(no subject)
Today's background is: http://www.deviantart.com/view/7578955/ (Go Sanzo!)
And I have no witty commentary for today, because I am tired and frustrated and cranky.
Most modern freedom is at root fear. It is not so much that we are too bold to endure rules; it is rather that we are too timid to endure responsibilities.
~G.K. Chesterton
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Six
Rating: PG. Mostly for language.
Word count: 2868
Total word count so far: 15818
Author's notes that most likely no one will probably read: Okay, here we've got some looks into the social structure the Natsar follow. This may be important later, I haven't decided. Oh, yeah. This takes place roughly three months after the end of Arc 1, because that's the magic number where this universe is concerned.
*I must have the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome in the history of the world,* Greg mused. *I mean, I’m actually on your side. How wrong is that?*
Riordan let his gaze flicker to the two Priores seated behind the imposing looking mahogany desk. *You’d rather side with them?* he replied.
Greg considered the rude way they’d been summoned from the apartment and ordered to attend Priore Lucas - at the Priore’s earliest convenience, of course. Spending an hour and a half cooling his heels in the hallway outside of Priore Lucas’ office hadn’t improved his opinion of Natsar politics any. Nor had the fact that he’d had to dress “nicely” in a dress shirt and slacks and far too shiny shoes for this little interview.
Neither did the fact that Priore Lucas had been the one to push both of last month’s Combat Challenges.
*Nah,* he said. *You’re a bastard, but at least you’re honest about it.*
*Thanks ever so much for your flattering opinion,* Riordan said, his mental tone radiating amused good-humor. *Now hush and look properly attentive. They look like they’re ready to get the point.*
*About fucking time.*
“You are to be commended, James. We didn’t think you could tame him.” Priore Lucas didn’t look nearly as pleased as his congratulatory words might have indicated, Greg noted. Of course, Riordan didn’t either, and he was willing to follow Riordan’s lead. (The fact that he’d been ordered - his first one in weeks - to keep his temper in check and a civil tongue in his head enforced his willingness to follow Riordan’s lead somewhat. Mostly because he couldn’t do otherwise. And damned if Greg wouldn’t kick the stupid bastard’s ass for it as soon as they got home, though.)
Riordan’s eyes narrowed faintly. “If by ‘tame’ you mean he’s not going to piss in my potted plants and hump my couch, then yeah, he’s plenty tame. Of course, by that definition, so am I, but I think that you’ll find that ‘tame’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘controllable’ where either of us are concerned.”
*Oh, sure, piss them off. That’s a good idea.*
*Shut up, brat. I’m being honest.*
*You’re being contrary for the sake of being contrary,* Greg countered. *You’re going to end up with another Combat Challenge at this rate. And then Sophia will be upset with you.*
*That was low,* Riordan said, sounding amused.
*Learned from the best.*
“James, must you be such a …” Priore Lucas seemed to be looking for the right word.
Greg could have told the man that the word he was looking for was “asshole,” but that violated his orders to keep a civil tongue in his head, so he didn’t.
“If you insist on being crude, you’ll be treated accordingly,” Priore Tobias interjected coolly. “Do not forget how it is in the manner your little family has become accustomed.”
Riordan tensed almost imperceptibly, and one look at his night-dark eyes told Greg his keeper was furious.
Oh, not good. Really, really not good. Riordan did furious kind of like he did relaxed. Which was to say, he didn’t. The man was too controlled for such things. It was a little unsettling and frequently annoying, but dependable. Nice and constant, where few other things in life were.
Greg very much resented the Synod’s attempts to shake the stability of his world. How the hell was he supposed to handle this? Greg in a temper could go spar with Riordan until he’d worked it off into exhaustion. Sophia in a temper could just scream at both of them and then stomp away to her room and stay there until she felt like being rational again. Who could Riordan in a temper go to? Greg couldn’t keep up with the bastard when they sparred, and he highly doubted the man had ever yelled at Sophia. If only because the guilt would have driven him to commit Westernized seppuku afterward.
