"You used to be a golden idol."
Jericho remembered him then - not the tired, vaguely-offended-looking cab driver, but a warrior; his matted hair beaded with bone and his face creased in a dusty snarl. The desert's unkind wind had beaten lines into his skin; flesh paled by the moon but no less the hue of his people even now. And he; Jericho, adjacent, proudly holding a spear in one hand and a gurz in the other, gilded in uniform and skin, haughty wings of jade-streaked brown on full display, kicking up dust storms. He was magnificent and colossal; a testament to his people â or at least, the ones whoâd come to put him on a pedestal and ensure he kept watch over their city of secrets and walls.
Jericho remembered also the way Lehri [now Lenny] Gulrukh moved like a serpent in the roiling dunes; whereas Jericho moved like oil, each evasive, forever chasing and sticking to his prey. The desperation on Gulrukh's face when he realized he was failing his mistress. The laughter on Jericho's. The spear finding its mark when Gulrukh twisted to run. Just under the left collarbone. Purposefully above the heart. The beauty of red on gold. Shrill mirth and applause with each twist of the bladed instrument. The blood drumming in his ears; the scarlet haze gathering behind his eyes.
Jericho recollected swinging the gurz when the spear refused to move â the connection of unyielding iron on bone malleable despite immortality. The scream of rage that ripped out of the vampire whoâd failed his coven, and the impact of gritty sand against skin temporarily ruined. The clawing of dusty hands through the dirt; fumbling for a weapon. Laughter, manic and hate-filled, turning to an ugly and damp gasp of surprise when a cold hand found its purchase on the ivory handle of a quama. How the blade found the soft space under his breastplate and twisted without hesitation. The shock and awe of a sudden drop to his knees, greenish-red spots gathering at the edges of overwhelmed eyes. Black and gold running down his overworked face.
The two of them bleeding out together in the sand, each a puppet for their audienceâs pleasure.
"Nephilim," sneered Lenny in the present, drawing them both back to the gallery room.
"It hurts to look at you." Jade eyes fell shut and Jericho bowed his head before the painting of disciples they stood before.
"Then look elsewhere," suggested the abomination quietly. His enemy; his reluctant ally, put a cigarette between his lips and lit up, staring at the painting in front of them. The museum, virtually deserted this hour of the night, seemed an open wound - a chasm someone had tried to fill with pointless ancient material in an effort to fill themselves.
Lenny would know. The museum belonged to Jericho.
"Did you come here to exchange barbs or did you actually have a purpose to this unexpected visitation?" Jericho inquired quietly, and adjusted the black cuff of his shirt. Lenny shifted his piercing stare from the painting to Jericho once more and considered his words with care.
"There's someone I want to put on your radar." Jericho smiled bitterly. Thousands of years and ever the caretaker. They both played their roles so well. Even now. Their motives guarded to all but themselves; each the defect in one anotherâs armor. In another life, Jericho sometimes mused whether or not they couldâve been lovers, or even friends.
In another life, Lenny fantasized about winning that day.
Jericho reached into his breast pocket. Lenny instinctively tensed beside him, fists balling. Jerichoâs smile thinned, curling at the edges with cruel defiance. Instead of a weapon, Jericho unsheathed a pen and a notepad, passing them to Lenny discreetly. To his credit, the vampire took them with moderate levels of repulsion carefully concealed behind a cigarette and a sense of duty.
âWrite down the details in words only we know,â said Jericho idly, allowing his gloved hands to drift back behind himself. He adjusted his stance before the painting, cocking his head to study it intently as Lenny wrote down what needed writing down. âThese walls, as you might well know, are too perceptive by far.â
With the passing of a shadow between them, the other man was gone. Jericho, in the cold black and white world of Manhattan 1984, picked his notepad up off the floor where Lenny had so casually left it. The words on the page swam together out of the fog of memories and made sense after a few damp blinks. Inhaling sharply, Jericho tucked the notepad away and capped the pen, restlessly tapping it against a covered palm.
It appeared there was a need of sanctuary in San Francisco.
New York was already well in-hand.
It was time, he supposed, to make up for his past sins lessâŠpassively.
With one final look at Gethsemane, Jericho departed his thoughts and the space that occupied his person. All that remained was a few feathers with traces of ash and deserted dust.
