as kindred should

nine

Kiss his arse if you have to, Eurion had said to Dorian in the tone of a man speaking to a child. All eyes had been on Pip, who looked between Dorian and two new men with such fear that it threatened to break his heart.

Commissioner Bayard's office overlooked the bulk of the Elite floor, where cubicles and desks and boards occupied the vision like a great mouthful of teeth. Twin sets of stairs framed the throat to the lobby, and over that lay a hall of rooms. Bayard's was the first, located on the left hand side, and Dorian waited on a bench, back to clouded office windows.

He watched the buzz of the Elite from where he sat, each and every person shrunken to the size of rats by distance. One man bore a stack of boxes, another two handfuls of books. An arched window cast branching rays of morning sunlight onto a sleek cream-colored floor.

It could have been beautiful if Dorian did not know the sort of men that worked here.

"Trase," said a biting voice sharpened by the whistling creak of a door's hinge. Dorian snapped to his feet.

Brian Bayard had a face like whetted steel. His nose was thin and straight, escorted by piercing blue eyes set above angular cheekbones. There was no soft edge to him, even the push of his silvered hair deadly.

He reminded Dorian of his father. They did not look alike, not strictly speaking - Richard had given Dorian his squareness, the blunt of his jaw and an aquiline nose - but they carried themselves with a similar grace, the sort only unshakable confidence could instill in a person.

"You wanted to speak with me, sir," Dorian said, careful to curb the tremble from his voice. Maybe Brian Bayard and Richard Trase were similar in a different way: they only need utter a single word to rouse the coward in Dorian.

"I know what I wanted," Bayard answered. Dorian's cheeks heated. He ducked into the office, face turned away. "Sit."

Dorian sat, the hard edge of the chair biting into his thighs. The corner of his lip twitched.

"Commissioner, sir, I-"

"Don't speak."

Dorian snapped his mouth shut.

Bayard leaned against his desk, the tips of his long fingers supporting the weight of his knife-like body. Knowing that the slightest misstep would cut him, Dorian fixed his gaze to the floor and listened, hands balled between his knees.

"Harry Bowles had a brother," Bayard said coolly. "His name is Christian. He's younger, unmarried, and a perfectly viable option for the custody of his niece. His niece whom, to my understanding, you currently possess. What's her status?"

"Safe," Dorian answered. Bayard huffed, and Dorian dug his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand. Wide and dull, they did not draw blood, but they stung no less.

"So you say," Bayard murmured. There was a shuffle of drawers and a flutter of paper. Cool air swept over Dorian's cheeks. Glass clicked against the top of the mahogany desk. He risked a glance in time to witness Bayard pop a cork from the mouth of a tall green bottle. The distant tang of alcohol tickled Dorian's nose. He swallowed dryly.

"Have you spoken to your own kids lately?" Bayard asked.

"Yes," Dorian answered. "They phoned me last week. I speak to them regularly."

"Once a week isn't regular, Dor."

His stomach lurched.

"It is for them. They're in Ireland, you know, busy with school and all of that. It's autumn now, and- and they've a lot on their plates," he said, knowing Bayard would take this with a spoonful of salt.