“My family,” snapped Riordan, and there was something dangerous in his tone. It made Greg think of the first booming cracking sounds ice made before the spring thaw; cold and unstoppable and dangerous. “Lives as they will in accordance to our law, and because there is no one more capable than I at the Assignments you’d rather not touch. You would do well to remember that.”
“Your pride makes you presumptuous,” snapped Priore Lucas.
“Does it?” Riordan challenged. “Do you really think that I could be Terryal and not be exactly what I claim I am?”
Greg started. He turned wide eyes on Riordan. Terryal?
“You are just one man,” Priore Tobias pointed out. He was the less excitable of the two representatives the Synod had told them to report back to. Probably the more dangerous, too, in Greg’s opinion.
Riordan’s mouth quirked into what might loosely be called a smile. (Greg would have labeled it a nasty little smirk, personally, but he’d been told that he was biased. Not all of Riordan’s facial expressions were smirks. They just happened to resemble them very strongly.)
“One man,” he agreed “with a very promising young protégé.”
“You can’t be serious,” scoffed Priore Lucas. “One of the Nephilim-born? As one of us, much less Terryal? It’s unthinkable, James!”
Riordan lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “If he were wholly Nephilim-born, perhaps it would be as you say. But Grigori is one of us, too. He bears the same Scars - and the same burdens.” Unspoken went the words that they wouldn’t be standing here today if Greg didn’t. If he hadn’t stopped to help Sophia, she’d probably be dead, and he’d be long gone and beneath the radar of the Natsar, where he belonged. “Besides,” Riordan continued, before either Priore could protest. “He’s one of mine, and he has talent. I will continue to train him, and he will accompany me on Assignment.” His tone brooked no argument from the other men or the boy.
“You said that of your last protégé,” Priore Tobias pointed out, with deceptive gentleness.
Greg could feel Riordan flinch. “I was mistaken then,” he said levelly. “And I have learned from that mistake. I have not been so lenient with Grigori, nor so accepting of weakness.”
Well, that was certainly the truth.
Priore Tobias examined them both. He might have been telepathing Riordan, but Greg wasn’t sure. Finally, he said, “On your head be it, Donovan. If he fails, you’ll be blamed.”
“Of course,” said Riordan. He nodded respectfully to both Priores and beckoned Greg to follow him out of the room. He made a vague hand gesture that Greg interpreted as ‘later.’
Fine. Just as long as he got some damn answers.
“Why does Priore Lucas call you James while Priore Tobias calls you Donovan?” he asked, just to make small talk.
Riordan made a face. “Because they like to annoy me.”
“Gosh, I can’t imagine why.”
“Mouthy little brat, aren’t you?” The question was rhetorical. They both knew what the answer was. “My full name is James Donovan Riordan. James for my father, Donovan for…” He smled. “For no particular reason, or so my mother told me. Hence my preference for the name. As Donovan, I am myself. As James, I am my father’s son, and I’ve worked too hard to break free of his shadow for that.”
There was some bitterness there, and old pain. “Your dad. He…?” Greg trailed off, not sure how to phrase the question.
“He was Tihamer,” answered Riordan. “And damn good at what he did, too. He was nearly strong enough to be a Priore and sit on the Synod, but he lacked the ambition. In the end … It all came to nothing, anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, and meant it. He hadn’t meant to open an old wound. You left other people’s pasts alone. Especially where family was concerned. If only so they would offer you the same courtesy.
“It’s alright. I just want to answer the question in full.” Riordan smiled sourly. “Priore Lucas calls me James to remind me of the price of ambition - or the lack of it. Priore Tobias calls me Donovan because it’s the name I prefer. He’s familiar enough wit me to call me Van; he just likes making me fell like a naughty child by using my full name.”
“Old people do that,” Greg agreed, glancing surreptitiously at Riordan as he did so.
“Heh. Brat. I’m still not going to call you by that ridiculous nickname.”
