The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 16

Tristan landed in the checkered stone courtyard of the Secretariat as dusk lumbered in on rolling storm clouds.

He folded his wings and unconsciously tapped his holster. He hadn’t yet replaced the dagger he’d given to that little Daredevil on Saturday. Wondered if she’d been thinking about him as much as he’d been thinking about her over the past few days.

But even the reassuring presence of his stun pistol would do him little good within the veritable fortress looming before him. The figures within the imposing stone walls wielded a different type of weapon—clever, slippery words exchanged in a never-ending battle for influence. And though he was adept at the verbal athletics practiced in the Secretariat, Tristan much preferred the elegant brutality of hand-to-hand combat. Would rather face a pair of fists than a well-crafted bon mot any day.

He surveyed the grandiose structure, disgusted as always by the elaborate ornamentation. The Secretariat, the administrative offices of the colonies’ governing body, was a multi-tiered layer cake of a building with confections at every level. A sweeping marble staircase, multiple balconies and windows, and no fewer than ten chimneys reaching towards the sky—all for show, not substance. A perfect representation of the farcical machinations taking place inside.

The entire campus was abuzz; the Sea of Thetis churned in the background, white-capped waves cresting angrily as black clouds gathered on the horizon. Low-level mortal clerks flitted about carrying boxes and folders stamped with the Empire’s seal: a Typhon steel broadsword bracketed by a pair of wings ringed in radiating lines.

Steel, wings, and wind.

The three sources of the Emperor’s power.

Tristan marked the councilors amongst the harried crowd, distinguished by their gleaming shoes and smiles.

The previous Emperor had appointed all the colonies’ councilors to serve the Vicereine, though few had any real authority. Mostly Fae with a few token mortals thrown in for good measure, each councilor represented a single district within the colonies’ four islands. There were ten councilors for Thalenn alone, with jurisdiction over distinct areas of the sprawling city.

Though the public declaration of a councilor’s duty was the advocacy of their assigned district, every colonial citizen knew their true directive: keep the mortals in line. Ensure they stayed docile and kept selling memories. Leave enough slack on the leash to avoid outright revolution, but not enough to eliminate the destitution that ensured a steady production of Delirium.

Tristan marched up the marble staircase, greeting clerks and councilors on his way with a friendly nod and a murmured hello.

The checkered floor of the vast foyer echoed the pattern in the courtyard and three male guards—one Windrider and two Beastrunners—stood behind a burnished cherry desk. The guards were dressed in the livery of the Empire: fitted, blood-red jackets with gold buttons, white gloves, and golden helmets that cupped their skulls and hugged their ears.

“Good afternoon, gentlemales,” Tristan smiled deferentially. “Officer Tristan Saros. I have an appointment with the Vicereine.”

The Vicereine had summoned him earlier that day, saying she had an urgent matter to discuss. His stomach dropped when he received the message.

Something told him his lost Thursday night was about to come back and bite him in the ass.

The middle guard thrust a shiny black pad into Tristan’s face. The rotund Fae male, a walrus bi-form with ruddy brown skin, sported a bushy mustache and elongated canines that brushed his chin. Tristan pressed his thumb onto the device, then the guard glanced at a screen and nodded, confirming Tristan’s identity and appointment.

“Assume you know the way?” the guard asked, his voice rough and bubbly as if his lungs were filled with water.

Tristan thanked the guards and then made his way around the desk toward the grand spiral staircase that accessed the offices on the upper floors. He didn’t bother with the stairs. Merely positioned himself in the center of the staircase and, with a carefully aimed blast of wind, launched himself up to the third level.

As he strode down the hallway, he averted his gaze from the paintings lining the walls depicting the Vicereine during her centuries long rule. Her ice-blue eyes tracked him, sending frigid shivers along his wings.

He rushed past the paintings from the decades he’d been fucking her, his earliest in the colonies. Before he’d realized what a snake she was, as barbaric and beautiful as a pit viper.

Initially, he’d been flattered by her interest, thinking it meant he was more important than the other Vestians at a time when he craved validation. He was reeling from the mess that had forced him to the colonies, desperate for affection and drowning in sex and Delirium.

The Vicereine wasn’t a jealous female, didn’t mind sharing him. In fact, she personally invited guests into their trysts. She got off on watching him with other females. She would sit in a corner, her gold wings, pale naked skin, and ice-blonde hair luminous against a black velvet chair—a vindictive goddess demanding a sacrifice. She would dip her hand between her spread legs and direct his performance. Where to touch, where to lick, how hard to thrust. Dienses spare him, he fucking loved every second. Couldn’t get enough of her.

