-tile stoop, clearly visible from most of the driveway. The stone part of the statue appeared to be marble, and the glass had been threaded through with colored fibers that rippled with gold and red light, clearly meant to be flames.

Nick grunted when he saw the statue, then glanced at me, tilting his head towards it.

“Prometheus?” he mused. “Or Icarus?”

I gave him a wry smile back. “Maybe just ‘man on fire’?” I mused.

The staff member wearing the most expensive suit of the bunch (butler? assistant? valet?) stood just inside the door. He either didn’t hear Nick’s sarcasm, or chose to ignore it.

“It is meant to symbolize Prometheus, sir, yes,” the man sniffed. “Very good.”

“Good doggie,” Black muttered, nudging Nick’s back.

Despite Black putting some muscle into it, he didn’t manage to move the stone-like vampire body even a millimeter.

“I’ll get you a cookie later, little doggie,” Black smirked.

“Try feeding me a fucking cookie and see what happens to you, Quentin,” Nick grunted.

“I might pay to see that,” I murmured.

Black glared at me. “Of course you would.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re beingcompletely ridiculous,you know,” I scolded, suddenly fed up with his jealousy about Nick. “You’re a verybaddoggie, Quentin. No cookie for you. And I’m holding you to your promise of buying us lunch.I’mpicking the restaurant.”

Nick chuckled, and smirked at Black. When Black glared at him, Nick held up his gloved hands, that smirk still on his vampire lips.

“Don’t look at me, numb-nuts. She said it.”

The servant looked at Black, then at Nick, then at me, and blinked.

He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“The piece was done as a personal favor by the artist, Elind Forninque,” the human haughtily informed us, going on as if none of us had said anything since his last comment. He looked at Black, as if somewhere in that exchange, he’d decided Black was the person who mattered out of the three of us. “You are familiar with his work, sir?”

“No,” Black said. “Never heard of him.”

I coughed, but managed to mostly keep a straight face.

My lips might have twitched.

I knew for a fact Black was lying, that he absolutely knew both the artist and his work. Forninque was the featured creator for the one and only fundraiser we’d attended since we got back from Fiji. It had been a revoltingly expensive, seven-course dinner held after-hours at the San Francisco MOMA. Black met Fornique that night, and handed him a check, and the two of them even seemed to know one another a little.

“Is he French?” I asked innocently. “He sounds French.”

“Probably,” Black said, dismissive.