“What’s wrong with my nickname?” demanded Greg.
“It has nothing to do with your name,” Riordan pointed out.
“Yes it does! They sound the same!”
“Oh, so if they sound the same, it’s alright?’
“Hey, at least my nickname doesn’t sound like a means of transportation,” Greg sulked.
“No, you just sound like one of the Brady Bunch.”
They both scowled. “Bastard,” Greg muttered. *Are we far enough away yet?* he asked, trusting that Riordan would know exactly how far the Synod’s psionic scanning systems could reach.
“Brat,” Riordan muttered back. *Yeah, we are. Want to go grab lunch while you interrogate me, though?*
*I’m always up for lunch. We’re not going back to the apartment?*
*No. I’d rather discuss this elsewhere.*
He meant somewhere away from Sophia. Curious and curiouser.
They settled into a café just outside the main complex. They were still within Natsar territory, but outside of the central hub from which the Synod ran things. Greg waited until he felt Riordan’s auditory shield snap into place. Then he said, “Terryal, huh?”
“You’re familiar with our hierarchies?” Riordan asked, sounding a little surprised.
“A little,” admitted Greg. “The Terryal are hunters, aren’t they? The Synod looks the other way when you take lives.”
“Not always,” Riordan murmured. “But yes, they do. Because we’re too strong to reprimand.”
Greg thought of the Combat Challenges he’d witnessed and said, “I don’t know about that.”
Riordan obviously followed his line of thought. “Those weren’t reprimands.”
“Right, because you usually come home black and blue and bleeding when people are happy for you.”
“Every Terryal is tested periodically,” the man said vaguely. “It’s complicated, Grigori.”
“I just bet,” Greg muttered, and took a huge bite of his sandwich. “Oo aat oes a ‘arrgle oo?”
Riordan gave him a Look. “You’re a telepath. There are other alternatives to speaking with your mouth full.”
Greg swallowed. “This way is more fun, ‘cause it annoys you.”
“Of course.” Riordan sighed. “But to answer your question requires a bit of background.”
Greg bit back the comment that all of Riordan’s stories required a bit of background. For all that their easy bantering felt like normal, he wasn’t going to make the assumption that Riordan’s fury had disappeared any. The man was far too tense to believe otherwise.
“Most of us live semi-normal lives, placed in areas where we’ll do the most good. Medicine, education, various community service oriented organizations. That sort of thing. We don’t have to go out and look for people to help - we just encounter them.
“Every once in awhile, though, we get people who know either who and what we are, or that we can help. These are treated as specific Assignments, and are broken down into three categories. The Reza handle our more high-end corporate kind of cases. Things that we might potentially need handled delicately, to cultivate future allies who aren’t of our blood. The Tihamer handle the science and research oriented Assignments, as well as the research that the other divisions need. And the Terryal handle the Assignments no one else will touch - we get the weird cases, the dangerous one, and frequently the cases no one else walks away from…”
“Such as?”
“Anything from taking out a gang to dealing with celestial manifestations.” At Greg’s confused look, Riordan added, “Demons and avatars and the like.”
Greg shivered. You did not fuck with demons.
“It pays well, because the risks are so high.” Riordan’s voice roughened, and Greg could see that his earlier fury hadn’t disappeared at all. “You’ll receive a salary as well. I’m sorry I didn’t ask if this was what you wanted to do, but-”
“If it keeps me alive, I don’t care,” Greg interrupted bluntly. “And if it makes the Synod unhappy, so much the better.”
Riordan nodded. “It’ll do that,” he murmured. “Pretty definitely.”
Greg considered the matter. He was willing to bet that the Assigned divisions did more than Riordan’s brief explanations said they did. Just like he knew there was a reason the Terryal were feared, even among the Natsar.
“Does Sophia…?”
“No,” Riordan said instantly. “She doesn’t. She thinks I’m a lower ranked Tihamer, like her grandfather.”
“Why not tell her?”
“She’ll worry.”
“I think she worries anyway.”