At least in the beginning.

Until he noticed a change in the Vicereine. The cruelty slumbering deep within her awakened and clawed its way to the surface, a result of the unrelenting boredom of centuries in power. She would tell him to be rougher not only with her but also with their guests. Slapping, choking, biting. Feeding on emotions if the guest was mortal.

He didn’t object initially, enjoyed that type of play as long as it was consensual. But when she began to demand it, even when their partner seemed wary, he declined.

His refusals enraged her. She’d throw the cowering female out and whale on him. He never hit her back, just stood there and let her wear herself out.

It had only happened a handful of times—too many—before he’d broken off their arrangement, rebuilt his dignity, and refused to share her bed.

In the hundred and fifty years since, she’d undoubtedly found males willing to indulge her predilections. But she’d made Tristan pay for the rejection often and creatively. He could take what she threw at him, the overtime and shit assignments, but he worried about the females she lured into her trap.

Were the other males she played with as scrupulous as he had been? Or did they do her bidding, no matter how bruising or bloody? He shuddered, berating himself for not doing more to stop her.

The Empire’s seal was etched in gold upon the white double doors at the end of the hallway, and as Tristan approached, he took a deep, cleansing breath, ruffling his feathers to ease his tension.

He knocked on the door and that voice, that throaty, slithering voice that haunted his nightmares, seeped out of the room.

“Enter,” the Vicereine commanded.

The office was as cold and empty as the female seated behind the desk, every piece of furniture a glossy stark white.

Visions of the times he’d taken her in here flooded his mind. Each surface held a different shard of their history, a debauched mosaic that sliced into him, bleeding tarnished memories. She smirked as if she were remembering too.

“Tristan. To what do I owe the pleasure?” She rose as he entered, stretching out her shimmering golden wings, the pin-straight sheet of her white-blond hair glowing in the murky light dribbling in through the expansive window.

Her ice-blue irises were nearly the same shade as the whites around them, giving her a piercing, predatory look that never failed to raise his hackles.

She wore an impeccable dove gray shift dress and jacket, the clothing hanging limply off her tall, rail-thin frame.

So different from the Daredevil’s soft, flowing curves—curves that had been the muse of every one of his masturbatory fantasies since Saturday.

“You summoned me, Your Excellence,” Tristan replied, his face neutral.

She chuckled, a dry, clicking rattle. Like bones clattering together. “How many times do I have to tell you, Tristan? Call me Varuna. I offer few the privilege of using my given name. You should be honored.”

“I think it’s best if we keep things professional, Your Excellence.”

She held him in her pale gaze, head cocked. A serpent ready to strike. She stepped around the desk and stood in front of him, then ran her hands appreciatively over his arms and torso. Like he was her property. Which, in a sense, he was. He stopped himself from recoiling at her touch.

“We had fun together, didn’t we? Shame you turned out to be such a prude.” She grasped his chin, then smacked him across the face. Hard. Her rattling chuckle skittered along his bones. “For old time’s sake.”

“What can I do for you, Your Excellence?” He gave her nothing, folded his hands behind his back and stared at the wall behind her. A soldier at attention waiting for commands and nothing more. He wasn’t getting sucked into her mind games.

“You’ve become such a bore.” She waved her hand dismissively and crossed back behind her desk, lowering into her white leather chair and pressing a button on a chrome communication device. “Send them in.”

She regarded Tristan with her cool, glacial eyes, chin resting on her palm. He clenched his jaw at the tapping of her perfectly manicured nails against the glass tabletop.

A hidden door to his right opened, and Maksym Rosopa stepped in, angling his matte-green wings through the narrow frame before taking a seat. A few moments later, an aging yet ruggedly handsome man followed.

The man was taller than the Vicereine, though not quite as tall as Tristan or Maksym, and he held himself as though he were the most towering figure in Ethyrios. Which amongst certain groups, he was.

For a man his age, several winters past seventy, he possessed an enviable amount of feathery gray hair, swept back from his forehead. His eyes were crinkled slashes in his granite face, the color indecipherable without getting perilously close, and topped with straight, thick eyebrows.

“Varuna,” the man crooned. “Always a pleasure.”

She stood to greet him, air kissing either cheek, and letting her hands linger on his arms.

“Alcander. Please, have a seat,” the Vicereine said, sweeping a graceful hand towards the third unoccupied chair.