Riordan didn’t say anything for a second. Greg almost felt bad for the man - he looked … weary.
“I won’t tell her,” Greg promised. “About you being Terryal … or me learning to be one, either.”
“Thank you,” Riordan said quietly. “I’ll take you home.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be spending my evening elsewhere.”
“Oh.” Riordan was still in a temper. Probably not safe to let out un-chaperoned, but he didn’t sound like he was willing to discuss the issue, either.
Wherever he went, Greg hoped it’d help.
“Tell Sophia not to worry,” Riordan said as he dropped Greg off back that the apartment complex.
“Bastard, that’ll just make her worry,” Greg said gruffly, to cover up the fact that he was worried too. “Just … do what you need to do, alright?”
Riordan blinked at him in mild surprise. “I do believe you’ve grown,” he murmured.
“Hah!” said Greg, and headed for the stairs. “Try to console me with that touchy-feely crap. Bastard. Grown, my ass. Like I need to get taller in any sense.”
He continued grumbling all the way up the stairs, keeping it a mostly good-natured monologue. It seemed to amuse Sophia.
“Uh, Greg?” she asked. “Who are you ranting at?”
“Your jackass of an uncle,” Greg retorted easily. “Can we have curry for dinner?”
“I think we’ve got all the fixings for it,” Sophia said, heading into the kitchen. “But what has my jackass of an uncle done now?”
Greg lifted one shoulder in the casual shrug he’d learned from Riordan. The one that meant ‘nothing much’ and ‘I’m not going to tell you.’
“Hmph,” said Sophia.
“The Synod…upset him,” Greg said slowly, considering how much was safe to tell. “He said he’d be elsewhere tonight.”
Sophia’s eyes widened, but her hands were steady as she gathered vegetables out of the crisper. “Upset him how?”
“I think he was pissed.”
“Oh.” Sophia set her vegetables on the counter. “Shit.”
Greg blinked. Unless you’d pilfered one of the forbidden chocolates while she was on her period and she caught you at it, Sophia didn’t usually swear. (And God, had he learned that lesson the hard way.) That she would do so now…
“You know where he went?”
“Altessa’s probably.” Sophia scowled. “She’s no good for him,” she continued, getting out a kitchen knife and dicing vegetables with far more enthusiasm than Greg thought dinner warranted. “She’s Terryal, and she likes to-” Sophia stopped abruptly.
Hm. There was an interesting little tidbit. “If it’s just fucking, he’ll be okay. Riordan doesn’t seem like the type to form useless attachments. He won’t get emotionally involved.”
“She shouldn’t be fucking my uncle at all!”
Greg winced. Clearly, he was a bad influence on Sophia’s vocabulary. He was so going to be in trouble. “If it makes him feel better, who are we to judge?” he continued. “He needs someone to go to, Sophia. He can’t vent the way we can. It’s good that he can go and work his problems out with someone else.”
“I know…” Sophia’s extraordinary blue eyes were sad. “I just wish he’d come talk to me. He’s all I’ve got left, you know?”
Yeah, Greg did. He reached out hesitantly, wanting to reassure her but not sure of how welcome his touch would be.
Sophia caught his hand and squeezed it briefly. She looked so woefully grateful for the gesture that he wanted to buy her chocolate or give her a hug or something.
The chocolate was a little out of his price range for the moment (who knew chocolate could be so expensive?) but the hug he could manage. He wrapped his arms around Sophia from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder, so they were almost cheek to cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he said, because it seemed like it was the right thing to say. “I’ll keep him safe.” He was surprised when she leaned back into his embrace, almost like she was taking solace from it. From him. (Did she really trust him so much?)
“Thank you,” she whispered. She straightened up and moved away, scrubbing at her eyes. “Stupid onions,” she muttered, even though she hadn’t started slicing the onions yet. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Why don’t you change out of your nice clothes and go set the table?”
“Sure,” said Greg. “I can do that.” Doing the little things that made Sophia happy was easy. Keeping his promise might prove a little more difficult.
And I have no witty commentary for today, because I am tired and frustrated and cranky.
Most modern freedom is at root fear. It is not so much that we are too bold to endure rules; it is rather that we are too timid to endure responsibilities.
~G.K. Chesterton
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Six
Rating: PG. Mostly for language.
Word count: 2868
Total word count so far: 15818
Author's notes that most likely no one will probably read: Okay, here we've got some looks into the social structure the Natsar follow. This may be important later, I haven't decided. Oh, yeah. This takes place roughly three months after the end of Arc 1, because that's the magic number where this universe is concerned.
*I must have the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome in the history of the world,* Greg mused. *I mean, I’m actually on your side. How wrong is that?*
Riordan let his gaze flicker to the two Priores seated behind the imposing looking mahogany desk. *You’d rather side with them?* he replied.
Greg considered the rude way they’d been summoned from the apartment and ordered to attend Priore Lucas - at the Priore’s earliest convenience, of course. Spending an hour and a half cooling his heels in the hallway outside of Priore Lucas’ office hadn’t improved his opinion of Natsar politics any. Nor had the fact that he’d had to dress “nicely” in a dress shirt and slacks and far too shiny shoes for this little interview.
Neither did the fact that Priore Lucas had been the one to push both of last month’s Combat Challenges.
*Nah,* he said. *You’re a bastard, but at least you’re honest about it.*
*Thanks ever so much for your flattering opinion,* Riordan said, his mental tone radiating amused good-humor. *Now hush and look properly attentive. They look like they’re ready to get the point.*
*About fucking time.*
“You are to be commended, James. We didn’t think you could tame him.” Priore Lucas didn’t look nearly as pleased as his congratulatory words might have indicated, Greg noted. Of course, Riordan didn’t either, and he was willing to follow Riordan’s lead. (The fact that he’d been ordered - his first one in weeks - to keep his temper in check and a civil tongue in his head enforced his willingness to follow Riordan’s lead somewhat. Mostly because he couldn’t do otherwise. And damned if Greg wouldn’t kick the stupid bastard’s ass for it as soon as they got home, though.)
Riordan’s eyes narrowed faintly. “If by ‘tame’ you mean he’s not going to piss in my potted plants and hump my couch, then yeah, he’s plenty tame. Of course, by that definition, so am I, but I think that you’ll find that ‘tame’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘controllable’ where either of us are concerned.”
*Oh, sure, piss them off. That’s a good idea.*
*Shut up, brat. I’m being honest.*
*You’re being contrary for the sake of being contrary,* Greg countered. *You’re going to end up with another Combat Challenge at this rate. And then Sophia will be upset with you.*
*That was low,* Riordan said, sounding amused.
*Learned from the best.*
“James, must you be such a …” Priore Lucas seemed to be looking for the right word.
Greg could have told the man that the word he was looking for was “asshole,” but that violated his orders to keep a civil tongue in his head, so he didn’t.
“If you insist on being crude, you’ll be treated accordingly,” Priore Tobias interjected coolly. “Do not forget how it is in the manner your little family has become accustomed.”
Riordan tensed almost imperceptibly, and one look at his night-dark eyes told Greg his keeper was furious.
Oh, not good. Really, really not good. Riordan did furious kind of like he did relaxed. Which was to say, he didn’t. The man was too controlled for such things. It was a little unsettling and frequently annoying, but dependable. Nice and constant, where few other things in life were.
Greg very much resented the Synod’s attempts to shake the stability of his world. How the hell was he supposed to handle this? Greg in a temper could go spar with Riordan until he’d worked it off into exhaustion. Sophia in a temper could just scream at both of them and then stomp away to her room and stay there until she felt like being rational again. Who could Riordan in a temper go to? Greg couldn’t keep up with the bastard when they sparred, and he highly doubted the man had ever yelled at Sophia. If only because the guilt would have driven him to commit Westernized seppuku afterward.