She shot Tristan a menacing look, which he understood as keep your mouth shut and sit your feathered ass down. He promptly did, angling his wings above the chair.

“I was devastated to hear the news that you shared with Councilor Rosopa and me this morning,” the Vicereine continued. Tristan darted his eyes towards Maksym, but the Windrider seemed to be purposefully avoiding his gaze. Not good. “Would you please elaborate for Officer Saros?”

“I’m afraid it has to do with Isidora, my wife.” Pagonis leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach, and lifting an ankle onto his knee—a man used to making himself comfortable anywhere, with any company, regardless of species.

At the mention of Isidora, the Vicereine leaned forward, the portrait of concern.

Such bullshit.

Tristan knew she didn’t give a fuck about mortals. Even wealthy mortals like Alcander Pagonis, who had enough influence to make her life in the colonies uncomfortable, if not remove her from her position entirely.

But the Vicereine was cunning, always knew which asses required the sloppiest kisses.

“My wife is fine, in perfect health,” Pagonis continued, likely in response to the Vicereine’s dramatic display of worry, “but she is rather upset. And when she’s upset, my life becomes…difficult, as you can imagine.”

He aimed a wolfish smile at the Vicereine, who returned a tight-lipped one that didn’t meet her eyes. Maksym chuckled heartily, enmeshed in the same game as Varuna.

“Her most prized diamond necklace has been stolen,” Pagonis addressed Tristan directly. “She noticed it was missing this morning. I informed Varuna and Maksym at once.”

“And tell us again,” the Vicereine cut in, her mouth a tight, red slash as she aimed her unnerving eyes at Tristan, “when do you suspect the robbery took place?”

Pagonis flicked a speck of dirt from his pant cuff. “Well, we can’t be sure. But we believe it was taken this past Thursday, the night of the Midsummer Ball.”

Fuck.

Tristan used every ounce of his centuries-long training to keep his pulse steady and his breathing normal. He wondered if this meeting was so late in the day because the Vicereine had spent her previous hours coming up with a more creative punishment for him than sewer patrol.

“This is the latest in a string of robberies that have occurred in my district over the past several years,” Maksym interjected.

Tristan seized the opportunity to distract from his own surveillance failures with a follow-up question. “Why haven’t we tried to apprehend the culprit before?”

“The robberies haven’t been frequent enough to cause a panic—just another inconvenient symptom of the increased crime rates throughout the colonies during the new Emperor’s transition,” Maksym answered. “The populace will settle once they get this minor tantrum out of their system. Plus, the stolen items were valuable but not irreplaceable. The Emperor has been kind enough to reimburse the victims.”

Tristan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Of course the Emperor would reimburse wealthy mortals who, from the sounds of it, barely cared about their losses. Best keep the most loyal of his human supporters in his good graces while he exploited the rest of their species. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to set foot in the colonies to meet his subjects since he’d taken the throne.

“And there have been more pressing matters to deal with,” the Vicereine added. Tristan was surprised to replace himself agreeing with her for once.

“And the difference now?” Tristan asked.

“I do hate to distract you all with such an inconsequential request,” Pagonis drawled, his upturned palms and preening smile matching his words while his low voice signaled the opposite. He and his wife were not inconsequential and everyone in this room would do well to recognize it. “But this necklace is irreplaceable. Unable to be reimbursed for any amount of drachas. It’s a priceless heirloom that’s been passed down through my family for generations.”

“For you, Alcander, nothing could be considered a distraction.” The Vicereine aimed a broad smile at Tristan. “Officer Saros would be delighted to assist you.”

“Of course, Master Pagonis. We’ll help in any way we can. Does your wife remember the last time she saw the necklace?” Tristan asked.

“She can’t recall when she last wore it. But it is unmistakable. The deep blue gem in the center is the rarest in Ethyrios.”

“Was there any evidence of a break-in?”

“None whatsoever.”

“You must’ve witnessed something, Officer Saros.” The Vicereine examined him, eyes narrowed. “You were on duty in the neighborhood that night.”

“I can recall nothing suspicious happening in Heronswood that night.”

Not a lie.

Though he wished he could recall something. He’d found his feather outside Pagonis’s estate the next morning. Had he witnessed the robbery? Maybe what he’d seen had frightened him enough to leave and drown his knowledge in Delirium. He wracked his brain, but the useless organ offered him nothing.

“Besides, if there was no evidence of a break-in, perhaps it could have been one of your staff that stole the necklace?” Maksym added. “Were they on duty that night?”