“My family,” snapped Riordan, and there was something dangerous in his tone. It made Greg think of the first booming cracking sounds ice made before the spring thaw; cold and unstoppable and dangerous. “Lives as they will in accordance to our law, and because there is no one more capable than I at the Assignments you’d rather not touch. You would do well to remember that.”
“Your pride makes you presumptuous,” snapped Priore Lucas.
“Does it?” Riordan challenged. “Do you really think that I could be Terryal and not be exactly what I claim I am?”
Greg started. He turned wide eyes on Riordan. Terryal?
“You are just one man,” Priore Tobias pointed out. He was the less excitable of the two representatives the Synod had told them to report back to. Probably the more dangerous, too, in Greg’s opinion.
Riordan’s mouth quirked into what might loosely be called a smile. (Greg would have labeled it a nasty little smirk, personally, but he’d been told that he was biased. Not all of Riordan’s facial expressions were smirks. They just happened to resemble them very strongly.)
“One man,” he agreed “with a very promising young protégé.”
“You can’t be serious,” scoffed Priore Lucas. “One of the Nephilim-born? As one of us, much less Terryal? It’s unthinkable, James!”
Riordan lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “If he were wholly Nephilim-born, perhaps it would be as you say. But Grigori is one of us, too. He bears the same Scars - and the same burdens.” Unspoken went the words that they wouldn’t be standing here today if Greg didn’t. If he hadn’t stopped to help Sophia, she’d probably be dead, and he’d be long gone and beneath the radar of the Natsar, where he belonged. “Besides,” Riordan continued, before either Priore could protest. “He’s one of mine, and he has talent. I will continue to train him, and he will accompany me on Assignment.” His tone brooked no argument from the other men or the boy.
“You said that of your last protégé,” Priore Tobias pointed out, with deceptive gentleness.
Greg could feel Riordan flinch. “I was mistaken then,” he said levelly. “And I have learned from that mistake. I have not been so lenient with Grigori, nor so accepting of weakness.”
Well, that was certainly the truth.
Priore Tobias examined them both. He might have been telepathing Riordan, but Greg wasn’t sure. Finally, he said, “On your head be it, Donovan. If he fails, you’ll be blamed.”
“Of course,” said Riordan. He nodded respectfully to both Priores and beckoned Greg to follow him out of the room. He made a vague hand gesture that Greg interpreted as ‘later.’
Fine. Just as long as he got some damn answers.
“Why does Priore Lucas call you James while Priore Tobias calls you Donovan?” he asked, just to make small talk.
Riordan made a face. “Because they like to annoy me.”
“Gosh, I can’t imagine why.”
“Mouthy little brat, aren’t you?” The question was rhetorical. They both knew what the answer was. “My full name is James Donovan Riordan. James for my father, Donovan for…” He smled. “For no particular reason, or so my mother told me. Hence my preference for the name. As Donovan, I am myself. As James, I am my father’s son, and I’ve worked too hard to break free of his shadow for that.”
There was some bitterness there, and old pain. “Your dad. He…?” Greg trailed off, not sure how to phrase the question.
“He was Tihamer,” answered Riordan. “And damn good at what he did, too. He was nearly strong enough to be a Priore and sit on the Synod, but he lacked the ambition. In the end … It all came to nothing, anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, and meant it. He hadn’t meant to open an old wound. You left other people’s pasts alone. Especially where family was concerned. If only so they would offer you the same courtesy.
“It’s alright. I just want to answer the question in full.” Riordan smiled sourly. “Priore Lucas calls me James to remind me of the price of ambition - or the lack of it. Priore Tobias calls me Donovan because it’s the name I prefer. He’s familiar enough wit me to call me Van; he just likes making me fell like a naughty child by using my full name.”
“Old people do that,” Greg agreed, glancing surreptitiously at Riordan as he did so.
“Heh. Brat. I’m still not going to call you by that ridiculous nickname.”
“What’s wrong with my nickname?” demanded Greg.
“It has nothing to do with your name,” Riordan pointed out.
“Yes it does! They sound the same!”
“Oh, so if they sound the same, it’s alright?’
“Hey, at least my nickname doesn’t sound like a means of transportation,” Greg sulked.
“No, you just sound like one of the Brady Bunch.”
They both scowled. “Bastard,” Greg muttered. *Are we far enough away yet?* he asked, trusting that Riordan would know exactly how far the Synod’s psionic scanning systems could reach.
“Brat,” Riordan muttered back. *Yeah, we are. Want to go grab lunch while you interrogate me, though?*
*I’m always up for lunch. We’re not going back to the apartment?*
*No. I’d rather discuss this elsewhere.*
He meant somewhere away from Sophia. Curious and curiouser.
They settled into a café just outside the main complex. They were still within Natsar territory, but outside of the central hub from which the Synod ran things. Greg waited until he felt Riordan’s auditory shield snap into place. Then he said, “Terryal, huh?”
“You’re familiar with our hierarchies?” Riordan asked, sounding a little surprised.
“A little,” admitted Greg. “The Terryal are hunters, aren’t they? The Synod looks the other way when you take lives.”
“Not always,” Riordan murmured. “But yes, they do. Because we’re too strong to reprimand.”
Greg thought of the Combat Challenges he’d witnessed and said, “I don’t know about that.”
Riordan obviously followed his line of thought. “Those weren’t reprimands.”
“Right, because you usually come home black and blue and bleeding when people are happy for you.”
“Every Terryal is tested periodically,” the man said vaguely. “It’s complicated, Grigori.”
“I just bet,” Greg muttered, and took a huge bite of his sandwich. “Oo aat oes a ‘arrgle oo?”
Riordan gave him a Look. “You’re a telepath. There are other alternatives to speaking with your mouth full.”
Greg swallowed. “This way is more fun, ‘cause it annoys you.”
“Of course.” Riordan sighed. “But to answer your question requires a bit of background.”
Greg bit back the comment that all of Riordan’s stories required a bit of background. For all that their easy bantering felt like normal, he wasn’t going to make the assumption that Riordan’s fury had disappeared any. The man was far too tense to believe otherwise.
“Most of us live semi-normal lives, placed in areas where we’ll do the most good. Medicine, education, various community service oriented organizations. That sort of thing. We don’t have to go out and look for people to help - we just encounter them.
“Every once in awhile, though, we get people who know either who and what we are, or that we can help. These are treated as specific Assignments, and are broken down into three categories. The Reza handle our more high-end corporate kind of cases. Things that we might potentially need handled delicately, to cultivate future allies who aren’t of our blood. The Tihamer handle the science and research oriented Assignments, as well as the research that the other divisions need. And the Terryal handle the Assignments no one else will touch - we get the weird cases, the dangerous one, and frequently the cases no one else walks away from…”
“Such as?”
“Anything from taking out a gang to dealing with celestial manifestations.” At Greg’s confused look, Riordan added, “Demons and avatars and the like.”
Greg shivered. You did not fuck with demons.
“It pays well, because the risks are so high.” Riordan’s voice roughened, and Greg could see that his earlier fury hadn’t disappeared at all. “You’ll receive a salary as well. I’m sorry I didn’t ask if this was what you wanted to do, but-”
“If it keeps me alive, I don’t care,” Greg interrupted bluntly. “And if it makes the Synod unhappy, so much the better.”
Riordan nodded. “It’ll do that,” he murmured. “Pretty definitely.”
Greg considered the matter. He was willing to bet that the Assigned divisions did more than Riordan’s brief explanations said they did. Just like he knew there was a reason the Terryal were feared, even among the Natsar.
“Does Sophia…?”
“No,” Riordan said instantly. “She doesn’t. She thinks I’m a lower ranked Tihamer, like her grandfather.”
“Why not tell her?”
“She’ll worry.”
“I think she worries anyway.”