“No, they weren’t,” Alcander said, cracking his knuckles. “And the staff have been thoroughly…questioned. Unless they’ve all somehow gained your species’ tolerance for pain, I don’t believe any of them were responsible.”

Tristan tried to echo Maksym and Varuna’s gleeful laughter but couldn’t quite manage it. Even self-preservation wasn’t enough of a reason to pretend to delight in the torture of humans.

He interrupted their hilarity. “Other than the value, is there anything special about the necklace? Another reason someone might want to steal it?”

Tristan could’ve sworn he saw Pagonis and Maksym share a weighted glance before Pagonis stilled, his lips parting into a serpentine smile as he uncrossed his legs. He leaned close enough that Tristan could see his eyes were the deepest, darkest sapphire. “Nothing at all, Officer Saros.”

“Are you—”

“Thank you for your time, Alcander.” The Vicereine cut Tristan off before he could finish his question. “We will catch the responsible party and return the necklace to you and your wife as swiftly as possible.”

Pagonis rose from his chair. “I have no doubt, Varuna. Best resolve the matter soon. I’d hate to have to involve the Emperor.” Threat unleashed, he turned and aimed for the exit.

The Vicereine shot up to follow him out. “I’m certain that won’t be necessary.” She opened the double doors to her office. “Please give my regards to Isidora. Councilor Rosopa, would you please see Master Pagonis out?”

She shut the door as they exited, then stalked back to Tristan, wings bouncing. She didn’t bother with her chair, merely perched on her desk, fists clenched at her sides as if she were trying to stop herself from striking him—restraint she’d rarely shown.

“You are unbelievable,” she started, but before she could finish whatever cutting remark she’d intended to throw, the side door opened, and a nervous Windrider clerk bustled into the room.

“What?” the Vicereine barked.

The cowering young Fae aimed a careful look at Tristan before leaning in and pouring a string of rushed whispers into the Vicereine’s ear. As the clerk finished his urgent message, a slow smile spread across the Vicereine’s blood-red lips.

“Get out,” she snarled.

The clerk rushed out of the room, nearly slamming the door on his wings.

“Your Excellence, I—” The Vicereine silenced Tristan with a raised hand.

“The High Gods certainly have impeccable timing,” she crooned. “I was about to assign you to two months’ worth of sewer patrol in addition to making you hunt for that ridiculous necklace. But an even better punishment has just presented itself.”

Tristan’s gut twisted. What could be more boring and ineffectual than sewer patrol?

“Pack a bag, Tristan. And tell that mopey partner of yours to do the same.”

“Apologies, Saros,” Maksym said, his evergreen wings rustling in the wind whipping through the courtyard. “I couldn’t do anything to get you out of it without revealing to her that I knew you’d abandoned your post that night.”

“I’d’ve done the same, Councilor.” Tristan used Maksym’s title half-jokingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“She furious?”

“I’ve seen her much worse than that, trust me.” Memories Tristan was still trying, a century and a half later, to forget.

“She ask you to look for the necklace?” Maksym asked.

“Nah, she’s assigning two other Guards to that case. She’s come up with a much more interesting punishment for me.”

Maksym’s shoulders drooped slightly. “Should I even ask?”

At that moment, the Vicereine exited the Secretariat in a flash of ice-blond hair and golden wings, her predator’s eyes cutting straight to Tristan.

“Saros!” she shouted. “Get a move on! They’re waiting for you!”

He aimed an apologetic look towards Maksym. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Before he could launch into the sky, Maksym grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, if you hear any news about that necklace, let me know, will you?” Tristan cocked his head as Maksym dropped his voice to a whisper. “That meeting was fishy, right? Why is Pagonis so desperate to have us look for it? Why wouldn’t he have his own people do it? Something’s up. And if it’s happening in my district, I’d like to know about it so I can deal with the fallout before she gets wind of it.” Maksym jutted his chin towards Varuna. “You owe me that much after I covered for you.”

“Little good it did me,” Tristan grunted. “But I’ll let you know if they replace anything.”

Maksym nodded his thanks as Tristan took off, aiming for the barracks to pack.

Knowing that he’d been at Pagonis’s estate that night had Tristan wishing the Vicereine had asked him to look for the necklace.

This new assignment would be nothing more than a pointless distraction.

As the courtyard of the Secretariat faded away below him, he jolted upon seeing it from a new angle. He’d never noticed how much it resembled a chessboard.

And he, its lowliest pawn.