Riordan didn’t say anything for a second. Greg almost felt bad for the man - he looked … weary.
“I won’t tell her,” Greg promised. “About you being Terryal … or me learning to be one, either.”
“Thank you,” Riordan said quietly. “I’ll take you home.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be spending my evening elsewhere.”
“Oh.” Riordan was still in a temper. Probably not safe to let out un-chaperoned, but he didn’t sound like he was willing to discuss the issue, either.
Wherever he went, Greg hoped it’d help.
“Tell Sophia not to worry,” Riordan said as he dropped Greg off back that the apartment complex.
“Bastard, that’ll just make her worry,” Greg said gruffly, to cover up the fact that he was worried too. “Just … do what you need to do, alright?”
Riordan blinked at him in mild surprise. “I do believe you’ve grown,” he murmured.
“Hah!” said Greg, and headed for the stairs. “Try to console me with that touchy-feely crap. Bastard. Grown, my ass. Like I need to get taller in any sense.”
He continued grumbling all the way up the stairs, keeping it a mostly good-natured monologue. It seemed to amuse Sophia.
“Uh, Greg?” she asked. “Who are you ranting at?”
“Your jackass of an uncle,” Greg retorted easily. “Can we have curry for dinner?”
“I think we’ve got all the fixings for it,” Sophia said, heading into the kitchen. “But what has my jackass of an uncle done now?”
Greg lifted one shoulder in the casual shrug he’d learned from Riordan. The one that meant ‘nothing much’ and ‘I’m not going to tell you.’
“Hmph,” said Sophia.
“The Synod…upset him,” Greg said slowly, considering how much was safe to tell. “He said he’d be elsewhere tonight.”
Sophia’s eyes widened, but her hands were steady as she gathered vegetables out of the crisper. “Upset him how?”
“I think he was pissed.”
“Oh.” Sophia set her vegetables on the counter. “Shit.”
Greg blinked. Unless you’d pilfered one of the forbidden chocolates while she was on her period and she caught you at it, Sophia didn’t usually swear. (And God, had he learned that lesson the hard way.) That she would do so now…
“You know where he went?”
“Altessa’s probably.” Sophia scowled. “She’s no good for him,” she continued, getting out a kitchen knife and dicing vegetables with far more enthusiasm than Greg thought dinner warranted. “She’s Terryal, and she likes to-” Sophia stopped abruptly.
Hm. There was an interesting little tidbit. “If it’s just fucking, he’ll be okay. Riordan doesn’t seem like the type to form useless attachments. He won’t get emotionally involved.”
“She shouldn’t be fucking my uncle at all!”
Greg winced. Clearly, he was a bad influence on Sophia’s vocabulary. He was so going to be in trouble. “If it makes him feel better, who are we to judge?” he continued. “He needs someone to go to, Sophia. He can’t vent the way we can. It’s good that he can go and work his problems out with someone else.”
“I know…” Sophia’s extraordinary blue eyes were sad. “I just wish he’d come talk to me. He’s all I’ve got left, you know?”
Yeah, Greg did. He reached out hesitantly, wanting to reassure her but not sure of how welcome his touch would be.
Sophia caught his hand and squeezed it briefly. She looked so woefully grateful for the gesture that he wanted to buy her chocolate or give her a hug or something.
The chocolate was a little out of his price range for the moment (who knew chocolate could be so expensive?) but the hug he could manage. He wrapped his arms around Sophia from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder, so they were almost cheek to cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he said, because it seemed like it was the right thing to say. “I’ll keep him safe.” He was surprised when she leaned back into his embrace, almost like she was taking solace from it. From him. (Did she really trust him so much?)
“Thank you,” she whispered. She straightened up and moved away, scrubbing at her eyes. “Stupid onions,” she muttered, even though she hadn’t started slicing the onions yet. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Why don’t you change out of your nice clothes and go set the table?”
“Sure,” said Greg. “I can do that.” Doing the little things that made Sophia happy was easy. Keeping his promise might prove a little more difficult.